University of Virginia Library

Whence art thou bright Callirhöe,
Calm, Heré-eyed Callirhöe?
Art thou a daughter of this earth,
That, like myself, had life and birth,
And who will die like me?
Methinks a soul so pure and clear
Must breathe another atmosphere,
Of thought more heavenly and high,
More full of deep serenity,
Than circles round this world of ours;
I dare not think that thou shouldst die,
Unto my soul, like summer showers
To thirsty leaves thou art,—like May
To the slow-budding woodbine bowers.
Oh no! thou canst [not] pass away.
No hand shall strew thy bier with flowers!
Those eyes, as fair as Eve's, when they,
Untearful yet, were raised to pray,
Fronting the mellow sunset glow
Of summer eve in Paradise,
Those bright founts whence forever flow
Nepenthe-streams of ecstacies.
It cannot be that Death
Shall chill them with his winter breath,—
What hath Death to do with thee,
My seraph-winged Callirhöe?

Whence art thou? From some other sphere,
On which, throughout the moonless night,
Gazing, we dream of beings bright,
Such as we long for here,—
Or art thou but a joy Elysian,
Of my own inward sight,
A glorious and fleeting vision,
Habited in robes of light,
The image of a blessed thing,
Whom I might love with wondering,
Yet feeling not a shade of doubt,
And who would give her love to me,
To twine my inmost soul about?
No, no, these would not be like thee,
Bright one, with auburn hair disparted
On thy meek forehead maidenly,
No, not like thee, my woman-hearted,
My warm, my true Callirhöe!

How may I tell the sunniness
Of thy thought-beaming smile?
Or how the soothing spell express,
That bindeth me the while,
Forth from thine eyes and features bright,
Gusheth that flood of golden light?
Like a sun-beam to my soul,
Comes that trusting smile of thine,
Lighting up the clouds of doubt,
Till they shape themselves, and roll
Like a glory all about
The messenger divine.—
For divine that needs must be
That bringeth messages from thee.
Madonna, gleams of smiles like this,
Like a stream of music fell,
In the silence of the night,
On the soul of Raphael.
Musing with a still delight,
How meekly thou did'st bend and kiss
The baby on thy knee,
Who sported with the golden hair
That fell in showers o'er him there,
Looking up contentedly.
Only the greatest souls can speak
As much by smiling as by tears.
Thine strengthens me when I am weak,
And gladdens into hopes my fears.
The path of life seems plain and sure,
Thy purity doth make me pure
And holy, when thou let'st arise
That mystery divine,
That silent music in thine eyes.
Seldom tear visits cheek of thine,
Seldom a tear escapes from thee,
My Hebé, my Callirhöe!

Sometimes in waking dreams divine,
Wandering, my spirit meets with thine,
And while, made dumb with ecstacy,
I pause in a delighted trance,
Thine, like a squirrel caught at play,
Just gives one startled look askance,
And darteth suddenly away,
Swifter than a phosphor glance
At night upon the lonely sea,
Wayward-souled Callirhöe.
Sometimes, in mockery of care,
Thy playful thought will never rest,
Darting about, now here, now there,
Like sun-beams on a river's breast,
Shifting with each breath of air,
By its very unrest fair.
As a bright and summer stream,
Seen in childhood's happy dream,
Singing nightly, singing daily,
Trifling with each blade of grass
That breaks his riples as they pass,
And going on its errand gaily,
Singing with the self-same leap
Wherewith it merges in the deep.
So shall thy spirit glide along,
Breaking, when troubled, into song,
And leave an echo floating by
When thou art gone forth utterly.
Seeming-cheerful souls there be,
That flutter with a living sound
As dry leaves rustle on the ground;
But they are sorrowful to me,
Because they make me think of thee,
My bird-like, wild Callirhöe!

Thy mirth is like the flickering ray
Forthshooting from the steadfast light
Of a star, which through the night
Moves glorious on its way,
With a sense of moveless might.
Thine inner soul flows calm forever;
Dark and calm without a sound,
Like that strange and trackless river
That rolls its waters underground.
Early and late at thy soul's gate
Sits Chastity in maiden wise,
No thought unchallenged, small or great,
Goes thence into thine eyes;
Nought evil can that warder win,
To pass without or enter in.
Before thy pure eyes guilt doth shrink,
Meanness doth blush and hide its head,
Down through the soul their light will sink,
And cannot be extinguished.
Far up on poiséd wing
Thou floatest, far from all debate,
Thine inspirations are too great
To tarry questioning;
No murmurs of our earthly air,
God's voice alone can reach thee there;
Downlooking on the stream of Fate,
So high thou sweepest in thy flight,
Thou knowest not of pride or hate,
But gazing from thy lark-like height,
Forth o'er the waters of To Be,
The first gleam of Truth's morning light
Round thy broad forehead floweth bright,
My Pallas-like Callirhöe.

Thy mouth is Wisdom's gate, wherefrom,
As from the Delphic cave,
Great sayings constantly do come,
Wave melting into wave;
Rich as the shower of Danäe,
Rains down thy golden speech;
My soul sits waiting silently,
When eye or tongue sends thoughts to me,
To comfort or to teach.

Calm is thy being as a lake
Nestled within a quiet hill,
When clouds are not, and winds are still,
So peaceful calm, that it doth take
All images upon its breast,
Yet change not in its queenly rest,
Reflecting back the bended skies
Till you half doubt where Heaven lies.
Deep thy nature is, and still,
How dark and deep! and yet so clear
Its inmost depths seem near;
Not moulding all things to its will,
Moulding its will to all,
Ruling them with unfelt thrall.
So gently flows thy life along
It makes e'en discord musical,
So that nought can pass thee by
But turns to wond'rous melody,
Like a full, clear, ringing song.
Sweet the music of its flow,
As of a river in a dream,
A river in a sunny land,
A deep and solemn stream
Moving over silver sand,
Majestical and slow.

I sometimes think that thou wert given
To be a bright interpreter
Of the pure mysteries of Heaven,
And cannot bear
To think Death's icy hand should stir
One ringlet of thy hair;
But thou must die like us,—
Yet not like us,—for can it be
That one so bright and glorious
Should sink into the dust as we,
Who could but wonder at thy purity?
Not oft I dwell in thoughts of thine,
My earnest-souled Callirhöe;
And yet thy life is part of mine.
What should I love in place of thee?
Sweet is thy voice, as that of streams
To me, or as a living sound
To one who starts from fev'rous sleep,
Scared by the shapes of ghastly dreams,
And on the darkness stareth round,
Fancying dim terrors in the gloomy deep.
Then if it must be so,
That thou from us shalt go,
Linger yet a little while;
Oh! let me once more feel thy grace,
Oh! let me once more drink thy smile!
I am as nothing if thy face
Is turned from me!
But if it needs must be,
That I must part from thee,
That the silver cord be riven
That holds thee down from Heaven,
Not yet, not yet, Callirhöe,
Unfold thine angel wings to flee,
Oh! no, not yet, Callirhöe!