 | Poems by William Wetmore Story |  |
175
LYRICS.
177
IO VICTIS!
I sing the hymn of the conquered, who fell in the Battle of Life,—
The hymn of the wounded, the beaten, who died overwhelmed in the strife;
Not the jubilant song of the victors, for whom the resounding acclaim
Of nations was lifted in chorus, whose brows wore the chaplet of fame,
But the hymn of the low and the humble, the weary, the broken in heart,
Who strove and who failed, acting bravely a silent and desperate part;
Whose youth bore no flower on its branches, whose hopes burned in ashes away,
From whose hands slipped the prize they had grasped at, who stood at the dying of day
With the wreck of their life all around them, unpitied, unheeded, alone,
With Death swooping down o'er their failure, and all but their faith overthrown.
The hymn of the wounded, the beaten, who died overwhelmed in the strife;
Not the jubilant song of the victors, for whom the resounding acclaim
Of nations was lifted in chorus, whose brows wore the chaplet of fame,
But the hymn of the low and the humble, the weary, the broken in heart,
Who strove and who failed, acting bravely a silent and desperate part;
Whose youth bore no flower on its branches, whose hopes burned in ashes away,
From whose hands slipped the prize they had grasped at, who stood at the dying of day
With the wreck of their life all around them, unpitied, unheeded, alone,
With Death swooping down o'er their failure, and all but their faith overthrown.
While the voice of the world shouts its chorus,—its pæan for those who have won;
While the trumpet is sounding triumphant, and high to the breeze and the sun
Glad banners are waving, hands clapping, and hurrying feet
Thronging after the laurel-crowned victors, I stand on the field of defeat,
In the shadow, with those who are fallen, and wounded, and dying, and there
Chant a requiem low, place my hand on their pain-knotted brows, breathe a prayer,
Hold the hand that is helpless, and whisper, “They only the victory win,
Who have fought the good fight, and have vanquished the demon that tempts us within;
Who have held to their faith unseduced by the prize that the world holds on high;
Who have dared for a high cause to suffer, resist, fight,—if need be, to die.”
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Glad banners are waving, hands clapping, and hurrying feet
Thronging after the laurel-crowned victors, I stand on the field of defeat,
In the shadow, with those who are fallen, and wounded, and dying, and there
Chant a requiem low, place my hand on their pain-knotted brows, breathe a prayer,
Hold the hand that is helpless, and whisper, “They only the victory win,
Who have fought the good fight, and have vanquished the demon that tempts us within;
Who have held to their faith unseduced by the prize that the world holds on high;
Who have dared for a high cause to suffer, resist, fight,—if need be, to die.”
Speak, History! who are Life's victors? Unroll thy long annals, and say,
Are they those whom the world called the victors—who won the success of a day?
The martyrs, or Nero? The Spartans, who fell at Thermopylæ's tryst,
Or the Persians and Xerxes? His judges or Socrates? Pilate or Christ?
Are they those whom the world called the victors—who won the success of a day?
The martyrs, or Nero? The Spartans, who fell at Thermopylæ's tryst,
Or the Persians and Xerxes? His judges or Socrates? Pilate or Christ?
179
SUNRISE.
Sunrise! Sunrise! See!
Into the silent field of the dawn,
Where the mountain's clear sharp line is drawn,
The light mounts steadily.
While below in many a chasm deep,
The mists of night still lingering creep,
And the lower slopes are half asleep,
And dimly dreaming,—
And at last, look! look! how startlingly
Into the world of the open sky,
Where the light before was so pale and tender,
And earth and air were still and aware
With a silent expectation,
Sails the sudden Sun—
With its banners of clouds above it streaming,
Golden and purple, and rose and gray and dun,
Flooding the world with its splendor,
And gladdening all creation.
And Day—Day—Day, has begun.
Into the silent field of the dawn,
Where the mountain's clear sharp line is drawn,
The light mounts steadily.
While below in many a chasm deep,
The mists of night still lingering creep,
And the lower slopes are half asleep,
And dimly dreaming,—
And at last, look! look! how startlingly
Into the world of the open sky,
Where the light before was so pale and tender,
And earth and air were still and aware
With a silent expectation,
Sails the sudden Sun—
With its banners of clouds above it streaming,
Golden and purple, and rose and gray and dun,
Flooding the world with its splendor,
And gladdening all creation.
And Day—Day—Day, has begun.
There 's a rustle through leagues of forest—the ocean stirs,
Quivering with joy and light.
The last star swoons and dies—only the firs,
And the sombre cedars, and cypresses tall,
Solemn, dark, and funereal,
Remember the vanished night.
Day and life return—and the earth rejoices,
The air is alive with a murmur of busy voices;
There 's the low of a myriad herds,
Feeding on endless meadows,—
There 's the joy of a myriad birds,
Darting through leafy shadows,—
There 's the quiver of endless leaves,
That gleam at the day's returning,—
And the breath of a world of flowers goes up
Like incense unto the morning,
As spreading their petals they shake from each cup
The dews that its light imprison,
And the life of a myriad insect-wings
In the wet grass buzz and dizzen.
The spider from twig to twig has swung
His glimmering wheel of silken thread,—
And the gossamer over the grasses hung
His awning diamonded.
The wild geese drop from the thin clear height,
Where all night long they have held their flight,
And settle on lake and mere;
Up springs the lark, and, lost in the light,
Carols his rapture—out of sight
Thrilling the atmosphere.
A thousand sails on the heaving sea
By a sudden hue of rose are struck,—
In a thousand cities shaft and spire
Are quivering pointed with golden fire,—
From a thousand homes into the sky
The thin gray column of rising smoke
Is stealing silently.
The jar of the world of men begins,—
The reaper and sower afield are going,
The busy factory clacks and dins,
The mill-wheel over its sluices whirls,
Shattered in spray of diamond and pearls
The torrents overflowing.
There 's a ring of wagons on valley and hill,—
From a thousand farms with clarion shrill
The strutting cock is crowing.
There is neighing and barking, and bleating and lowing,
Chirp and chatter, and stir and clatter,
And an infinite humming and whirring,—
For the throbbing world is alive again,
And its pulse is beating in every vein
With the strength of a mighty stirring;
Night with its shadows of death is done.
The great new wondrous day has begun,
And mountains and valleys, and seas and strands,
Forests and rivers and torrents free,
Startled, arouse and clap their hands,
The glad new miracle to see,
And shout, “The Sun! The Sun!”
Quivering with joy and light.
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And the sombre cedars, and cypresses tall,
Solemn, dark, and funereal,
Remember the vanished night.
Day and life return—and the earth rejoices,
The air is alive with a murmur of busy voices;
There 's the low of a myriad herds,
Feeding on endless meadows,—
There 's the joy of a myriad birds,
Darting through leafy shadows,—
There 's the quiver of endless leaves,
That gleam at the day's returning,—
And the breath of a world of flowers goes up
Like incense unto the morning,
As spreading their petals they shake from each cup
The dews that its light imprison,
And the life of a myriad insect-wings
In the wet grass buzz and dizzen.
The spider from twig to twig has swung
His glimmering wheel of silken thread,—
And the gossamer over the grasses hung
His awning diamonded.
The wild geese drop from the thin clear height,
Where all night long they have held their flight,
And settle on lake and mere;
Up springs the lark, and, lost in the light,
Carols his rapture—out of sight
Thrilling the atmosphere.
A thousand sails on the heaving sea
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In a thousand cities shaft and spire
Are quivering pointed with golden fire,—
From a thousand homes into the sky
The thin gray column of rising smoke
Is stealing silently.
The jar of the world of men begins,—
The reaper and sower afield are going,
The busy factory clacks and dins,
The mill-wheel over its sluices whirls,
Shattered in spray of diamond and pearls
The torrents overflowing.
There 's a ring of wagons on valley and hill,—
From a thousand farms with clarion shrill
The strutting cock is crowing.
There is neighing and barking, and bleating and lowing,
Chirp and chatter, and stir and clatter,
And an infinite humming and whirring,—
For the throbbing world is alive again,
And its pulse is beating in every vein
With the strength of a mighty stirring;
Night with its shadows of death is done.
The great new wondrous day has begun,
And mountains and valleys, and seas and strands,
Forests and rivers and torrents free,
Startled, arouse and clap their hands,
The glad new miracle to see,
And shout, “The Sun! The Sun!”
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All the world is alive and waking
To hail the great new day that is breaking.
Sharp through the western forest's tangled covers
The hunter's rifle cracks,
Where the black bear prowls, and the poising eagle hovers,
And the beaver his mud-dam packs.
There rings the pioneer's axe, and the forest giant
That has caught the day's first flash
On its topmost crest for a full long century, quivers—
Shudders—and falls with a crash.
Far in the south, through thick Brazilian tangles
The painted parrot screams,
And the boa coiled on its branches droops and dangles,
And the Paradise-bird like a living flash of splendor
Through the burning summer streams.
Over the western prairies herds of buffaloes
Crowded and thundering rush,—
The lion and tiger on sandy African deserts
That all night long have ranged for their prey,
Satiate now at the coming of day,
Are stealing to cave and bush,—
The ostrich is whirring, half running, half flying,
On sultry Australian plains,—
The hippopotamus lumbers along to the river
Crashing among the canes,—
The soft-eyed spotted giraffe his tall neck stretches
The low wet branches to browse,—
The ponderous elephants lift their trunks, and trumpet
And shake the earth as they rouse.
From seething Sumatra and tropic Madagascar,
From Borneo's groves of spice,
To the glacial fields where the white bear basks and souses
And blunders along the ice,—
From the sultry Indian Sea to the cold Atlantic,
As on thy glory comes,—
From the orient chambers of thy early rising,
O'er Europe's plains and homes,—
From the Himalayas on to the Alps—and onward
To the Rocky Mountains, that rise
O'er the fair Pacific, peak to peak out-calling,
Flushed as the glad news flies,
Hail thee, O glorious Sun! all the earth hails thee,
And the stir and the strife and the strain
Of living begins—and the world that was sleeping and dreaming
Rouses and quivers again.
To hail the great new day that is breaking.
Sharp through the western forest's tangled covers
The hunter's rifle cracks,
Where the black bear prowls, and the poising eagle hovers,
And the beaver his mud-dam packs.
There rings the pioneer's axe, and the forest giant
That has caught the day's first flash
On its topmost crest for a full long century, quivers—
Shudders—and falls with a crash.
Far in the south, through thick Brazilian tangles
The painted parrot screams,
And the boa coiled on its branches droops and dangles,
And the Paradise-bird like a living flash of splendor
Through the burning summer streams.
Over the western prairies herds of buffaloes
Crowded and thundering rush,—
The lion and tiger on sandy African deserts
That all night long have ranged for their prey,
Satiate now at the coming of day,
Are stealing to cave and bush,—
The ostrich is whirring, half running, half flying,
On sultry Australian plains,—
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Crashing among the canes,—
The soft-eyed spotted giraffe his tall neck stretches
The low wet branches to browse,—
The ponderous elephants lift their trunks, and trumpet
And shake the earth as they rouse.
From seething Sumatra and tropic Madagascar,
From Borneo's groves of spice,
To the glacial fields where the white bear basks and souses
And blunders along the ice,—
From the sultry Indian Sea to the cold Atlantic,
As on thy glory comes,—
From the orient chambers of thy early rising,
O'er Europe's plains and homes,—
From the Himalayas on to the Alps—and onward
To the Rocky Mountains, that rise
O'er the fair Pacific, peak to peak out-calling,
Flushed as the glad news flies,
Hail thee, O glorious Sun! all the earth hails thee,
And the stir and the strife and the strain
Of living begins—and the world that was sleeping and dreaming
Rouses and quivers again.
Let trumpet and pipe and voice and song
Echo unto the skies!
Let chorus and hymn thy praise prolong,
O glorious Sun! that comest again
With thy ever-new surprise.
O splendor of earth and life that gives
Joy and beauty to all that lives
And daily the world renews,—
O fountain of light and color that flings
O'er the darkest and dullest of earthly things
Thy glad transfiguring hues,—
O glory of earth and sea and sky,
Life of a myriad worlds on high,
Soul of the universe, light of its eye,
Who shall his voice refuse,
To swell the chorus that evermore
Is shouted from flashing peaks that dare
The cold thin depths of the breathless air
Thy earliest glance to see,—
To the crawling foam that fringes the shore
Murmuring impatiently?
From the tremulous forest that uplifts
Its listening tops, while the morning breeze
With its news from afar with a whisper sifts
And thy glorious coming promises,
To the humblest of weeds and grasses low,
Where the clear cool stream with a murmurous flow,
Is talking and running to catch a sight
Of thy first sweet gleam of morning light,
To tell unto all below.
184
Let chorus and hymn thy praise prolong,
O glorious Sun! that comest again
With thy ever-new surprise.
O splendor of earth and life that gives
Joy and beauty to all that lives
And daily the world renews,—
O fountain of light and color that flings
O'er the darkest and dullest of earthly things
Thy glad transfiguring hues,—
O glory of earth and sea and sky,
Life of a myriad worlds on high,
Soul of the universe, light of its eye,
Who shall his voice refuse,
To swell the chorus that evermore
Is shouted from flashing peaks that dare
The cold thin depths of the breathless air
Thy earliest glance to see,—
To the crawling foam that fringes the shore
Murmuring impatiently?
From the tremulous forest that uplifts
Its listening tops, while the morning breeze
With its news from afar with a whisper sifts
And thy glorious coming promises,
To the humblest of weeds and grasses low,
Where the clear cool stream with a murmurous flow,
Is talking and running to catch a sight
Of thy first sweet gleam of morning light,
To tell unto all below.
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All, all are joining with one glad tone,—
All, all are chanting their song as one,—
From the bass of the thunderous avalanche
And the cataract's dizzy booming
To the whisper fine of the quivering breeze
That hurries through myriad leagues of trees,
And the insects infinite humming.
The Sun! The Sun! The Sun—The King!
The King of the World is coming!
Fling forth your banners—shout and sing,
Until the whole wide universe ring
With a vast and joyous welcoming,
For the King, the King is coming!
All, all are chanting their song as one,—
From the bass of the thunderous avalanche
And the cataract's dizzy booming
To the whisper fine of the quivering breeze
That hurries through myriad leagues of trees,
And the insects infinite humming.
The Sun! The Sun! The Sun—The King!
The King of the World is coming!
Fling forth your banners—shout and sing,
Until the whole wide universe ring
With a vast and joyous welcoming,
For the King, the King is coming!
186
MOONRISE.
Night, beloved night!
She is coming—she soon will come;
Slowly is paling the dying light,
Twilight has lost its bloom,
And a serious hush steals silently
Over the shadowy Earth,—
While faint in the delicate air on high
The first new star has birth.
She is coming—she soon will come;
Slowly is paling the dying light,
Twilight has lost its bloom,
And a serious hush steals silently
Over the shadowy Earth,—
While faint in the delicate air on high
The first new star has birth.
Against the twilight, their shoulders bare,
The mountains are turning as to sleep;
And one by one from their chambers deep,
Where from the peering search they hid
Of the day's rude gaze and opened lid,
A myriad worlds come forth.
The mountains are turning as to sleep;
And one by one from their chambers deep,
Where from the peering search they hid
Of the day's rude gaze and opened lid,
A myriad worlds come forth.
The riotous day is gone
With his cymbals clashing, his bright spears flashing,
His tumult and rout, his Bacchanal's shout,
His gladness and madness, and laughter and raving,
His banners and thyrsi and coronals waving;
And his chorus and dances and singing are done,—
The noisy array has hurried away
And vanished below the horizon's rim
Into worlds beyond,—and his gonfalons gay
Of sunset glories are dim and grey,
And have all forgotten him—
For night, with its shadowy silent presence,
Is stealing on,
And under its spell so calm and serious
The wondering world stands still,
And a feeling—vague, intense, mysterious—
Is brooding o'er valley and hill.
With his cymbals clashing, his bright spears flashing,
His tumult and rout, his Bacchanal's shout,
His gladness and madness, and laughter and raving,
His banners and thyrsi and coronals waving;
187
The noisy array has hurried away
And vanished below the horizon's rim
Into worlds beyond,—and his gonfalons gay
Of sunset glories are dim and grey,
And have all forgotten him—
For night, with its shadowy silent presence,
Is stealing on,
And under its spell so calm and serious
The wondering world stands still,
And a feeling—vague, intense, mysterious—
Is brooding o'er valley and hill.
The stars in their blue unfathomed tomb
Gleam far and bright,—
They are waiting the coming of the moon,
The Regent of the Night.
Nor long they await—for look—serene
Above the hills revealed,
Large and majestic in her mien,
Into the clear, expectant sky
She lifts her gleaming shield—
And with a pensive peaceful grace
Takes queenlike there her silent place,
And looks o'er all the enchanted world
With calm pathetic face.
All own her gentle influence,
So tender, so intense;
And over all a breath of prayer
Floats like a feeling through the air,
And soothes the soul and sense.
Gleam far and bright,—
They are waiting the coming of the moon,
The Regent of the Night.
Nor long they await—for look—serene
Above the hills revealed,
Large and majestic in her mien,
Into the clear, expectant sky
She lifts her gleaming shield—
And with a pensive peaceful grace
Takes queenlike there her silent place,
And looks o'er all the enchanted world
With calm pathetic face.
All own her gentle influence,
So tender, so intense;
And over all a breath of prayer
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And soothes the soul and sense.
Along the river's course the slow mists cling,
As murmuring on it swells.
In the dark grass a myriad grilli ring
Their chimes of tiny bells.
From rugged mountain-steeps that dark and bare
Shrouded in shadow dream,
Voices of white cascades, whose veils out-stream
And hang upon the air,
Chant to the Night their praises as they go
To join the torrent hurrying hoarse below
O'er its gray boulders tossed.
The soft wind whispering sings its mountain song
As slow it drives the low white clouds along,
Or murmurs through the black platoons of pines,
Whose serried ranks together push
Their tall uplifted spears, and rush
Up the sheer sides of Alps and Apennines,—
Or tremulous breathes o'er many a peaceful slope
Of gracious Italy,
Where in festoons the swaying vineyards droop,
And the gray olives up the hillsides troop—
A ghostly company,
Pallid and faint, as they had only known
The moon for friend—and in its light had grown.
As murmuring on it swells.
In the dark grass a myriad grilli ring
Their chimes of tiny bells.
From rugged mountain-steeps that dark and bare
Shrouded in shadow dream,
Voices of white cascades, whose veils out-stream
And hang upon the air,
Chant to the Night their praises as they go
To join the torrent hurrying hoarse below
O'er its gray boulders tossed.
The soft wind whispering sings its mountain song
As slow it drives the low white clouds along,
Or murmurs through the black platoons of pines,
Whose serried ranks together push
Their tall uplifted spears, and rush
Up the sheer sides of Alps and Apennines,—
Or tremulous breathes o'er many a peaceful slope
Of gracious Italy,
Where in festoons the swaying vineyards droop,
And the gray olives up the hillsides troop—
A ghostly company,
Pallid and faint, as they had only known
The moon for friend—and in its light had grown.
189
A dream the vales and hills and meadows haunts,—
Earth sleeping turns and sighs,—the ocean pants,
And weary, flings itself upon the breast
Of the broad beach, scarce knowing what it wants,
Stirred by a strange unrest;
The sky's deep dome is filled with mysteries dim
And tremulous throbs,—the swift and wheeling spheres
With music thrill, too fine for human ears,
And Nature, with its myriad voices, chants
To thee its faint night hymn.
Earth sleeping turns and sighs,—the ocean pants,
And weary, flings itself upon the breast
Of the broad beach, scarce knowing what it wants,
Stirred by a strange unrest;
The sky's deep dome is filled with mysteries dim
And tremulous throbs,—the swift and wheeling spheres
With music thrill, too fine for human ears,
And Nature, with its myriad voices, chants
To thee its faint night hymn.
Nor Nature only,—every living thing
Thy influence feels, and all of harsh and rude,
Touched by thy sweet and gentle visiting,
Grows peaceful and subdued.
In the dark woods the hidden nightingale,
With rapturous trills, and sudden passion-throbs,
And liquid bursts, and low recurrent sobs,
Repeats his love-lorn tale.
The plaintive cry of the sad whippoorwill
Is heard along the hill.
The leathern bat wheels round in noiseless flight
Across the glimmering and uncertain light,—
And mournfully afar the feathery owl
Hoots in the ear of night.
From many a pond, where on its green-paved floor
Of tessellated leaves the lily sleeps,
While the pale willow drooping o'er it weeps,
His guttural bass the frog sings o'er and o'er.
From out the tall dark silhouetted tower,
At intervals, with deep and solemn stroke,
The church bells strike the quarters and the hour.
There comes a bleating from the folded flock,
A tinkle of faint bells,—
From the dim fields the voice of country folk,
Talking and laughing, swells;
And now and then the bay
Of some enchanted watch-dog far away,
That feels night's influence, and cannot say
What stirs him so,
Is heard lamenting,—or some wakened cock
Crows out a drowsy crow.
But all these sounds and voices seem
To melt away into the tender dream
That haunts the air,
And soothe the silence which were else too deep
For heart to bear.
Thy influence feels, and all of harsh and rude,
Touched by thy sweet and gentle visiting,
Grows peaceful and subdued.
In the dark woods the hidden nightingale,
With rapturous trills, and sudden passion-throbs,
And liquid bursts, and low recurrent sobs,
Repeats his love-lorn tale.
The plaintive cry of the sad whippoorwill
Is heard along the hill.
The leathern bat wheels round in noiseless flight
Across the glimmering and uncertain light,—
And mournfully afar the feathery owl
190
From many a pond, where on its green-paved floor
Of tessellated leaves the lily sleeps,
While the pale willow drooping o'er it weeps,
His guttural bass the frog sings o'er and o'er.
From out the tall dark silhouetted tower,
At intervals, with deep and solemn stroke,
The church bells strike the quarters and the hour.
There comes a bleating from the folded flock,
A tinkle of faint bells,—
From the dim fields the voice of country folk,
Talking and laughing, swells;
And now and then the bay
Of some enchanted watch-dog far away,
That feels night's influence, and cannot say
What stirs him so,
Is heard lamenting,—or some wakened cock
Crows out a drowsy crow.
But all these sounds and voices seem
To melt away into the tender dream
That haunts the air,
And soothe the silence which were else too deep
For heart to bear.
All sleep! The tired world sleeps!
A quiet infinite
The soul of man and nature steeps,
And smooths the brow of night.
The weary ox lays off his yoke,—
The dog hunts in his dream alone,—
The woodman wields no more his stroke,—
The beggar, 'neath his ragged cloak,
On the cold pavement thrown,
No longer heeds the world's dark frown,
No longer hungers, racked with pains,
But roams along Elysian plains
And wears a monarch's crown.
A myriad mortals lay their head
Upon oblivion's poppied bed,
By peaceful slumber blest,
And all day's busy toils and cares,
And all the hard world's strain and stress,
And all its tortuous snarls and snares
Are lifted from their breast,—
As lapped in calm unconsciousness
They sleep—they rest.
A quiet infinite
The soul of man and nature steeps,
And smooths the brow of night.
191
The dog hunts in his dream alone,—
The woodman wields no more his stroke,—
The beggar, 'neath his ragged cloak,
On the cold pavement thrown,
No longer heeds the world's dark frown,
No longer hungers, racked with pains,
But roams along Elysian plains
And wears a monarch's crown.
A myriad mortals lay their head
Upon oblivion's poppied bed,
By peaceful slumber blest,
And all day's busy toils and cares,
And all the hard world's strain and stress,
And all its tortuous snarls and snares
Are lifted from their breast,—
As lapped in calm unconsciousness
They sleep—they rest.
But Love awakes: O silent moon,
Upon how many a happy pair
That breathe this silvery tranquil air,
Serene thou lookest down!
As wandering, blest by Life's best boon,
Through many a lane and shadowy grove
They lingering talk—or pausing dream,
And strive to tell their love;
While following them, now bright now dim,
The listening stars above
Through the o'erhanging tree-tops swim
And with them pause—or move.
Their bliss intense, their thrill of sense
That words can never half express,
Thou seest as they wander on,—
His clasping arm around her thrown,
She trembling in his fond caress,—
And all the air is still to hear,
And all the heavens above,
The sweet low broken utterances,
The silences of Love.
The nightingale that knows to sing
Love's passion and Love's pain,
Cries Love—Love—Love—interpreting
Their thrill of heart and brain.
Upon how many a happy pair
That breathe this silvery tranquil air,
Serene thou lookest down!
As wandering, blest by Life's best boon,
Through many a lane and shadowy grove
They lingering talk—or pausing dream,
And strive to tell their love;
While following them, now bright now dim,
The listening stars above
Through the o'erhanging tree-tops swim
192
Their bliss intense, their thrill of sense
That words can never half express,
Thou seest as they wander on,—
His clasping arm around her thrown,
She trembling in his fond caress,—
And all the air is still to hear,
And all the heavens above,
The sweet low broken utterances,
The silences of Love.
The nightingale that knows to sing
Love's passion and Love's pain,
Cries Love—Love—Love—interpreting
Their thrill of heart and brain.
And sorrow wakes—and in despair
Looks up, O night, to thee
And wails—“Oh where are they, oh where,
Whom Death hath torn from me?
Speak—speak, O night—O heaven, declare
From thine infinity.”
And thou—what answerest thou, O night,
O boundless tremulous air,
O moon, O stars—to that wild cry,
To that impassioned prayer?
Nothing! In calm serenity,
Unmoved thou standest there,
Deaf—silent—cold and pitiless
To all we have to bear.
No! no! the tears of passion past,
Thou givest us thy boon at last.
Thou sayest—“Come to me and weep;”—
Thou givest thy beloved sleep;
Thou summonest again the form
That death hath snatched away,
The glad lost voice, the body warm,
The animate dear clay,
The dream at least of all that was
Denied to us by day.
Looks up, O night, to thee
And wails—“Oh where are they, oh where,
Whom Death hath torn from me?
Speak—speak, O night—O heaven, declare
From thine infinity.”
And thou—what answerest thou, O night,
O boundless tremulous air,
O moon, O stars—to that wild cry,
To that impassioned prayer?
Nothing! In calm serenity,
Unmoved thou standest there,
Deaf—silent—cold and pitiless
To all we have to bear.
No! no! the tears of passion past,
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Thou sayest—“Come to me and weep;”—
Thou givest thy beloved sleep;
Thou summonest again the form
That death hath snatched away,
The glad lost voice, the body warm,
The animate dear clay,
The dream at least of all that was
Denied to us by day.
O Night of grand repose!
O silent serious Night!
Beside thy pathos infinite
How vain are Daylight's shows!
Thine is the grand dim realm of dream,
Thine the mysterious power whose spell
Leads Fancy on beyond the extreme
Of this world's possible.
Thine the soft touch that charms the waking sense,
And woos the troubled soul to confidence.
To thee our secret woes we tell,
To thee our inmost being bare,
With thee our deepest feelings share,
Mother divine, ineffable.
Our hopes, our loves, that in the pride
Of busy daylight are repressed—
Our doubts, remorses, hidden fears,
That gnaw within the breast;
To thee, great mother, we confide
And on thy bosom shed our tears,
As thy great arms thou openest wide
To give us rest.
O silent serious Night!
Beside thy pathos infinite
How vain are Daylight's shows!
Thine is the grand dim realm of dream,
Thine the mysterious power whose spell
Leads Fancy on beyond the extreme
Of this world's possible.
Thine the soft touch that charms the waking sense,
And woos the troubled soul to confidence.
To thee our secret woes we tell,
To thee our inmost being bare,
With thee our deepest feelings share,
Mother divine, ineffable.
Our hopes, our loves, that in the pride
Of busy daylight are repressed—
Our doubts, remorses, hidden fears,
That gnaw within the breast;
To thee, great mother, we confide
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As thy great arms thou openest wide
To give us rest.
O Night—a secret prophecy
Thou whisperest beneath thy breath
Of that vast dim infinity,
Where broods the silent shadow—Death.
Listening I seem to hear thee say,—
“As I from out the body steal
For few brief hours the soul away,
My passing dream-world to reveal;
So my dark Brother, when your eyes
He in his endless sleep shall close,
Shall bear you—far beyond the woes
Of this short life—to the repose
Of an eternal Paradise.”
Thou whisperest beneath thy breath
Of that vast dim infinity,
Where broods the silent shadow—Death.
Listening I seem to hear thee say,—
“As I from out the body steal
For few brief hours the soul away,
My passing dream-world to reveal;
So my dark Brother, when your eyes
He in his endless sleep shall close,
Shall bear you—far beyond the woes
Of this short life—to the repose
Of an eternal Paradise.”
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COMPANIONS ON THE ROAD.
Life's milestones, marking year on year,
Pass ever swifter as we near
The final goal, the silent end
To which our fated footsteps tend.
A year once seemed a century,
Now like a day it hurries by,
And doubts and fears our hearts oppress,
And all the way is weariness.
Pass ever swifter as we near
The final goal, the silent end
To which our fated footsteps tend.
A year once seemed a century,
Now like a day it hurries by,
And doubts and fears our hearts oppress,
And all the way is weariness.
Ah me! how glad and gay we were,
Youth's sap in all our veins astir,
When long ago with spirits high,
A happy careless company,
We started forth, when everything
Wore the green glory of the spring,
And all the fair wide world was ours,
To gather as we would its flowers!
Youth's sap in all our veins astir,
When long ago with spirits high,
A happy careless company,
We started forth, when everything
Wore the green glory of the spring,
And all the fair wide world was ours,
To gather as we would its flowers!
Then, Life almost eternal seemed,
And Death a dream so vaguely dreamed,
That in the distance scarce it threw
A cloud-shade on the mountains blue,
That rose before us soft and fair,
Clothed in ideal hues of air,
To which we meant in after-time,
Strong in our manhood's strength, to climb.
And Death a dream so vaguely dreamed,
That in the distance scarce it threw
A cloud-shade on the mountains blue,
That rose before us soft and fair,
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To which we meant in after-time,
Strong in our manhood's strength, to climb.
How all has changed! Years have gone by,
And of that joyous company
With whom our youth first journeyed on,
Who—who are left? Alas, not one!
Love earliest loitered on the way,
Then turned his face and slipped away;
And after him with footsteps light
The fickle Graces took their flight,
And all the careless Joys that lent
Their revelry and merriment
Grew silenter, and, ere we knew,
Had smiled their last and said “adieu.”
And of that joyous company
With whom our youth first journeyed on,
Who—who are left? Alas, not one!
Love earliest loitered on the way,
Then turned his face and slipped away;
And after him with footsteps light
The fickle Graces took their flight,
And all the careless Joys that lent
Their revelry and merriment
Grew silenter, and, ere we knew,
Had smiled their last and said “adieu.”
Hope faltering then with doubtful mind,
Began to turn and look behind,
And we, half questioning, were fain
To follow with her back again;
But Fate still urged us on our way
And would not let us pause or stay.
Then to our side with plaintive eye,
In place of Hope came Memory,
And murmured of the Past, and told
Dear stories of the days of old,
Until its very dross seemed gold,
And Friendship took the place of Love,
And strove in vain to us to prove
That Love was light and insincere—
Not worth a man's regretful tear.
Began to turn and look behind,
And we, half questioning, were fain
To follow with her back again;
But Fate still urged us on our way
And would not let us pause or stay.
Then to our side with plaintive eye,
In place of Hope came Memory,
And murmured of the Past, and told
Dear stories of the days of old,
Until its very dross seemed gold,
And Friendship took the place of Love,
And strove in vain to us to prove
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Not worth a man's regretful tear.
Ah! all in vain—grant 't was a cheat,
Yet no voice ever was so sweet—
No presence like to Love's, who threw
Enchantment over all we knew;
And still we listen with a sigh,
And back, with fond tears in the eye,
We gaze to catch a glimpse again
Of that dear face—but all in vain.
Yet no voice ever was so sweet—
No presence like to Love's, who threw
Enchantment over all we knew;
And still we listen with a sigh,
And back, with fond tears in the eye,
We gaze to catch a glimpse again
Of that dear face—but all in vain.
Preach not, O stern Philosophy!
Naught we can have, and naught we see,
Will ever be so pure, so glad,
So beautiful, as what we had.
Naught we can have, and naught we see,
Will ever be so pure, so glad,
So beautiful, as what we had.
Our steps are sad—our steps are slow—
Nothing is like the long ago.
Gone is the keen, intense delight—
The perfume faint and exquisite—
The glory and the effluence
That haloed the enraptured sense,
When Faith and Love were at our side,
And common Life was deified.
Nothing is like the long ago.
Gone is the keen, intense delight—
The perfume faint and exquisite—
The glory and the effluence
That haloed the enraptured sense,
When Faith and Love were at our side,
And common Life was deified.
Our shadows that we used to throw
Behind us, now before us grow;
For once we walked towards the sun,—
But now, Life's full meridian done,
They change, and in their chill we move,
Further away from Faith and Love.
A chill is in the air—no more
Our thoughts with joyous impulse soar,
But creep along the level way,
Waiting the closing of the day.
The Future holds no wondrous prize
This side Death's awful mysteries;
Beyond, what waits for us, who knows?
New Life, or infinite repose?
Behind us, now before us grow;
For once we walked towards the sun,—
But now, Life's full meridian done,
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Further away from Faith and Love.
A chill is in the air—no more
Our thoughts with joyous impulse soar,
But creep along the level way,
Waiting the closing of the day.
The Future holds no wondrous prize
This side Death's awful mysteries;
Beyond, what waits for us, who knows?
New Life, or infinite repose?
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“DE MORTUIS.”
“Manibus date lilia plenis
Purpureos spargam flores, animamque...
His saltem accumulem donis et fungar inani munere.”
Purpureos spargam flores, animamque...
His saltem accumulem donis et fungar inani munere.”
Oh come, let us haste to his grave, let us scatter rich garlands of flowers!
We gave him scant honor while living; faint reticent praises were ours
For his genius, his virtues, his courage,—but now his quick spirit hath fled:
O'er his tomb wreaths of roses and laurels and bays let us strew to him dead.
Ay, now, when all weeping and praising are utterly vain, let us weep!
Let us praise him ungrudgingly now that, unconscious, he sleeps his last sleep.
We gave him scant honor while living; faint reticent praises were ours
For his genius, his virtues, his courage,—but now his quick spirit hath fled:
O'er his tomb wreaths of roses and laurels and bays let us strew to him dead.
Ay, now, when all weeping and praising are utterly vain, let us weep!
Let us praise him ungrudgingly now that, unconscious, he sleeps his last sleep.
Will he heed what we say?—Will he hear us and see us? Ah no! 't is too late!
We are always too late with our praises and pæans,—delaying, we wait,
Till Death shrouds the windows and darkens life's warm breathing house with its pall,
And in vain, to the tenant departed, Love, Friendship, or Calumny call.
Ah! then we arouse in our griefs, ah! then, and then only, the meed
That was due to the warm living spirit we give to the cold senseless dead.
We are always too late with our praises and pæans,—delaying, we wait,
Till Death shrouds the windows and darkens life's warm breathing house with its pall,
And in vain, to the tenant departed, Love, Friendship, or Calumny call.
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That was due to the warm living spirit we give to the cold senseless dead.
For our brother, while here he is striving and moving along the world's ways,
We have only harsh judgments, stern counsel, half-uttered affections, cold praise.
Our cheer of full-hearted approval, our frank, quick applause we deny;
Envy, Malice, and Jealousy, Calumny, all the world's hounds in full cry
Unrelenting pursue him—while Friendship barks low in the rear of the race,
Reluctant, perhaps, at his faults and his frailties, till Death ends the chase.
We have only harsh judgments, stern counsel, half-uttered affections, cold praise.
Our cheer of full-hearted approval, our frank, quick applause we deny;
Envy, Malice, and Jealousy, Calumny, all the world's hounds in full cry
Unrelenting pursue him—while Friendship barks low in the rear of the race,
Reluctant, perhaps, at his faults and his frailties, till Death ends the chase.
Ah! then all his virtues, his merits shine forth; all the charms that he owned
Rise up unobscured in their beauty, all frailties and faults are atoned.
All the good is remembered and pondered, the bad swept away out of sight,
And in death we behold him transfigured, and robed in memorial light.
We lament when lamenting is useless, we praise when all praises are vain,
And then, turning back and forgetting, begin the same sad work again.
Rise up unobscured in their beauty, all frailties and faults are atoned.
All the good is remembered and pondered, the bad swept away out of sight,
And in death we behold him transfigured, and robed in memorial light.
We lament when lamenting is useless, we praise when all praises are vain,
And then, turning back and forgetting, begin the same sad work again.
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Ah! why did we stint to him living our gift? Were we poor? Had we naught,—
Not a wreath, not a flower,—for our friend to whose grave we such tribute have brought?
Ah, no! the largess of the heart that had strengthened and gladdened his soul
We refused him, and proffered him only the critic's poor miserly dole.
Still we meant to be just, so we claim, though the judgment was cold that we gave.
Was our justice then better than love?—Come, say! as you stand by his grave.
Not a wreath, not a flower,—for our friend to whose grave we such tribute have brought?
Ah, no! the largess of the heart that had strengthened and gladdened his soul
We refused him, and proffered him only the critic's poor miserly dole.
Still we meant to be just, so we claim, though the judgment was cold that we gave.
Was our justice then better than love?—Come, say! as you stand by his grave.
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THE BLACKBIRD.
Upon the cherry-bough the blackbird sings
His careless, happy song,
As 'mid the rubied fruit he tilting swings,
Heedless of Right or Wrong.
His careless, happy song,
As 'mid the rubied fruit he tilting swings,
Heedless of Right or Wrong.
No Future taunts him with its fears or hopes,
No cares his Present fret;
The Past for him no dismal vista opes
Of useless, dark regret.
No cares his Present fret;
The Past for him no dismal vista opes
Of useless, dark regret.
Ah! how I envy him, as there he sings
His glad unthinking strain,
Untroubled by the sad imaginings
That haunt man's plotting brain!
His glad unthinking strain,
Untroubled by the sad imaginings
That haunt man's plotting brain!
All orchards are his home; no work or care
Compels him here to stay;
His is the world—the breathing, open air—
The glorious summer day.
Compels him here to stay;
His is the world—the breathing, open air—
The glorious summer day.
Below, Earth blossoms for him; and above,
Heaven smiles in boundless blue;
Joy is in all things, and the song of Love
Thrills his whole being through.
Heaven smiles in boundless blue;
Joy is in all things, and the song of Love
Thrills his whole being through.
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From bough to bough its gay and transient guest
Is free to come and go
Where'er the whim invites, where'er the best
Of juicy blackhearts grow.
Is free to come and go
Where'er the whim invites, where'er the best
Of juicy blackhearts grow.
His are their sunny sides, that through and through
He stabs with coral bill;
And his the happiness man never knew,
That conscience cannot kill.
He stabs with coral bill;
And his the happiness man never knew,
That conscience cannot kill.
Ah! we who boast we are the crown of things
Like him are never glad;
By doubts and dreams and dark self-questionings
We stand besieged and sad.
Like him are never glad;
By doubts and dreams and dark self-questionings
We stand besieged and sad.
What know we of that rare felicity
The unconscious blackbird knows,
That no misgiving spoils; that frank and free
From merely living grows?
The unconscious blackbird knows,
That no misgiving spoils; that frank and free
From merely living grows?
Haggard Repentance ever dogs our path;
The foul fiend Discontent
Harries the spirit, and the joys it hath
Are but a moment lent.
The foul fiend Discontent
Harries the spirit, and the joys it hath
Are but a moment lent.
The riddle of our Life we cannot guess;
From toil to toil we haste,
And in our sweetest joy some bitterness
Of secret pain we taste.
From toil to toil we haste,
And in our sweetest joy some bitterness
Of secret pain we taste.
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Ah! for an hour at least, when bold and free
In being's pure delight,
Loosed from the cares that clog humanity,
The soul might wing its flight!
In being's pure delight,
Loosed from the cares that clog humanity,
The soul might wing its flight!
Then, blackbird, we might sing the perfect song
Of Life and Love with thee,
Where no regret nor toil, nor fear of Wrong,
Nor doubt of Right should be.
Of Life and Love with thee,
Where no regret nor toil, nor fear of Wrong,
Nor doubt of Right should be.
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LOVE AND DEATH.
Since Death must come, now let it come to me—
Now, while my soul with Love's felicity
Is brimmed to overflowing,—naught on earth
Again so dear, so exquisite can be.
Now, while my soul with Love's felicity
Is brimmed to overflowing,—naught on earth
Again so dear, so exquisite can be.
Now, with thy strong arms round me, thy divine,
Deep, silent eyes down gazing into mine,
That seem to draw my soul forth from the deep,
Far inner Life, that I to thee resign.
Deep, silent eyes down gazing into mine,
That seem to draw my soul forth from the deep,
Far inner Life, that I to thee resign.
So let me die,—after love's perfect bliss,
After the rapture of an hour like this,
How can I sink to common trivial joys?
No! rather seal my Life with one more kiss.
After the rapture of an hour like this,
How can I sink to common trivial joys?
No! rather seal my Life with one more kiss.
Take thou my very, very soul from me
Here through my lips, and draw me unto thee,
My best, my dearest! It is heaven enough
Here in thy arms forever more to be.
Here through my lips, and draw me unto thee,
My best, my dearest! It is heaven enough
Here in thy arms forever more to be.
206
AUTUMN.
'T is the golden gleam of an autumn day,
With the soft rain raining as if in play;
And a tender touch upon everything,
As if autumn remembered the days of spring.
With the soft rain raining as if in play;
And a tender touch upon everything,
As if autumn remembered the days of spring.
In the listening woods there is not a breath
To shake their gold to the sward beneath;
And a glow as of sunshine upon them lies,
Though the sun is hid in the shadowed skies.
To shake their gold to the sward beneath;
And a glow as of sunshine upon them lies,
Though the sun is hid in the shadowed skies.
The cock's clear crow from the farmyard comes,
The muffled bell from the belfry booms,
And faint and dim, and from far away,
Come the voices of children in happy play.
The muffled bell from the belfry booms,
And faint and dim, and from far away,
Come the voices of children in happy play.
O'er the mountains the white rain draws its veil,
And the black rooks, cawing, across them sail,
While nearer the swooping swallows skim
O'er the steel-gray river's fretted brim.
And the black rooks, cawing, across them sail,
While nearer the swooping swallows skim
O'er the steel-gray river's fretted brim.
No sorrow upon the landscape weighs,
No grief for the vanished summer days,
But a sense of peaceful and calm repose
Like that which age in its autumn knows.
No grief for the vanished summer days,
But a sense of peaceful and calm repose
Like that which age in its autumn knows.
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The spring-time longings are past and gone,
The passions of summer no longer are known,
The harvest is gathered, and autumn stands
Serenely thoughtful with folded hands.
The passions of summer no longer are known,
The harvest is gathered, and autumn stands
Serenely thoughtful with folded hands.
Over all is thrown a memorial hue,
A glory ideal the real ne'er knew;
For memory sifts from the past its pain,
And suffers its beauty alone to remain.
A glory ideal the real ne'er knew;
For memory sifts from the past its pain,
And suffers its beauty alone to remain.
With half a smile and with half a sigh
It ponders the past that has hurried by;
Sees it, and feels it, and loves it all,
Content it has vanished beyond recall.
It ponders the past that has hurried by;
Sees it, and feels it, and loves it all,
Content it has vanished beyond recall.
O glorious autumn, thus serene,
Thus living and loving all that has been!
Thus calm and contented let me be
When the autumn of age shall come to me.
Thus living and loving all that has been!
Thus calm and contented let me be
When the autumn of age shall come to me.
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TO VICTOR.
A LOST ODE OF HORACE.
Nor I, nor thou, with all our seeking, know
Whither, when life is over, we shall go,
Nor what awaits us on that farther shore,
Hid from our eyes by Acheron's dark flow.
Whither, when life is over, we shall go,
Nor what awaits us on that farther shore,
Hid from our eyes by Acheron's dark flow.
We only know—and this we must endure—
That Death waits for us, whom no prayer or lure
Can move or change; towards whose outstretched arms
Each moment onward drives us, silent, sure.
That Death waits for us, whom no prayer or lure
Can move or change; towards whose outstretched arms
Each moment onward drives us, silent, sure.
What he conceals behind that veil he draws
We know not, Victor; but his shadow awes
This life of ours, and in the very height
Of joy and love he bids us shuddering pause.
We know not, Victor; but his shadow awes
This life of ours, and in the very height
Of joy and love he bids us shuddering pause.
Virtue avails us not, nor wealth, nor power,
To stay one moment the appointed hour.
Marcellus, Cæsar, Virgil, all have gone,—
The fatal sickle reaps grain, bud, and flower.
To stay one moment the appointed hour.
Marcellus, Cæsar, Virgil, all have gone,—
The fatal sickle reaps grain, bud, and flower.
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Where are they now? Upon some unknown strand
Shall we again behold them, clasp their hand,
And, untormented by the ills of life,
Renew our friendship, and together stand?
Shall we again behold them, clasp their hand,
And, untormented by the ills of life,
Renew our friendship, and together stand?
Or, when the end is reached, and come it must,
Shall we, despite the hope in which we trust,
Feel nothing more, nor love, nor joy, nor pain,
But be at last mere mute, insensate dust?
Shall we, despite the hope in which we trust,
Feel nothing more, nor love, nor joy, nor pain,
But be at last mere mute, insensate dust?
If so, then virtue is a lying snare.
Let us fill high the bowl, drown sullen care,
Reap the earth's joys and all the joys of sense,
And of Life's bounty seize our fullest share.
Let us fill high the bowl, drown sullen care,
Reap the earth's joys and all the joys of sense,
And of Life's bounty seize our fullest share.
The Gods forbid the curious human eye
Into the Future's mystery to spy.
They give us hour by hour, and scarcely that;
For, ere the hour is measured, we may die.
Into the Future's mystery to spy.
They give us hour by hour, and scarcely that;
For, ere the hour is measured, we may die.
But if thou goest before me where no speech,
No word of friendship, no warm grasp, can reach,
Let me not linger. May the pitying Gods
Send the same final summons unto each!
No word of friendship, no warm grasp, can reach,
Let me not linger. May the pitying Gods
Send the same final summons unto each!
Whether stern Death reach out his hand to bless
Or sweep us down to blank, dire nothingness—
Whate'er may come, together let us go
Where, at the worst, we shall escape life's stress.
Or sweep us down to blank, dire nothingness—
Whate'er may come, together let us go
Where, at the worst, we shall escape life's stress.
210
A MOMENT.
How long would you love me? A lifetime? Ah, that is too long; let us say
A moment. Life's best's but a moment, and life itself scarcely a day.
A moment. Life's best's but a moment, and life itself scarcely a day.
Perhaps you might love me that moment; perhaps, while you quaffed
From life's brimming cup, with your sweet face turned up, love's exquisite draught;
From life's brimming cup, with your sweet face turned up, love's exquisite draught;
All the spirit insatiate thirsting its sweetness to drain,
And a hurry of rapture swift rushing through heart and through brain;
And a hurry of rapture swift rushing through heart and through brain;
All being condensed to a drop, all the soul, all the sense,
Interfused as by fire, intermingled and throbbing with passion intense;
Interfused as by fire, intermingled and throbbing with passion intense;
Just one moment of Life's culmination, its waves' utmost height,
While it lifts its green cavern of opal all sunfringed, in quivering light;—
While it lifts its green cavern of opal all sunfringed, in quivering light;—
211
Its foam-rose that topples and spreads at the crest of the Fountain's full stress,
That the impulse that lifts cannot hold, that dies of its very excess;
That the impulse that lifts cannot hold, that dies of its very excess;
Just one rapturous moment, while love you inhaled like the soul of a flower,
For a breath space, an indrawing breath space, that words have no power
For a breath space, an indrawing breath space, that words have no power
At their best to express, so divine, so enchanting, its soul-piercing scent,
Thrilling through all the nerves, but at last in a sigh to be breathed out and spent;
Thrilling through all the nerves, but at last in a sigh to be breathed out and spent;
Just one moment, no longer; and then, all the strength and desire
Faded out, all the passion exhausted, naught left of the fire
Faded out, all the passion exhausted, naught left of the fire
But the sullen, gray, desolate ashes,—oh, then, would you cling to me? Say,
Would you love me, or hate me, or scorn me, and ruthlessly fling me away?
Would you love me, or hate me, or scorn me, and ruthlessly fling me away?
Who knows? Love and hate are so near, joy and pain, ice and fire, hope and fear,
That I doubt, the next moment, this moment so tender, so perfect, so dear.
That I doubt, the next moment, this moment so tender, so perfect, so dear.
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This maddening moment I know, let the next what it chooses reveal;
'T is enough that you love me this moment, let Fate, as she will, spin her wheel,
'T is enough that you love me this moment, let Fate, as she will, spin her wheel,
Weave her web, cast her net, unto grief or despair make us prey;
This is mine, this is ours, and, once given, can never be taken away.
This is mine, this is ours, and, once given, can never be taken away.
What though, from our dream when we wake, our love a mere folly may seem?
What is life at the best but a sleep? what is love but a dream?
What is life at the best but a sleep? what is love but a dream?
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AFTER MANY DAYS.
Yes, dear, I remember those old days,
And oh, how charming they were!
I doubt—no, I know that no others to come
Will ever such feelings stir.
We had only been married a few months.
And love, like a delicate haze,
Veiled in beauty the trivial doings,
The commonest facts of those days.
And oh, how charming they were!
I doubt—no, I know that no others to come
Will ever such feelings stir.
We had only been married a few months.
And love, like a delicate haze,
Veiled in beauty the trivial doings,
The commonest facts of those days.
Life was all smiling before us,
And nature was smiling around;
Spring hovering near us caressed us,
And joy with its aureole crowned;
'Mid the flowers and the trees in blossom,
Afar from the world we dwelt,
And the air was sweet with a thousand odors,
And the world like a full rose smelt.
And nature was smiling around;
Spring hovering near us caressed us,
And joy with its aureole crowned;
'Mid the flowers and the trees in blossom,
Afar from the world we dwelt,
And the air was sweet with a thousand odors,
And the world like a full rose smelt.
In the morning I used to leave you,
And that was the only pain;—
Through the grass with its dewdrops diamonded
We walked down the shadowy lane,
And as far as the gate you went with me,
And there, with a kiss we said
Good-by; and you lingering watched me,
And smiled and nodded your head,
And that was the only pain;—
Through the grass with its dewdrops diamonded
We walked down the shadowy lane,
And as far as the gate you went with me,
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Good-by; and you lingering watched me,
And smiled and nodded your head,
And waved your handkerchief to me,
And I constantly turned to see
If you still were there, and my daily work
Seemed a cruel necessity;
The last turn took you away from me,
As on to my task I went,
But your face all day looked up from the page,
As over my book I bent.
And I constantly turned to see
If you still were there, and my daily work
Seemed a cruel necessity;
The last turn took you away from me,
As on to my task I went,
But your face all day looked up from the page,
As over my book I bent.
And when day was over, how gladly
I rushed from the dusty town!
As I opened the gate, I whistled,
And there was your fluttering gown
As you ran with a smile to meet me,
With your brown curls tossing free,
And your arms were thrown about my neck
As I clasped you close to me.
I rushed from the dusty town!
As I opened the gate, I whistled,
And there was your fluttering gown
As you ran with a smile to meet me,
With your brown curls tossing free,
And your arms were thrown about my neck
As I clasped you close to me.
And the birds broke into a chorus
Of twittering joy and love,
And the golden sunset flamed in the trees,
And gladdened the sky above,
As up the lane together
We slowly loitered along,
While love in our hearts was singing
Its young and exquisite song.
Of twittering joy and love,
And the golden sunset flamed in the trees,
And gladdened the sky above,
As up the lane together
We slowly loitered along,
While love in our hearts was singing
Its young and exquisite song.
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The blood through our veins ran swiftly,
Like a stream of lambent fire;
Our thoughts were all winged, and our spirits
Uplifted with sweet desire.
My joy, my love, my darling,
You made the whole world sweet,
And the very ground seemed beautiful
That you pressed beneath your feet.
Like a stream of lambent fire;
Our thoughts were all winged, and our spirits
Uplifted with sweet desire.
My joy, my love, my darling,
You made the whole world sweet,
And the very ground seemed beautiful
That you pressed beneath your feet.
What was there more to ask for,
As I held you closely there,
And you smiled with those gentle, tender eyes,
And I breathed the scent of your hair?
Stop, Time, and speed no further!
Nothing, as long as we live,
Can give such a radiance of delight,
As one hour of love can give.
As I held you closely there,
And you smiled with those gentle, tender eyes,
And I breathed the scent of your hair?
Stop, Time, and speed no further!
Nothing, as long as we live,
Can give such a radiance of delight,
As one hour of love can give.
The lilacs were filling with fragrance
The air along the lane,
And I never smell the lilacs
But those hours revive again;
And oft, though long years have vanished,
One whiff of their scent will bring
Those old dear days, with their thrill of life,
When love was in blossoming.
The air along the lane,
And I never smell the lilacs
But those hours revive again;
And oft, though long years have vanished,
One whiff of their scent will bring
Those old dear days, with their thrill of life,
When love was in blossoming.
Time has gone on despite us,
We both have grown old and gray,
And love itself has grown old and staid,
But it never has flown away;
The fragile and scented blossom
Of springtime and youth is shed,
But its sound, sweet fruit of a large content
Hath ripened for us instead.
We both have grown old and gray,
And love itself has grown old and staid,
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The fragile and scented blossom
Of springtime and youth is shed,
But its sound, sweet fruit of a large content
Hath ripened for us instead.
217
SPRING.
Doves on the sunny eaves are cooing,
The chip-bird trills from the apple-tree,
Blossoms are bursting, and leaves renewing,
And the crocus darts up, the Spring to see.
The chip-bird trills from the apple-tree,
Blossoms are bursting, and leaves renewing,
And the crocus darts up, the Spring to see.
Spring has come with smile of blessing,
Kissing the earth with her soft warm breath
Till it blushes in flowers at her gentle caressing,
And wakes from the winter's dream of death.
Kissing the earth with her soft warm breath
Till it blushes in flowers at her gentle caressing,
And wakes from the winter's dream of death.
Spring has come! the rills as they glisten
Sing to the pebbles and greening grass,
Under the sward the violets listen,
And dream of the sky as they hear her pass.
Sing to the pebbles and greening grass,
Under the sward the violets listen,
And dream of the sky as they hear her pass.
Coyest of roses feel her coming,
Swelling their buds with a promise to her,
And the wild bee hears her, around them humming,
And booms about with a joyous stir.
Swelling their buds with a promise to her,
And the wild bee hears her, around them humming,
And booms about with a joyous stir.
Oaks, that the bark of a century covers,
Feel ye the spell as ye groan and sigh?
Say, does the spirit that round you hovers
Whisper of youth and love gone by?
Feel ye the spell as ye groan and sigh?
218
Whisper of youth and love gone by?
Windows are open; the pensive maiden
Leans o'er the sill with a wistful sigh,—
Her heart with tender longings o'erladen,
And a happy sadness she knows not why.
Leans o'er the sill with a wistful sigh,—
Her heart with tender longings o'erladen,
And a happy sadness she knows not why.
For we and the trees are brothers in nature;
We feel in our veins the season's thrill,
In hopes that reach to a higher stature,
In blind dim longings beyond our will,
We feel in our veins the season's thrill,
In hopes that reach to a higher stature,
In blind dim longings beyond our will,
Whence dost thou come, O joyous spirit?
From realms beyond this human ken,
To paint with beauty the earth we inherit,
And soften to love the hearts of men?
From realms beyond this human ken,
To paint with beauty the earth we inherit,
And soften to love the hearts of men?
Dear angel! that blowest with breath of gladness
The trump to waken the year in its grave,
Shall we not hear after death's deep sadness
A voice as tender to gladden and save?
The trump to waken the year in its grave,
Shall we not hear after death's deep sadness
A voice as tender to gladden and save?
Dost thou not sing a constant promise,
That joy shall follow that other voice,—
That nothing of good shall be taken from us,
But all who hear it shall rise to rejoice?
That joy shall follow that other voice,—
That nothing of good shall be taken from us,
But all who hear it shall rise to rejoice?
219
A BLACK DAY.
I thought it was dead;
That the years had crushed it down and trodden it out
With their cruel tramp and tread;
That nothing was left but the ashes, cold and gray,
Of a love that had wholly passed away,
With its hope, and fear, and joy, and doubt.
But nothing utterly dies;
And again, as I tread the paths of these silent woods,
Where we walked and loved a few long years ago,
And list to the wind's soft sighs
Rustling the solitudes,
And the low, perpetual hum and welling flow
Of the torrent that finds its way
And talks to itself among the mossy, gray
And unchanged boulders and stones—
Again, with a sudden, sharp surprise,
The old life leaps anew with a rush before me:
The cloud of these dreary years that have darkened o'er me
Lifts and passes, and you are again beside me:
The tones of your voice I hear; I look in your tender eyes,
And I fiercely and vainly long for what is denied me,
And I curse my cruel fate, as I cursed it then.
That the years had crushed it down and trodden it out
With their cruel tramp and tread;
That nothing was left but the ashes, cold and gray,
Of a love that had wholly passed away,
With its hope, and fear, and joy, and doubt.
But nothing utterly dies;
And again, as I tread the paths of these silent woods,
Where we walked and loved a few long years ago,
And list to the wind's soft sighs
Rustling the solitudes,
And the low, perpetual hum and welling flow
Of the torrent that finds its way
And talks to itself among the mossy, gray
And unchanged boulders and stones—
Again, with a sudden, sharp surprise,
The old life leaps anew with a rush before me:
The cloud of these dreary years that have darkened o'er me
220
The tones of your voice I hear; I look in your tender eyes,
And I fiercely and vainly long for what is denied me,
And I curse my cruel fate, as I cursed it then.
Ah! what has brought me here to this fatal glen?
I would that the sky was a globe of fragile glass,
That I to atoms might dash it;
And the flowers, and the trees, and the whole wide world around
Were all at my very feet lying here on the ground,
That I into flinders might dash it.
With a terrible impotent rage my close-clenched hand
I shake at these pitiless skies that glare above,
And the smothered flame of a wild, despairing love,
One breath of the breeze with a sudden strength has fanned
To a world-wide conflagration;
And I cry in a torture of pain,
With a cry that is all in vain,—
Come back, come back again,
And deny me not in my desperation
The love that I crave,—the love you denied of yore!
Come back and behold me, and into my spirit pour
Some balm of consolation;
Or strike me dead to the earth, that I no more
May grovel, tortured in spirit and wild with grief,
Looking out all over the world in vain for relief.
Come back, I implore!
I would that the sky was a globe of fragile glass,
That I to atoms might dash it;
And the flowers, and the trees, and the whole wide world around
Were all at my very feet lying here on the ground,
That I into flinders might dash it.
With a terrible impotent rage my close-clenched hand
I shake at these pitiless skies that glare above,
And the smothered flame of a wild, despairing love,
One breath of the breeze with a sudden strength has fanned
To a world-wide conflagration;
And I cry in a torture of pain,
With a cry that is all in vain,—
Come back, come back again,
And deny me not in my desperation
The love that I crave,—the love you denied of yore!
Come back and behold me, and into my spirit pour
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Or strike me dead to the earth, that I no more
May grovel, tortured in spirit and wild with grief,
Looking out all over the world in vain for relief.
Come back, I implore!
Curses upon the place, the time, the hour,
When first I met you;
Curses upon myself, that am all without the power,
Despite my will, to forget you!
Ah, would to God that you for an hour's brief space—
Only an hour—might suffer as I do!
Ah, would to God that you were here in my place,
With the barb in your heart, like a deer at the end of the race,
With naught but despair beside you,
Nothing but death and the heartless skies above,
That laugh alike at our joy and our grief and our love.
When first I met you;
Curses upon myself, that am all without the power,
Despite my will, to forget you!
Ah, would to God that you for an hour's brief space—
Only an hour—might suffer as I do!
Ah, would to God that you were here in my place,
With the barb in your heart, like a deer at the end of the race,
With naught but despair beside you,
Nothing but death and the heartless skies above,
That laugh alike at our joy and our grief and our love.
But no! ah no! you are happy, and gay, and glad.
And what care you for the memories dark and sad
That have ruined my hereafter!
Brook-like, above my broken hopes that lie
Hidden, perchance, beneath your memory
Your light thoughts run with laughter.
I see you smiling,—I know you are smiling still;
At the fountain of joy you stoop and drink your fill,
Careless whose heart you are breaking.
But the terrible thirst with which I am curst,
Ah me! is beyond all slaking;
For the stream of which I am drinking
Is a torrent of fire and fierce desire.
For me there is no more thinking,
No more hoping, or dreaming, or yearning,
No more living, and no more laughing,
Nothing for me but that fountain burning,
Where my spirit is ever quaffing.
And what care you for the memories dark and sad
That have ruined my hereafter!
Brook-like, above my broken hopes that lie
Hidden, perchance, beneath your memory
Your light thoughts run with laughter.
I see you smiling,—I know you are smiling still;
222
Careless whose heart you are breaking.
But the terrible thirst with which I am curst,
Ah me! is beyond all slaking;
For the stream of which I am drinking
Is a torrent of fire and fierce desire.
For me there is no more thinking,
No more hoping, or dreaming, or yearning,
No more living, and no more laughing,
Nothing for me but that fountain burning,
Where my spirit is ever quaffing.
Curses upon the hour and the place, I say!
Why did my footsteps lead me here?
Will these wild memories never pass away?
Can I never forget you? Ah, too dear, too dear!
Never while life shall last,
Never, ah never, till all the world has passed!
Why did my footsteps lead me here?
Will these wild memories never pass away?
Can I never forget you? Ah, too dear, too dear!
Never while life shall last,
Never, ah never, till all the world has passed!
223
VETERIS VESTIGIA FLAMMÆ.
Long years have gone, and down their slope
From that high crest of Youth and Hope
Life hath flowed on with downward range
Through many a devious chance and change,
And Childish Innocence has died,
And Joy, that once was eager-eyed,
Grown dim of sight, and the heart's thrill,
That sent the quick blood through my veins
At some poor nothing, now is still
Even to ambition's strains.
From that high crest of Youth and Hope
Life hath flowed on with downward range
Through many a devious chance and change,
And Childish Innocence has died,
And Joy, that once was eager-eyed,
Grown dim of sight, and the heart's thrill,
That sent the quick blood through my veins
At some poor nothing, now is still
Even to ambition's strains.
The Rose has lost its odors rare
Since we in childhood breathed it there
On those high hills so far away;
I know not what it is has gone.
Now I return to-day;
But all the world has lost the tone
It had of yore, though wearily
It still goes on.
Since we in childhood breathed it there
On those high hills so far away;
I know not what it is has gone.
Now I return to-day;
But all the world has lost the tone
It had of yore, though wearily
It still goes on.
'T is not your fault, O perfect sky,
Across whose silent deeps serene
The white clouds sail so silently;
'T is not your fault, O murmurous wood,
Within whose leafy solitude
Of ever waving green
A whisper runs, whose fragrant sward
With myriad bright-eyed flowers is starred.
Ah no!—ye all are still as fair
As in those happy days ye were;
And yet in my unhappy mood,
So deeply is my soul subdued,
I cannot take of all your joy
My willing share.
Across whose silent deeps serene
The white clouds sail so silently;
'T is not your fault, O murmurous wood,
Within whose leafy solitude
224
A whisper runs, whose fragrant sward
With myriad bright-eyed flowers is starred.
Ah no!—ye all are still as fair
As in those happy days ye were;
And yet in my unhappy mood,
So deeply is my soul subdued,
I cannot take of all your joy
My willing share.
Ah Nature, sympathetic friend,
What more hast thou to us to lend
Than what to thee we give?
Ours is the joy that makes thee glad—
The sorrow ours that makes thee sad—
Our life you only live.
And so to me to-day you bring
A sense of sweet remembering,
A craving dim and vague and sad,
That will not let my heart be glad
Despite thy beauty—will not set
My spirit free from out its net,
And turns my smile into a sigh
After the days gone by.
What more hast thou to us to lend
Than what to thee we give?
Ours is the joy that makes thee glad—
The sorrow ours that makes thee sad—
Our life you only live.
And so to me to-day you bring
A sense of sweet remembering,
A craving dim and vague and sad,
That will not let my heart be glad
Despite thy beauty—will not set
My spirit free from out its net,
And turns my smile into a sigh
After the days gone by.
You plague me with a far refrain;
You haunt me with an inner pain,
A sense of something lost, that seems
To reach me like some far-off strain
Borne to me from the land of dreams;
A sweet, a sad, a faint refrain
That only sings,—Come back, come back,
Come back again!
Take all I have and give me back
The lost again!
You haunt me with an inner pain,
A sense of something lost, that seems
To reach me like some far-off strain
Borne to me from the land of dreams;
225
That only sings,—Come back, come back,
Come back again!
Take all I have and give me back
The lost again!
Come back? Ah no! What once was joy,
What still to dream is bliss,
Near, my changed spirit would annoy;
Its charm in distance is.
The touch that from Youth's high-strung harp
Ecstatic music wings
Would make but discord harsh and sharp
On age's slackened strings.
No! far and softened let them lie—
Those dreams of what has been,
By the faint haze of memory
Transfigured and serene.
What still to dream is bliss,
Near, my changed spirit would annoy;
Its charm in distance is.
The touch that from Youth's high-strung harp
Ecstatic music wings
Would make but discord harsh and sharp
On age's slackened strings.
No! far and softened let them lie—
Those dreams of what has been,
By the faint haze of memory
Transfigured and serene.
No power can take me by the hand
And lead me where I fain would go—
Into that dear and dream-like land.
Ah no! ah no!—
Time's silent stream runs ever down
With unreturning flow,
And what we once have lived, loved, known,
Is past to live, love, know.
Vain is our longing, our regret,
Our joy and our despair;
The gates are shut and will not let
Our spirits backward fare.
And lead me where I fain would go—
Into that dear and dream-like land.
Ah no! ah no!—
Time's silent stream runs ever down
With unreturning flow,
And what we once have lived, loved, known,
Is past to live, love, know.
Vain is our longing, our regret,
Our joy and our despair;
The gates are shut and will not let
Our spirits backward fare.
226
Yet, as I speak, what power is this,
That with an odor rare
Hath had the charm my soul to bear
Through hidden secret galleries,
And searching swift the deep abyss
Of inner Life—the tortuous maze
Of tangled memories—brought to me
The lost of early days?
That with an odor rare
Hath had the charm my soul to bear
Through hidden secret galleries,
And searching swift the deep abyss
Of inner Life—the tortuous maze
Of tangled memories—brought to me
The lost of early days?
The simple odor of a flower
That I have plucked by chance—
So slight a thing has had the power
My being to entrance.
The present like a slough is shed,
And once again I hear
That voice that has been mute and dead
So many a dreary year;
Again those eyes look into mine,
Again a morning light
Breaks over that dear face of thine
Of childish frank delight—
Almost I seem to touch thy hand!—
Ah no! not that!—ah no!
There breaks the bridge, on which I stand—
Beyond I cannot go—
The voice, the smile, the vision fine,
Those for a moment's space were mine,
Thus far could dreams deceive;
But not the touch,—the human hand
That nothing ere will give.
That I have plucked by chance—
So slight a thing has had the power
My being to entrance.
The present like a slough is shed,
And once again I hear
That voice that has been mute and dead
So many a dreary year;
Again those eyes look into mine,
Again a morning light
Breaks over that dear face of thine
Of childish frank delight—
Almost I seem to touch thy hand!—
Ah no! not that!—ah no!
There breaks the bridge, on which I stand—
Beyond I cannot go—
The voice, the smile, the vision fine,
Those for a moment's space were mine,
Thus far could dreams deceive;
But not the touch,—the human hand
That nothing ere will give.
227
IN THE RAIN.
I stand in the cold gray weather,
In the white and silvery rain;
The great trees huddle together,
And sway with the windy strain.
I dream of the purple glory
Of the roseate mountain-height,
And the sweet-to-remember story
Of a distant and dear delight.
In the white and silvery rain;
The great trees huddle together,
And sway with the windy strain.
I dream of the purple glory
Of the roseate mountain-height,
And the sweet-to-remember story
Of a distant and dear delight.
The rain keeps constantly raining,
And the sky is cold and gray,
And the wind in the trees keeps complaining
That summer has passed away;—
But the gray and the cold are haunted
By a beauty akin to pain,—
By the sense of a something wanted,
That never will come again.
And the sky is cold and gray,
And the wind in the trees keeps complaining
That summer has passed away;—
But the gray and the cold are haunted
By a beauty akin to pain,—
By the sense of a something wanted,
That never will come again.
228
IN THE MOONLIGHT.
We sat in the perfect moonlight;
The stars were dim and rare,
And above us the elm-trees rustled
In the waves of the cool night-air.
The stars were dim and rare,
And above us the elm-trees rustled
In the waves of the cool night-air.
From the olives and vineyard near us
The kiou-owl plaintively cried,
And away o'er the misty hollows
Its mate with a wail replied.
The kiou-owl plaintively cried,
And away o'er the misty hollows
Its mate with a wail replied.
The peasant sang in the distance,
The watchdog barked at the star,
And the clack of the cradles beating the hemp
Came faint from the farms afar.
The watchdog barked at the star,
And the clack of the cradles beating the hemp
Came faint from the farms afar.
We talked of the times of our childhood,
Of the days forever flown,
Of their games and their jests and their sorrows,
And the playmates we had known;
Of the days forever flown,
Of their games and their jests and their sorrows,
And the playmates we had known;
And then there came o'er us a silence,
While the cypresses sighed overhead,—
And dreaming we sat and listened
To the voices of the dead.
While the cypresses sighed overhead,—
And dreaming we sat and listened
To the voices of the dead.
229
THE SAD COUNTRY.
There is a sad, sad country,
Where often I go to see
A little child that for all my love
Will never come back to me.
Where often I go to see
A little child that for all my love
Will never come back to me.
There smiles he serenely on me
With a look that makes me cry;
And he prattling runs beside me
Till I wish that I could die.
With a look that makes me cry;
And he prattling runs beside me
Till I wish that I could die.
That country is dim and dreary,
Yet I cannot keep away,
Though the shadows there are heavy and dark,
And the sunlight sadder than they.
Yet I cannot keep away,
Though the shadows there are heavy and dark,
And the sunlight sadder than they.
And there, in a ruined garden,
Which once was gay with flowers,
I sit by a broken fountain,
And weep and pray for hours.
Which once was gay with flowers,
I sit by a broken fountain,
And weep and pray for hours.
230
AT PEACE.
'T is twilight! the murmurous voices
Of maidens that stroll with their lovers
Beneath the dark ilex's shadows
Come faint to my ear.
Of maidens that stroll with their lovers
Beneath the dark ilex's shadows
Come faint to my ear.
No cloud in the soft azure heaven
Is floating—the moon in its fulness
Looks down with a mild face of pity,
And night holds its breath.
Is floating—the moon in its fulness
Looks down with a mild face of pity,
And night holds its breath.
Innumerous under the grasses
The grilli are ceaselessly chirping,
Above them the luccioli lighten,
And all is at peace!
The grilli are ceaselessly chirping,
Above them the luccioli lighten,
And all is at peace!
At peace! ay, the peace of the desert!
The silence, the deep desolation,
That comes when the blast has swept o'er us
And buried our hopes.
The silence, the deep desolation,
That comes when the blast has swept o'er us
And buried our hopes.
At peace! when the music that thrilled us,
The hand that its harmonies wakened,
The voice that was soul to the singing,
Alike are at rest!
The hand that its harmonies wakened,
The voice that was soul to the singing,
Alike are at rest!
231
At peace! ay, the peace of the ocean,
When past is the storm where we foundered,
And morning looks o'er the blank waters,
And hears but their moan!
When past is the storm where we foundered,
And morning looks o'er the blank waters,
And hears but their moan!
232
EIDOLON.
This was the shape for which so long in vain
My soul had panted—ah—at last! I cried,
As with a beating heart and flaming brain
I sprang to clasp it—ah! my love, my bride,
Mine, mine at last—thou whom so long my thought
In secret hath pursued, whom flattering hope
Hath falsely promised, whom my soul hath sought
Through many an ambushed doubt adown the slope
Of many a wild and glittering despair,
Ever to lose thee in the morning gleam
Or twilight shadow—now! O sweet and rare,
O perfect creature, in these arms at last,
At last, I clasp thee—and I hold thee fast,
To own forever.
My soul had panted—ah—at last! I cried,
As with a beating heart and flaming brain
I sprang to clasp it—ah! my love, my bride,
Mine, mine at last—thou whom so long my thought
In secret hath pursued, whom flattering hope
Hath falsely promised, whom my soul hath sought
Through many an ambushed doubt adown the slope
Of many a wild and glittering despair,
Ever to lose thee in the morning gleam
Or twilight shadow—now! O sweet and rare,
O perfect creature, in these arms at last,
At last, I clasp thee—and I hold thee fast,
To own forever.
As I spoke, the air
Sighed through the fading grass—the sunlit stream
Shuddered and crisped to shadow—through the leaves
A quiver passed as of a voice that grieves—
And down the lengthening distance died away,
While over all a silent darkness crept—
Swift as a thought, evasive as a dream,
She vanished—all the world was dead and gray,
And silent and oppressed I stood—I wept.
Sighed through the fading grass—the sunlit stream
Shuddered and crisped to shadow—through the leaves
233
And down the lengthening distance died away,
While over all a silent darkness crept—
Swift as a thought, evasive as a dream,
She vanished—all the world was dead and gray,
And silent and oppressed I stood—I wept.
234
TWO PARTINGS.
I.
The breath of the wild briar rose makes sweet
The twilight air along the dewy lane,—
Soft yields the greensward to our lingering feet,
And thou art with me, dearest, once again.
The twilight air along the dewy lane,—
Soft yields the greensward to our lingering feet,
And thou art with me, dearest, once again.
There cling the rooks, slow-dropping from the spire
That pierces through the sky's dim silvery light,—
And through the thick trees burns with orange fire
The low flat moon o'er yonder sloping height.
That pierces through the sky's dim silvery light,—
And through the thick trees burns with orange fire
The low flat moon o'er yonder sloping height.
Hark! was not that the sound of running feet?
They must not find us here alone, and thus!
One long last kiss, dear love! we yet shall meet
Somehow,—God knows,—and will take care of us.
They must not find us here alone, and thus!
One long last kiss, dear love! we yet shall meet
Somehow,—God knows,—and will take care of us.
II.
What shadow flickers on the curtain there?
I knew, beloved, thou wouldst come at last!
Ah death! its weight is all too much to bear
Now thou art come—and all the past is past.
I knew, beloved, thou wouldst come at last!
Ah death! its weight is all too much to bear
Now thou art come—and all the past is past.
235
Look in my eyes! oh! there 's so much to say,
How shall I lift its load from off my heart?
My head 's so weak—my strength all flows away
And there 's so little time before we part.
How shall I lift its load from off my heart?
My head 's so weak—my strength all flows away
And there 's so little time before we part.
I see you once again!—'T is not a dream!
Yet all 's so dim—oh stay beside me—stay!
Throw your arms round me—catch me—for I seem
To lose you, love,—and all things fade away.
Yet all 's so dim—oh stay beside me—stay!
Throw your arms round me—catch me—for I seem
To lose you, love,—and all things fade away.
236
TWENTY YEARS AGO.
Nina, do you those nights remember
When in the moonlight's amber glow
(Those blissful evenings of September)
We sat and watched the river's flow?
Ah me! 't is twenty years ago!
When in the moonlight's amber glow
(Those blissful evenings of September)
We sat and watched the river's flow?
Ah me! 't is twenty years ago!
Ah, then we swore to love forever,
While feeling made our voices low,
And Fate we dared our hearts to sever,
For Youth and Love no danger know—
Ah me! 't is twenty years ago!
While feeling made our voices low,
And Fate we dared our hearts to sever,
For Youth and Love no danger know—
Ah me! 't is twenty years ago!
What pledges then to Life were given,
What dreams that into deeds should grow,
The great moon listening up in heaven
While we were whispering there below—
Ah me! 't is twenty years ago.
What dreams that into deeds should grow,
The great moon listening up in heaven
While we were whispering there below—
Ah me! 't is twenty years ago.
But Love and Youth and Fame and Glory,
So real then in Life's first glow,
Are now a dim remembered story
Of some divine and dreamlike show
That passed—some twenty years ago.
So real then in Life's first glow,
Are now a dim remembered story
Of some divine and dreamlike show
That passed—some twenty years ago.
237
And in these evenings of September
I pace the path with footsteps slow,
And sighing, dreaming, I remember
The sweetness gone from here below—
Ah me! some twenty years ago.
I pace the path with footsteps slow,
And sighing, dreaming, I remember
The sweetness gone from here below—
Ah me! some twenty years ago.
And half a dream and half ideal
On memory's magic glass you go,
While on your head, but scarcely real
There shines a faint auroral glow—
Ah me! of twenty years ago.
On memory's magic glass you go,
While on your head, but scarcely real
There shines a faint auroral glow—
Ah me! of twenty years ago.
238
TO BIANCA.
“Tu ne quæsieris, scire nefas.”
Cease to peer into the future, nor torture yourself with care
Of fancied delights or troubles that never may fall to your share!
The present alone is ours; in that let us live content,
Enjoying the daily blessings the gods for the moment have lent.
Of fancied delights or troubles that never may fall to your share!
The present alone is ours; in that let us live content,
Enjoying the daily blessings the gods for the moment have lent.
And cease to torment your spirit with that which has passed away,
The love that has vanished, the passion, the folly that led you astray;
Not hoping too much, not regretting—for what is more vain than regret?—
And, never the gladness forgetting, the pain and the sorrow forget.
The love that has vanished, the passion, the folly that led you astray;
Not hoping too much, not regretting—for what is more vain than regret?—
And, never the gladness forgetting, the pain and the sorrow forget.
Take, O Bianca, the beauty and joy of the world to thy heart!
For the power to enjoy is not only a blessing,—'t is also an art.
And be glad for the gifts that are granted, nor envy what cannot be thine;
For the life, that with Fate is in balance, is peaceful, and, so far, divine.
For the power to enjoy is not only a blessing,—'t is also an art.
239
For the life, that with Fate is in balance, is peaceful, and, so far, divine.
240
IN THE GARDEN.
Summer is dying, slowly dying—
She fades with every passing day;
In the garden alleys she wanders, sighing,
And pauses to grieve at the sad decay.
She fades with every passing day;
In the garden alleys she wanders, sighing,
And pauses to grieve at the sad decay.
The flowers that came with the spring's first swallow,
When March crept timidly over the hill,
And slept at noon in the sunny hollow—
The snowdrop, the crocus, the daffodil,
When March crept timidly over the hill,
And slept at noon in the sunny hollow—
The snowdrop, the crocus, the daffodil,
The lily, white for an angel to carry,
The violet, faint with its spirit-breath,
The passion-flower, and the fleeting, airy
Anemone—all have been struck by death.
The violet, faint with its spirit-breath,
The passion-flower, and the fleeting, airy
Anemone—all have been struck by death.
Autumn the leaves is staining and strewing,
And spreading a veil o'er the landscape rare;
The glory and gladness of summer are going,
And a feeling of sadness is in the air.
And spreading a veil o'er the landscape rare;
The glory and gladness of summer are going,
And a feeling of sadness is in the air.
The purple hibiscus is shrivelled and withered,
And languid lolls its furry tongue;
The burning pomegranates are ripe to be gathered;
The grilli their last farewell have sung;
And languid lolls its furry tongue;
241
The grilli their last farewell have sung;
The fading oleander is showing
Its last rose-clusters over the wall,
And the tubes of the trumpet-flower are strewing
The gravel-walks as they loosen and fall;
Its last rose-clusters over the wall,
And the tubes of the trumpet-flower are strewing
The gravel-walks as they loosen and fall;
The crocketed spire of the hollyhock towers,
For the sighing breeze to rock and swing;
On its top is the last of its bell-like flowers,
For the wandering bee its knell to ring.
For the sighing breeze to rock and swing;
On its top is the last of its bell-like flowers,
For the wandering bee its knell to ring.
In their earthen vases the lemons yellow,
The sun-drunk grapes grow lucent and thin,
The pears on the sunny espalier mellow,
And the fat figs swell in their purple skin;
The sun-drunk grapes grow lucent and thin,
The pears on the sunny espalier mellow,
And the fat figs swell in their purple skin;
The petals have dropped from the spicy carnation;
And the heartless dahlia, formal and proud,
Like a worldly lady of lofty station,
Loveless stares at the humble crowd.
And the heartless dahlia, formal and proud,
Like a worldly lady of lofty station,
Loveless stares at the humble crowd.
And the sunflower, too, looks boldly around her;
While the bella-donna, so wickedly fair,
Shorn of the purple flowers that crowned her,
Is telling her Borgian beads in despair.
While the bella-donna, so wickedly fair,
Shorn of the purple flowers that crowned her,
Is telling her Borgian beads in despair.
242
See! by the fountain that softly bubbles,
Spilling its rain in the lichened vase,
Summer pauses!—her tender troubles
Shadowing over her pensive face.
Spilling its rain in the lichened vase,
Summer pauses!—her tender troubles
Shadowing over her pensive face.
The lizard stops on its brim to listen,
The butterfly wavers dreamily near,
And the dragon-flies in their green mail glisten,
And watch her, as pausing she drops a tear—
The butterfly wavers dreamily near,
And the dragon-flies in their green mail glisten,
And watch her, as pausing she drops a tear—
Not as she stood in her August perfection!
Not as she looked in the freshness of June!
But gazing around with a tender dejection,
And a weary face like the morning moon.
Not as she looked in the freshness of June!
But gazing around with a tender dejection,
And a weary face like the morning moon.
The breeze through the leafy garden quivers,
Dying away with a sigh and moan:
A shade o'er the darkening fountain shivers,
And Summer, ghost-like, hath vanished and gone.
Dying away with a sigh and moan:
A shade o'er the darkening fountain shivers,
And Summer, ghost-like, hath vanished and gone.
243
SYMBOLS.
DEDICATED TO E. M. S.
Still hearts, whose passions never stir,
At times I envy your repose!
Smooth lakes, where coyest wild-fowl whir,
Ye feel no troublous ebbs and flows!
At times I envy your repose!
Smooth lakes, where coyest wild-fowl whir,
Ye feel no troublous ebbs and flows!
Yet, tropic hearts, your fiercer play
Of sun and storm, of noon and night,
Is dearer than perpetual day
In Arctic summer's glacial light.
Of sun and storm, of noon and night,
Is dearer than perpetual day
In Arctic summer's glacial light.
Great clouds, which bear upon your backs
The sunshine, in your breasts the storm—
Alps of the air, whose pathless tracks
Ye course with ever-changing form;
The sunshine, in your breasts the storm—
Alps of the air, whose pathless tracks
Ye course with ever-changing form;
By morning touched with aureole light;
At sunset stranded—firing far
Your dull distress-guns—or at night
Raced through by many a startled star—
At sunset stranded—firing far
Your dull distress-guns—or at night
Raced through by many a startled star—
Ye are the types that Genius loves!
So, moulded by an inward stress,
A shade, a storm, it o'er us moves,
A power to threaten or to bless.
So, moulded by an inward stress,
A shade, a storm, it o'er us moves,
A power to threaten or to bless.
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THE GARDEN OF ROSES.
I walked in the garden of roses with thee,
In the garden where never again we shall be,
And thy ghost on the garden is all that I see,—
But thou comest never.
In the garden where never again we shall be,
And thy ghost on the garden is all that I see,—
But thou comest never.
The light of the morning, the glory that threw
O'er the roses and myrtles its mystical hue,
Is gone, with the glory of Love that we knew,
Forever and ever.
O'er the roses and myrtles its mystical hue,
Is gone, with the glory of Love that we knew,
Forever and ever.
No more in its shadows the nightingales trill—
The roses are ruined—the fountain is still—
And the fountain that leaped on the heart with a thrill
Is shattered forever.
The roses are ruined—the fountain is still—
And the fountain that leaped on the heart with a thrill
Is shattered forever.
Alone in the garden I cry in my pain,
“Oh! bloom again, roses—O Love, come again—
Come back, O beloved,” I cry—but in vain—
Ah never—no never.
“Oh! bloom again, roses—O Love, come again—
Come back, O beloved,” I cry—but in vain—
Ah never—no never.
A terrible shadow across it is thrown,
And I walk in that shadow, despairing—alone—
In that shadow of death and of sorrow I groan
“Ah never!”—forever.
And I walk in that shadow, despairing—alone—
In that shadow of death and of sorrow I groan
“Ah never!”—forever.
245
SONG.
Come, love! the sun has risen long,
And hedge and tree
Are all alive with tremulous song;
Awake! and come with me.
The grass is pearled with gleaming dew,
The larks are thrilling in the sky,
And all the world's awaiting you—
And I—my darling—I!
And hedge and tree
Are all alive with tremulous song;
Awake! and come with me.
The grass is pearled with gleaming dew,
The larks are thrilling in the sky,
And all the world's awaiting you—
And I—my darling—I!
Look from above, that those dear eyes
May dawn on me!
My love, my life, my light, arise!
That I the morning see.
There 's ne'er a cloud to mar the day,
The air is soft and fresh and sweet;
But all the world is dull and gray
Till thy dear face I greet.
May dawn on me!
My love, my life, my light, arise!
That I the morning see.
There 's ne'er a cloud to mar the day,
The air is soft and fresh and sweet;
But all the world is dull and gray
Till thy dear face I greet.
Sweetest of all that live and move,
Arise! Arise!
The day is short, too short for love,
The swift hour fleets and flies.
The moments ne'er will come again
That heedlessly you waste,
And joy deferred is half a pain.
Then haste! my darling, haste!
Arise! Arise!
The day is short, too short for love,
The swift hour fleets and flies.
The moments ne'er will come again
That heedlessly you waste,
And joy deferred is half a pain.
Then haste! my darling, haste!
246
ART.
DEDICATED TO G. H.
Is this the stately shape I saw
In Greece a thousand years ago;
Who ruled the world by Beauty's law,
And used among the gods to go?
In Greece a thousand years ago;
Who ruled the world by Beauty's law,
And used among the gods to go?
Who, wheresoe'er she turned her eyes,
Below her saw a reverent throng;
Whose praise was taken as a prize;
Who made immortal with a song?
Below her saw a reverent throng;
Whose praise was taken as a prize;
Who made immortal with a song?
Now, scant in garb, a mendicant,
She stretches forth her prayerful palms,
And wealth, in pity for her want,
Contemptuous tosses her its alms.
She stretches forth her prayerful palms,
And wealth, in pity for her want,
Contemptuous tosses her its alms.
This gift is not for charity,
But love, that at thy feet I lay.
Oh, take my heart that throbs for thee,
And smile as in the ancient day!
But love, that at thy feet I lay.
Oh, take my heart that throbs for thee,
And smile as in the ancient day!
247
TWO STARS.
Look! love, into the sky, and say,
When I am gone beyond the sea,
What stars of all the many stars
Shall shine for you and me.
When I am gone beyond the sea,
What stars of all the many stars
Shall shine for you and me.
See! there above, in Charles's Wain,
Those two, that close together shine,
One bright and large—that shall be yours—
The little faint one, mine.
Those two, that close together shine,
One bright and large—that shall be yours—
The little faint one, mine.
The little one, that has no praise
From all who look—the satellite—
I know not if it have a name,
It shrinks so out of sight.
From all who look—the satellite—
I know not if it have a name,
It shrinks so out of sight.
248
ON THE DESERT.
All around,
To the bound
Of the vast horizon's round,
All sand, sand, sand—
All burning, glaring sand—
On my camel's hump I ride,
As he sways from side to side,
With an awkward step of pride,
And his scraggy head uplifted, and his eye so long and bland.
To the bound
Of the vast horizon's round,
All sand, sand, sand—
All burning, glaring sand—
On my camel's hump I ride,
As he sways from side to side,
With an awkward step of pride,
And his scraggy head uplifted, and his eye so long and bland.
Naught is near,
In the blear
And simmering atmosphere,
But the shadow on the sand,
The shadow of the camel on the sand;
All alone, as I ride,
O'er the desert's ocean wide,
It is ever at my side;
It haunts me, it pursues me, if I flee, or if I stand.
In the blear
And simmering atmosphere,
But the shadow on the sand,
The shadow of the camel on the sand;
All alone, as I ride,
O'er the desert's ocean wide,
It is ever at my side;
It haunts me, it pursues me, if I flee, or if I stand.
Not a sound,
All around,
Save the padded beat and bound
Of the camel on the sand,
Of the feet of the camel on the sand.
Not a bird is in the air,
Though the sun, with burning stare,
Is prying everywhere,
O'er the yellow thirsty desert, so desolately grand.
All around,
249
Of the camel on the sand,
Of the feet of the camel on the sand.
Not a bird is in the air,
Though the sun, with burning stare,
Is prying everywhere,
O'er the yellow thirsty desert, so desolately grand.
Not a breath
Stirs the death
Of the desert,—nor a wreath
Curls upward from the sand,
From the waves of loose, fine sand—
And I doze, half asleep,
Of the wild Sirocs that sweep
O'er the caravans, and heap
With a cloud of powdery, dusty death the terror-stricken band.
Stirs the death
Of the desert,—nor a wreath
Curls upward from the sand,
From the waves of loose, fine sand—
And I doze, half asleep,
Of the wild Sirocs that sweep
O'er the caravans, and heap
With a cloud of powdery, dusty death the terror-stricken band.
Their groans
And their moans
Have departed,—but their bones
Are whitening on the sand—
Are blanching and grinning on the sand,—
Oh, Allah! thou art great!
Save me from such a fate,
Nor through that fearful strait
Lead me, thy basest servant, unto the Prophet-land.
And their moans
Have departed,—but their bones
Are whitening on the sand—
Are blanching and grinning on the sand,—
Oh, Allah! thou art great!
Save me from such a fate,
Nor through that fearful strait
Lead me, thy basest servant, unto the Prophet-land.
250
LOVE.
When daffodils began to blow,
And apple blossoms thick to snow
Upon the brown and breaking mould—
'T was in the spring—we kissed and sighed
And loved, and heaven and earth defied,
We were so young and bold.
And apple blossoms thick to snow
Upon the brown and breaking mould—
'T was in the spring—we kissed and sighed
And loved, and heaven and earth defied,
We were so young and bold.
The fluttering bob-link dropped his song,
The first young swallow curved along,
The daisy stared in sturdy pride,
When loitering on we plucked the flowers,
But dared not own those thoughts of ours,
Which yet we could not hide.
The first young swallow curved along,
The daisy stared in sturdy pride,
When loitering on we plucked the flowers,
But dared not own those thoughts of ours,
Which yet we could not hide.
Tiptoe you bent the lilac spray
And shook its rain of dew away
And reached it to me with a smile:
“Smell that, how full of spring it is”—
'T is now as full of memories
As 't was of dew erewhile.
And shook its rain of dew away
And reached it to me with a smile:
“Smell that, how full of spring it is”—
'T is now as full of memories
As 't was of dew erewhile.
Your hand I took, to help you down
The broken wall, from stone to stone,
Across the shallow bubbling brook.
Ah! what a thrill went from that palm,
That would not let my blood be calm,
And through my pulses shook.
The broken wall, from stone to stone,
Across the shallow bubbling brook.
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That would not let my blood be calm,
And through my pulses shook.
Often our eyes met as we turned,
And both our cheeks with passion burned,
And both our hearts grew riotous,
Till, as we sat beneath the grove,
I kissed you—whispering, “we love”—
As thus I do—and thus.
And both our cheeks with passion burned,
And both our hearts grew riotous,
Till, as we sat beneath the grove,
I kissed you—whispering, “we love”—
As thus I do—and thus.
When passion had found utterance,
Our frightened hearts began to glance
Into the Future's every day;
And how shall we our love conceal,
Or dare our passion to reveal—
“We are too young,” they'll say.
Our frightened hearts began to glance
Into the Future's every day;
And how shall we our love conceal,
Or dare our passion to reveal—
“We are too young,” they'll say.
Alas! we are not now too young,
Yet love to us hath safely clung,
Despite of sorrow, years, and care—
But ah! we have not what we had,
We cannot be so free, so glad,
So foolish as we were.
Yet love to us hath safely clung,
Despite of sorrow, years, and care—
But ah! we have not what we had,
We cannot be so free, so glad,
So foolish as we were.
252
THE WALTZ.
My arm is around your waist, love,
Your hand is clasping mine,
Your head leans over my shoulder,
As around in the waltz we twine.
I feel your quick heart throbbing,
Your panting breath I breathe,
And the odor rare of your hyacinth hair
Comes faintly up from beneath.
Your hand is clasping mine,
Your head leans over my shoulder,
As around in the waltz we twine.
I feel your quick heart throbbing,
Your panting breath I breathe,
And the odor rare of your hyacinth hair
Comes faintly up from beneath.
To the rhythmic beat of the music,
In the floating ebb and flow
Of the tense violin, and the lisping flute,
And the burring bass we go.
Whirling, whirling, whirling,
In a rapture swift and sweet,
To the pleading violoncello's tones,
And the pulsing piano's beat.
In the floating ebb and flow
Of the tense violin, and the lisping flute,
And the burring bass we go.
Whirling, whirling, whirling,
In a rapture swift and sweet,
To the pleading violoncello's tones,
And the pulsing piano's beat.
The world is alive with motion,
The lights are whirling all,
And the feet and brain are stirred by the strain
Of the music's incessant call.
Dance! dance! dance! it calls to us;
And borne on the waves of sound,
We circling swing, in a dizzy ring,
With the whole world wheeling round.
The lights are whirling all,
And the feet and brain are stirred by the strain
Of the music's incessant call.
Dance! dance! dance! it calls to us;
And borne on the waves of sound,
253
With the whole world wheeling round.
The jewels dance on your bosom,
On your arms the bracelets dance,
The swift blood speaks in your mantling cheeks,
In your eyes is a dewy trance;
Your white robes flutter around you,
Nothing is calm or still,
And the senses stir in the music's whirr
With a swift electric thrill.
On your arms the bracelets dance,
The swift blood speaks in your mantling cheeks,
In your eyes is a dewy trance;
Your white robes flutter around you,
Nothing is calm or still,
And the senses stir in the music's whirr
With a swift electric thrill.
We pause; and your waist releasing,
We stand and breathe for a while;
And, your face afire with a sweet desire,
You look in my eyes and smile.
We scarcely can speak for panting,
But I lean to you, and say,
Ah! who, my love, can resist you,
You have waltzed my heart away.
We stand and breathe for a while;
And, your face afire with a sweet desire,
You look in my eyes and smile.
We scarcely can speak for panting,
But I lean to you, and say,
Ah! who, my love, can resist you,
You have waltzed my heart away.
254
AT DIEPPE.
The shivering column of the moonlight lies
Upon the crumbling sea;
Down the lone shore the flying curlew cries
Half humanly.
Upon the crumbling sea;
Down the lone shore the flying curlew cries
Half humanly.
With hoarse, dull wash the backward dragging surge
Its raucous pebbles rakes,
Or swelling dark runs down with toppling verge,
And flashing breaks.
Its raucous pebbles rakes,
Or swelling dark runs down with toppling verge,
And flashing breaks.
The light-house flares and darkens from the cliff,
And stares with lurid eye
Fiercely along the sea and shore as if
Some foe to spy.
And stares with lurid eye
Fiercely along the sea and shore as if
Some foe to spy.
What knowing thought, oh, ever moaning sea,
Haunts thy perturbed breast—
What dark crime weighs upon thy memory
And spoils thy rest?
Haunts thy perturbed breast—
What dark crime weighs upon thy memory
And spoils thy rest?
Thy soft swell lifts and swings the new-launched yacht
With polished spars and deck,
But crawls and grovels where the bare ribs rot
Of the old wreck.
With polished spars and deck,
But crawls and grovels where the bare ribs rot
Of the old wreck.
255
Oh, treacherous courtier! thy deceitful lie
To youth is gayly told,
But in remorse I see thee cringingly
Crouch to the old.
To youth is gayly told,
But in remorse I see thee cringingly
Crouch to the old.
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THE VIOLET.
Oh! faint delicious spring-time violet,
Thine odor, like a key,
Turns noiselessly in memory's wards to let
A thought of sorrow free.
Thine odor, like a key,
Turns noiselessly in memory's wards to let
A thought of sorrow free.
The breath of distant fields upon my brow
Blows through that open door
The sound of wind-borne bells more sweet and low,
And sadder than of yore.
Blows through that open door
The sound of wind-borne bells more sweet and low,
And sadder than of yore.
It comes afar from that beloved place,
And that beloved hour,
When Life hung ripening in Love's golden grace,
Like grapes above a bower.
And that beloved hour,
When Life hung ripening in Love's golden grace,
Like grapes above a bower.
A spring goes singing through its reedy grass,
The lark sings o'er my head
Drowned in the sky—oh pass, ye visions, pass!
I would that I were dead;—
The lark sings o'er my head
Drowned in the sky—oh pass, ye visions, pass!
I would that I were dead;—
Why hast thou opened that forbidden door
From which I ever flee?
O vanished Joy! O Love, that art no more,
Let my vexed spirit be!
From which I ever flee?
O vanished Joy! O Love, that art no more,
Let my vexed spirit be!
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O violet! thy odor through my brain
Hath searched, and stung to grief
This sunny day, as if a curse did stain
Thy velvet leaf.
Hath searched, and stung to grief
This sunny day, as if a curse did stain
Thy velvet leaf.
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THE ROSE.
When Nature had shaped her rustic beauties,—
The bright-eyed daisy, the violet sweet,
The blushing poppy that nods and trembles
In its scarlet hood among the wheat,—
The bright-eyed daisy, the violet sweet,
The blushing poppy that nods and trembles
In its scarlet hood among the wheat,—
She paused and pondered;—and then she fashioned
The scentless camellia proud and cold,
The spicy carnation freaked with passion,
The lily pale for an angel to hold.
The scentless camellia proud and cold,
The spicy carnation freaked with passion,
The lily pale for an angel to hold.
All were fair, yet something was wanting,
Of freer perfection, of larger repose;
And again she paused,—then in one glad moment
She breathed her whole soul into the rose.
Of freer perfection, of larger repose;
And again she paused,—then in one glad moment
She breathed her whole soul into the rose.
With you, dear Violet, Daisy, and Poppy,
Pleasant it was in the fields to play,
In careless and heartless joy of childhood,
When an hour was as long as manhood's day.
Pleasant it was in the fields to play,
In careless and heartless joy of childhood,
When an hour was as long as manhood's day.
And with you, O passionate, bright Carnation,
A boy's brief love for a time I knew,
And you I admired, proud Lady Camellia,
And, Lily, I sang in the church with you.
A boy's brief love for a time I knew,
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And, Lily, I sang in the church with you.
But O my Rose, my frank, free-hearted,
My perfect above all conscious arts,
What were they beside thee, O Rose, my darling!
To you I have given my heart of hearts.
My perfect above all conscious arts,
What were they beside thee, O Rose, my darling!
To you I have given my heart of hearts.
260
LOOKING DOWN.
Afloat on the brim of a placid stream,Pleasant it is to lie and dream,
With heaven above, and far below
The deeps of death—sad deeps that know
The still reflections of earth and sky
In their silent, serene obscurity.
And hanging thus upon Life's thin rim,
Death seems so sweet in that silvery, dim,
Deep world below, that it seems half-best
To sink into it and there find rest,
Both, both together, ere age can come,
And loving has lost its perfect bloom.
One tilt, dear love, and we both might be
Beyond earth's sorrows eternally.
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LOOKING UP.
The winds are forever blowing, blowing,
The streams are forever flowing, flowing,
And all things forever going, going,
Nothing on earth is at rest,—
Ever departing, never abiding,
Sliding away, and onward gliding,
Alike the worst, the best.
The streams are forever flowing, flowing,
And all things forever going, going,
Nothing on earth is at rest,—
Ever departing, never abiding,
Sliding away, and onward gliding,
Alike the worst, the best.
The sky is a glacier paved with snow,
And heaped with many a crowded floe,
And here and there a rift breaks through,
Showing behind an abyss of blue,—
A tender silence beyond, afar,
Out of the tumult and rush, and far
Of the winds that drive and rage below
And beat on the mountain's crest,—
And for all we hope, and more than we know,
There, perchance, is rest.
And heaped with many a crowded floe,
And here and there a rift breaks through,
Showing behind an abyss of blue,—
A tender silence beyond, afar,
Out of the tumult and rush, and far
Of the winds that drive and rage below
And beat on the mountain's crest,—
And for all we hope, and more than we know,
There, perchance, is rest.
262
THE LOCUST.
Voice of Summer, hidden from the eye
In the sunny tree's green privacy,
Fiery locust—shrill again, again!
Drunk with sunshine—free of work and care,
Happy idler, while the world is fair,
Sing to us from out thy leafy lair,
Praise of idleness to soothe our pain.
In the sunny tree's green privacy,
Fiery locust—shrill again, again!
Drunk with sunshine—free of work and care,
Happy idler, while the world is fair,
Sing to us from out thy leafy lair,
Praise of idleness to soothe our pain.
What is hotter than that voice of thine!
Like a sunbeam stinging sharp and fine
Through the inmost chambers of the brain;
Burning with the noonday's sultry glare,
Shining dust and glassy simmering air,
Skies of brass, blear sands, and deserts bare,
Is the fierce sirocco of thy strain.
Like a sunbeam stinging sharp and fine
Through the inmost chambers of the brain;
Burning with the noonday's sultry glare,
Shining dust and glassy simmering air,
Skies of brass, blear sands, and deserts bare,
Is the fierce sirocco of thy strain.
Though the blinds are shut and all the room
Shrouded softly in a cool, half gloom,
Thy shrill voice the burning out-world sings,—
While the fig-tree scratches at the blind,
And the shadow of the grape spray, twined
Round the balcony, with every wind
Moves across the casement as it swings.
Shrouded softly in a cool, half gloom,
Thy shrill voice the burning out-world sings,—
While the fig-tree scratches at the blind,
And the shadow of the grape spray, twined
Round the balcony, with every wind
Moves across the casement as it swings.
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Ah! how sweet that dear Italian tune
Thou art singing! In the burning noon
Dreams the shepherd by the ruined tomb—
On his staff he leans—the while his sheep
Round the wall's scant shadow nibbling creep,
And the bearded goats rear up and peep
Through the rifts and browse the poppy's bloom.
Thou art singing! In the burning noon
Dreams the shepherd by the ruined tomb—
On his staff he leans—the while his sheep
Round the wall's scant shadow nibbling creep,
And the bearded goats rear up and peep
Through the rifts and browse the poppy's bloom.
In the fields the peasant feels the sun
Beating more intolerably down
While thou singest as he panting stands
Breast high in the grain, or hid between
Trellised vines that o'er their cany screen
Topple, waving all their thick-leaved green,
Plucking purple grapes with double hands.
Beating more intolerably down
While thou singest as he panting stands
Breast high in the grain, or hid between
Trellised vines that o'er their cany screen
Topple, waving all their thick-leaved green,
Plucking purple grapes with double hands.
In the villa, checkered sun and shade
Spot the broken moss-rough balustrade,
And a silver network o'er the rail
Flashes from the basin's quivering tides.
Through the grass the sudden lizard slides
Up the wall, and stands with tremulous sides,
Gleaming in his green enamelled mail.
Spot the broken moss-rough balustrade,
And a silver network o'er the rail
Flashes from the basin's quivering tides.
Through the grass the sudden lizard slides
Up the wall, and stands with tremulous sides,
Gleaming in his green enamelled mail.
Now the sun the wasp-stung nectarine rots,
Freckles o'er the rusty apricots,
And distends the grape's thin skin with wine;
Now the glowing orange drops and breaks—
Apples strain their tight and shining cheeks,
And the smooth, green, lazy melon takes
Its siesta in the coiling vine.
Freckles o'er the rusty apricots,
And distends the grape's thin skin with wine;
Now the glowing orange drops and breaks—
Apples strain their tight and shining cheeks,
And the smooth, green, lazy melon takes
Its siesta in the coiling vine.
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Childhood's voice is in thy fiery clirr,
Olden summer memories thou canst stir,
Golden visions we no more shall see:
Thou canst bid the pictured past arise
To the wanderer's heart, who dying lies,
Far from home, and to his closing eyes
Summon up its lost felicity.
Olden summer memories thou canst stir,
Golden visions we no more shall see:
Thou canst bid the pictured past arise
To the wanderer's heart, who dying lies,
Far from home, and to his closing eyes
Summon up its lost felicity.
Yes! he treads again the garden ground
Which his childish feet once pattered round;
Where the clustering oleanders tower—
Where, while rocking on its flowery stalk,
Bees he prisoned in the hollyhock,
Listening to their buzz of angry talk,
As they struggled in the crumpled flower.
Which his childish feet once pattered round;
Where the clustering oleanders tower—
Where, while rocking on its flowery stalk,
Bees he prisoned in the hollyhock,
Listening to their buzz of angry talk,
As they struggled in the crumpled flower.
There the sunflower's shield of brown and gold,
Flaming in the noonday gay and bold,
Topples on its tall o'erburdened stem;
There the currants hang their ruddy beads,
There its flower-globes the hydrangea spreads,
There the spicy pink its odor sheds
From its painted petals' fringèd hem.
Flaming in the noonday gay and bold,
Topples on its tall o'erburdened stem;
There the currants hang their ruddy beads,
There its flower-globes the hydrangea spreads,
There the spicy pink its odor sheds
From its painted petals' fringèd hem.
And a little hand is in his own
Whose warm pressure never more is known,
Who was taken in her childish bloom;
But those sunny curls still seem to float
On the air the while he hears thy note,
And her spirit wavers through his thought,
Like a sunbeam in a darkened room.
Whose warm pressure never more is known,
Who was taken in her childish bloom;
But those sunny curls still seem to float
On the air the while he hears thy note,
And her spirit wavers through his thought,
Like a sunbeam in a darkened room.
265
Voices full of wild and childish glee,
Faces he again shall never see,
Are around him while thy voice he hears.
And the ticking watch ticks not so loud
In that silent room that shutters shroud,
And the cautious figure o'er him bowed
Through his dying eyelids sees the tears.
Faces he again shall never see,
Are around him while thy voice he hears.
And the ticking watch ticks not so loud
In that silent room that shutters shroud,
And the cautious figure o'er him bowed
Through his dying eyelids sees the tears.
Chirp away, then, happy summer guest,
Bringing unto every human breast
Summer visions, early memories,—
Trill thy gauzy wings, and let us hear
Through the noon's intensest atmosphere
Thy fine clarion sounding shrilly clear,
Praise of summer idleness and ease.
Bringing unto every human breast
Summer visions, early memories,—
Trill thy gauzy wings, and let us hear
Through the noon's intensest atmosphere
Thy fine clarion sounding shrilly clear,
Praise of summer idleness and ease.
Castel Gandolfo, August, 1852.
266
COMING INTO PORT.
I have weathered the turbulent cape of storms
Where the winds of passion blow;
I have sheered by the reefs that gnash to foam
The shallows they lurk below;
I have joyed in the surge of the whistling sea,
And the wild strong stress of the gale,
As my brave barque quivered and leaped, alive,
To the strain of its crowded sail.
Then the masterful spirit was on me,
And with Nature I wrestled glad;
And Danger was like a passionate bride,
And Love was itself half mad.
Then Life was a storm that blew me on,
And flew as the wild winds fly;
And Hope was a pennon streaming out
High up—to play with the sky.
Where the winds of passion blow;
I have sheered by the reefs that gnash to foam
The shallows they lurk below;
I have joyed in the surge of the whistling sea,
And the wild strong stress of the gale,
As my brave barque quivered and leaped, alive,
To the strain of its crowded sail.
Then the masterful spirit was on me,
And with Nature I wrestled glad;
And Danger was like a passionate bride,
And Love was itself half mad.
Then Life was a storm that blew me on,
And flew as the wild winds fly;
And Hope was a pennon streaming out
High up—to play with the sky.
Oh the golden days, the glorious days
That so lavish of life we spent!
Oh the dreaming nights with the silent stars
'Neath the sky's mysterious tent!
Oh the light, light heart and the strong desire
And the pulse's quickening thrill,
When Joy lived with us, and Beauty smiled,
And Youth had its free, full will!
The whole wide world was before us then,
And never our spirits failed,
And we never looked back, but onward, onward
Into the Future we sailed.
Ever before us the far horizon
Whose dim and exquisite line
Alone divided our Earth from Heaven,
Our Life from a Life divine.
That so lavish of life we spent!
Oh the dreaming nights with the silent stars
'Neath the sky's mysterious tent!
Oh the light, light heart and the strong desire
And the pulse's quickening thrill,
When Joy lived with us, and Beauty smiled,
267
The whole wide world was before us then,
And never our spirits failed,
And we never looked back, but onward, onward
Into the Future we sailed.
Ever before us the far horizon
Whose dim and exquisite line
Alone divided our Earth from Heaven,
Our Life from a Life divine.
Now my voyage is well nigh over,
And my staunchest spars are gone;
And my sails are rent, and my barnacled barque
Drags slowly and heavily on.
The faint breeze comes from the distant shore
With its odors dim and sweet,
And soon in the silent harbor of peace
Long-parted friends I shall greet.
The voyage is well nigh over,
Though at times a capful of wind
Will rattle the ropes and fill the sails,
And furrow a wake behind.
But the sea has become a weariness,
And glad into port I shall come
With my sails all furled, and my anchor dropped,
And my cargo carried home.
And my staunchest spars are gone;
And my sails are rent, and my barnacled barque
Drags slowly and heavily on.
The faint breeze comes from the distant shore
With its odors dim and sweet,
And soon in the silent harbor of peace
Long-parted friends I shall greet.
The voyage is well nigh over,
Though at times a capful of wind
Will rattle the ropes and fill the sails,
And furrow a wake behind.
But the sea has become a weariness,
And glad into port I shall come
With my sails all furled, and my anchor dropped,
And my cargo carried home.
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THE END OF THE BANQUET.
Farewell, my friends!—I hear the call
I cannot but obey;—
Farewell! for I must leave you all,
Had I the wish to stay.
I cannot but obey;—
Farewell! for I must leave you all,
Had I the wish to stay.
And yet—forgive me—I rejoice,
For I am old and tired;—
Worn by the talk, the lights, the noise,
And all I once desired.
For I am old and tired;—
Worn by the talk, the lights, the noise,
And all I once desired.
After a time life's very best
Begins to stale and pall:
I go to silence and to rest,
And so—Farewell to all!
Begins to stale and pall:
I go to silence and to rest,
And so—Farewell to all!
| Poems by William Wetmore Story | |