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POEMS OF THE HEART.
[I. There in the old gray house whose end we see]
There in the old gray house whose end we see,
Half-peeping through the golden Willow's veil,
Whose graceful twigs make foliage through the year,
My Hawthorne dwelt, a scholar of rare worth;
The gentlest man that kindly nature drew,
New England's Chaucer, Hawthorne fitly lives.
His tall compacted figure, ably strung
To urge the Indian chase or guide the way,
Softly reclining 'neath the aged elm,
Like some still rock looked out upon the scene,
As much a part of Nature, as itself.
The passing Fisher, saw this idle man
Thus lying solitary 'neath the elm,
And as he plied with lusty arms his oar,
Shooting upon the tranquil glass below
The old red Bridge, and further on the stream
To those still coves where the great prizes swim,
Asked of himself this question, why that man
Thus idly on the bank o'erhung the stream?—
Then by the devious light at twilight's close,
He read the Twice-told Tales, nor dreamt the mind
Thus idly musing by the River's side,
Had gathered and stored up from Nature's fields
This golden grain, and sweet nutritious fare,
Nor saw within the blind man's eye that boy,
The Gentle Boy, float o'er the tranquil tide.
Half-peeping through the golden Willow's veil,
Whose graceful twigs make foliage through the year,
My Hawthorne dwelt, a scholar of rare worth;
The gentlest man that kindly nature drew,
New England's Chaucer, Hawthorne fitly lives.
His tall compacted figure, ably strung
To urge the Indian chase or guide the way,
Softly reclining 'neath the aged elm,
Like some still rock looked out upon the scene,
As much a part of Nature, as itself.
The passing Fisher, saw this idle man
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And as he plied with lusty arms his oar,
Shooting upon the tranquil glass below
The old red Bridge, and further on the stream
To those still coves where the great prizes swim,
Asked of himself this question, why that man
Thus idly on the bank o'erhung the stream?—
Then by the devious light at twilight's close,
He read the Twice-told Tales, nor dreamt the mind
Thus idly musing by the River's side,
Had gathered and stored up from Nature's fields
This golden grain, and sweet nutritious fare,
Nor saw within the blind man's eye that boy,
The Gentle Boy, float o'er the tranquil tide.
Softly from out the well-stored sunny brake,
Or where the great Fields glimmer in the sun,
Such mystic influence came to Hawthorne's soul,
That from the air, and from the liquid day,
He drank the subtle image of deep life.
And when the grand and cumbrous Winter rose,
Sealing the face of Nature as with stone,
He sat within the Manse, and filled the place
With all the wealth of Summer like a sun.—
Yet were these plains more sacred in my eyes,
That furnished treasure for his Kingly purse.
Or where the great Fields glimmer in the sun,
Such mystic influence came to Hawthorne's soul,
That from the air, and from the liquid day,
He drank the subtle image of deep life.
And when the grand and cumbrous Winter rose,
Sealing the face of Nature as with stone,
He sat within the Manse, and filled the place
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Yet were these plains more sacred in my eyes,
That furnished treasure for his Kingly purse.
[II. To thy continual Presence in me wrought]
To thy continual Presence in me wrought,Vainly might I, a fallen creature, say,
That I partake the blessedness of day,
To thee, thou essence of Creation's thought.
That on my verse might fall thy healing dew,
And all its faults obscure, its charms renew.
I praise Thee not, because Thou needest praise,
What were my thanks, thou needest not my lays,
Yet will I praise thee, for thou art the fire
That sparkles on the strings of my dark lyre.
Sole majesty, yet 'round us softly flowing,
Unseen, yet in the common Sunset glowing,
The fate of Universe, the tide of things,
Sacred alike to all beneath thy wings,
If Passion's trance lay on the writing clear,
Then should I see thee evident and near,
Passion, that breath of instinct, and the key
Of thy dominions, untold Mystery.
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[III. It was the summer, and in early June]
It was the summer, and in early June,
When all things taste the luxury of health,
With the free growth of foliage on the trees,
And o'er the fields a host of Clover blooms,
And through the life and thought of the fresh world,
Unsorrowing peace, and Love like softest air.
'Twas then I took my way along the hills,
Upon the sandy road that devious winds;
At last, I came to happy Meredith.
This beauteous spot is circled in with heights,
And at a little distance Gunstock stands,
A bare, bold mountain looking o'er the lake,
That shines like glass within the emerald meads.
When all things taste the luxury of health,
With the free growth of foliage on the trees,
And o'er the fields a host of Clover blooms,
And through the life and thought of the fresh world,
Unsorrowing peace, and Love like softest air.
'Twas then I took my way along the hills,
Upon the sandy road that devious winds;
At last, I came to happy Meredith.
This beauteous spot is circled in with heights,
And at a little distance Gunstock stands,
A bare, bold mountain looking o'er the lake,
That shines like glass within the emerald meads.
Much was I pleased, to mark the simple life
That man yet leads among the mountain shades,
Nor failed to see a Farmer, who was born
Upon the side of Gunstock, where his sire
Had tilled the fertile soil,—himself a son
Of Nature, framed to love the heights and fields.
The meaning of the landscapes in his heart,
Shone with a rural splendor, and his eye
Trembled with Humor as it roved abroad,
Gladdened by each familiar scene of youth;
While in his mind the Words of men were stored,
Quaint phrases, and wise sayings manifold.
Not often have I met thus wise a man,
Not often heard such merry words, and learned
That Nature pours her wealth unstinted forth,
Upon the unknown, careless, and remote.
That man yet leads among the mountain shades,
Nor failed to see a Farmer, who was born
Upon the side of Gunstock, where his sire
Had tilled the fertile soil,—himself a son
Of Nature, framed to love the heights and fields.
The meaning of the landscapes in his heart,
Shone with a rural splendor, and his eye
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Gladdened by each familiar scene of youth;
While in his mind the Words of men were stored,
Quaint phrases, and wise sayings manifold.
Not often have I met thus wise a man,
Not often heard such merry words, and learned
That Nature pours her wealth unstinted forth,
Upon the unknown, careless, and remote.
[IV. The day has past, I never may return]
The day has past, I never may return;Twelve circling years have run since first I came,
And kindled the pure truth of Friendship's flame,
Alone remain these ashes in the urn;
Vainly for light the taper may I turn,
Thy hand is closed, as for these years, the same,
And in the substance nought is but the name,
No more a hope, no more a ray to burn.
But once more in the pauses of thy joy,
Remember him who sought thee in his youth,
And with the old reliance of the boy,
Asked for thy Treasures in the guise of truth;
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Shows on the Hill-side, that the day is done.
[V. Tomorrow come; dost say my friend Tomorrow]
Tomorrow comes; dost say my friend Tomorrow?Far down below those Pines the Sunset flings
Long arching o'er, its lines of ruddy light,
And the wind murmurs little harmonies,
And underneath their wings the tender birds
Droop their averted heads,—silent their songs.
But not a word whispers the moaning wind,
Nor when in faint array the primal stars
Trail with the banners of the unfurled night,
Nor even when the low-hung moon just glints
And faintly with few touches seres the wood,
Not there, nor then, doth Nature idly say
Nor whisper idly of another day;
That other morn itself its morrow is,
That other day shall see no shade of this.
VI. A green and vaporous cloud of buds, the Larch
A green and vaporous cloud of buds, the LarchFolds in soft drapery above the glade,
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And dignify the heavy, stooping shade,
There yellow violets spring, in rarest show,
And golden rods in secret clusters blow.
There piping Hylas fill the helpless air,
And chattering Black-birds hold their gossip by,
And near I saw the tender maiden-hair,
With the fine, breeze-born, white anemone;
The Glade, though undisturbed by human art,
Has richer treasures than the busy mart.
[VII. As in osme stately Grove of singing pines]
As in some stately Grove of singing pines,One tree more marked than all, decisive rears
Its grand aspiring figure to the sky,
Remote from those beneath, and o'er whose top
The first, faint light of dawn familiar plays,
So in Count Julian's face there was the soul
Of something deeper, than the general heart,
Some memory more near to other worlds,
Time's recollection, and the storied Past.
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Soft as the willow o'er the River swaying,
Yet sinewy and capable of action;
Such grace as in Apollo's figure lay,
When he was moving the still world with light,
So perfect balanced, and convinced with art.
About his forehead clustered rich black curls,
Medusa-like, they charmed the student's eye.
Those soft, still hazel orbs Count Julian had,
Looked dream-like forth on the familiar day,
Yet eloquent, and full of luminous force,
Sweetly humane that had no harshness known,
Unbroken eyes where Love forever dwelt.
This art of Nature which surrounded him,
This made Count Julian what he was to me,
Which neither time, nor place, nor Poet's pen,
Nor Sculptor's chisel can e'er mould again.
[VIII. O band of Friends, ye breathe within this space]
O band of Friends, ye breathe within this space,And the rough finish of a humble man,
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I cannot lose a line ye bend to trace;
Your figures bear into the azure deeps,
A little frail contentment of my own,
And in your eyes I read, how sunshine lends
A golden color to the dusty weed,
That droops its tints where the soiled Pilgrims tread.
[IX. Believe, that thus a humble worshipper]
Believe, that thus a humble worshipper,Who in soiled weeds along this pathway's going,
To one of Nobler kind may minister,
His lowly hope in such faint words bestowing;
O Lady, that my words for thee were more,
But I have not the right to richer store.
Thou art of finer mould, thy Griefs are proof,
Only those nearest to the sun do burn,
While we sit merry underneath the roof,
And vainly to those larger empires turn;
Had I been heir of brightness such as thou,
Then might a Sorrow seal my rounded brow.
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[X. Ye mournful walls, that with a look of woe]
Ye mournful walls, that with a look of woe,Idly stand gazing in each other's face;
Ye eager, soulless crowds that coldly pass
Forever 'neath those walls darkly contrived,
And streets that are the wards of Misery;
Thou poor, and hunger-stricken, needless Town,
That I delved lonely on some sea-washed moor,
Delved with a hand of Pain the barren sands,
All day beneath the scorching eye of Heaven,
Or vacantly stood cold within the wind,
Where rugged Winter nursed his rugged child,
Yea! on some bleak, bare, desolate place of rock,
Yea! anywhere but here, in these dim shades,
Within your shades, you high and gloomy walls.
For I have been a walker in the fields,
Oft in the woodland arches have I played,
Seen many times the golden Day-god roll
His round, expanded eyelids in the West,
And bravely flaming, bid the world good-night,
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Hath played her ivory songs beneath the fringe,
That night hangs over edged about with stars,
But thou, sad City, thou art not for me.
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