University of Virginia Library

SONNETS.

MY SHADOW'S STATURE.

Whene'er, in morning airs, I walk abroad,
Breasting upon the hills the buoyant wind,
Up from the vale my shadow climbs behind,
An earth-born giant climbing toward his god;
Against the sun, on heights before untrod,
I stand: faint glorified, but undefined,
Far down the slope in misty meadows blind,
I see my ghostly follower slowly plod.
“O stature of my shade,” I muse and sigh,
“How great art thou, how small am I the while!”
Then the vague giant blandly answers, “True,
But though thou art small thy head is in the sky,
Crown'd with the sun and all the Heaven's smile—
My head is in the shade and valley too.”

MY NIGHTMARE.

All day my nightmare in my thought I keep:
Spell-bound, it seem'd, by some magician's charm,
A giant slumber'd on my slothful arm—
His great, slow breathings jarr'd the land of sleep,
(Like far-off thunder, rumbling low and deep,)
Lifting his brawny bosom bronzed and warm—
When lo! a voice shook me with stern alarm:
“Who art thou here that dost not sow nor reap?
Behold the Sleeping Servant of thy Day—
Arouse him to thy deed: if thou but break
His slumberous spell, awake he will obey.”
I lifted up my voice and cried “Awake!”
And I awoke!—my arm, unnerved, lay dead,
A useless thing beneath my sleeping head!

TO A POET: ON HIS MARRIAGE.

THE BOOK OF GOLD.

TRAVELERS.

We may not stand content: it is our part
To drag slow footsteps after the far sight,
The long endeavor following up the bright
Quick aspiration; there is ceaseless smart
Feeling but cold-hand surety for warm heart
Of all desire; no man may say at night
His goal is reach'd; the hunger for the light
Moves with the star; our thirst will not depart,
Howe'er we drink. 'T is what before us goes
Keeps us aweary, will not let us lay
Our heads in dreamland, though the enchanted palm
Rise from our desert, though the fountain grows
Up in our path, with slumber's flowering balm:
The soul is o'er the horizon far away.

ANNIVERSARY.

A Mother and a Child, most blesséd sight,
My spirit saw—a pure and holy pair:
The infant open-eyed to morning air
Of its new world, baptized in earthly light;
The Mother with the ecstatic knowledge bright
Of her first motherhood, how gently fair!
Breathing her blissful breath to heaven in prayer,
Keeping her heart so near her new delight!
“Who are you, gentle visions?” then I said—
But these were gone. An Angel came and spoke:
“I am that mother; see my darling's head
I lay upon your bosom.” I awoke,
Warm with great tender gratitude, and wept;
Your head was on my bosom while I slept.

TWOFOLD.

If you should vanish, in some lonely place,
And never, never more appear again,
(Though your lost face should float about my brain,
The elusive phantom of a lost embrace,
Out of the mystery of a starless space,)
And I should strive, with long conceptive pain,
Your form so dear from marble to regain,
Or paint the flying memory of your face:
I have not seen you, love, as others deem—
Though stone or color might their semblance give,
I'd watch a child steal shyly from your heart,
To comfort little birds that orphans seem,
Or flowers that need a drop of dew to live,
And this, I think, would baffle subtle art.

A BUST IN CLAY.

S. P. C.

A noble soul is breathing from the clay,
Created, Sculptor, with a soul by thee;
A noble soul a noble man's must be:
One of a few, he knelt not to the Day
Nor petty stampings of the applausive Hour,
But, in the dark of her uprising light,
Upheld in word and served in deed the Right,
Nor sued the million-headed mob for power.
O beautiful! on the calm lips, content,
Breathes the high presence of a life well spent;
Such brows the centuries love! No marble needs
His soul that carves itself in marble deeds:
Oh, be it long—Ohio's prayer my own—
Ere clay or marble keeps that soul, alone!

MIRAGE.

I know the Mirage—the vague, wandering ghost
That haunts the desert's still and barren sand
With the close vision of a lovelier land,
Once blossoming but now forever lost:
It rises to the eyes of men who bear
Hunger of heart and thirst of lip in vain—
Mocking their souls with rest. Behold, how plain!
Taking the breathless sand and boundless air,
It comes up from the horizon, far away:
Lost fountains flutter under beckoning palm,
(Singing, all birds of longing thither start,)
Dear voices rise from homes where children play,
The footsteps lighten, the blest air blows balm.
Then all is sand—within a dreamer's heart!

SEPTEMBER.

All things are full of life this autumn morn;
The hills seem growing under silver cloud;
A fresher spirit in Nature's breast is born;
The woodlands are blowing lustily and loud;
The crows fly, cawing, among the flying leaves;
On sunward-lifted branches struts the jay;
The fluttering brooklet, quick and bright, receives
Bright frosty silverings slow from ledges gray
Of rock in buoyant sunshine glittering out;
Cold apples drop through orchards mellowing;
'Neath forest-eaves quick squirrels laugh and shout;
Farms answer farms as through bright morns of Spring,
And joy, with dancing pulses full and strong,
Joy, every-where, goes Maying with a song!

THE WEEK.

Sweet Days, God's daughters, shining o'er the world!
Bright are your feet on the far morning shore,
And, going back to heaven for evermore
Through twilight's dreamy golden gates unfurl'd,
Your footsteps in the dews of evening shine.
A radiant garland round the burning throne,
Guarded with angel wings—a heavenly zone—
Fair are ye all, dear Rays of Light Divine!
Yet fairest is she, the youngest of your name,
In her pure garment of translucent white,
And wearing on her head the halo-light
Brightening till all things near her wear the same:
For—though God loves ye all—when ye are bless'd
His Hand lies on her brow, dear Day of Rest!

THE WHITE LILY.

I dream'd and saw a lily in my dream
Of fever'd wakefulness at twilight hour:
Issuing from moonlight grew that blesséd flower
Over my pillow, and the tender gleam
Of its white gentleness, like a soothing stream,
Alighted on me, and I ask'd: “What dower
Of purity is thine, that 'gainst the power
Of all impurity a charm doth seem?”
Transfigured dreadlessly the lily grew
An angel's stature, passing so away.
Then I awoke from fever which had been,
But in that dewy presence could not stay,
And over me you lean'd with holier dew.
Out of your heart had grown the flower within.

AWAKE IN DARKNESS.

Mother, if I could cry from out the night
And you could come (Oh, tearful memory!)
How softly close! to soothe and comfort me,
As when a child awaken'd with affright,
My lips again, as weak and helpless quite,
Would call you, call you, sharp and plaintively—
O vain, vain, vain! Your face I could not see;
Your voice no more would bring my darkness light.
To this shut room, though I should wail and weep,
You would not come to speak one brooding word
And let its comfort warm me into sleep
And leave me dreaming of its comfort heard:
Though all the night to morn at last should creep,
My cry would fail, your answer be deferr'd.

THE CHILD IN THE STREET.

FOR A BOOK OF TWO.

Even as tender parents lovingly
Send a dear child in some true servant's care
Forth on the street, for larger light and air,
Feeling the sun her guardian will be,
And dreaming with a blushful pride that she
Will earn sweet smiles and glances every-where,
From loving faces, and that passers fair
Will bend, and bless, and kiss her, when they see,
And ask her name, and if her home is near,
And think, “O gentle child, how bless'd are they
Whose twofold love bears up a single flower!”
And so with softer musing move away:
We send thee forth, O Book, thy little hour—
The world may pardon us to hold thee dear.