 | Poems of Nathaniel Parker Willis . |  |
222
Miscellaneous Poems.
PARRHASIUS.
“Parrhasius, a painter of Athens, among those Olynthian captives Philip of Macedon brought home to sell, bought one very old man; and when he had him at his house, put him to death with extreme torture and torment, the better, by his example, to express the pains and passions of his Prometheus, whom he was then about to paint.”—
Burton's Anat. of Mel.
There stood an unsold captive in the mart,
A gray-hair'd and majestical old man,
Chain'd to a pillar. It was almost night,
And the last seller from his place had gone,
And not a sound was heard but of a dog
Crunching beneath the stall a refuse bone,
Or the dull echo from the pavement rung,
As the faint captive changed his weary feet.
He had stood there since morning, and had borne
From every eye in Athens the cold gaze
Of curious scorn. The Jew had taunted him
For an Olynthian slave. The buyer came
And roughly struck his palm upon his breast,
And touch'd his unheal'd wounds, and with a sneer
Pass'd on; and when, with weariness o'erspent,
He bow'd his head in a forgetful sleep,
Th' inhuman soldier smote him, and, with threats
Of torture to his children, summon'd back
The ebbing blood into his pallid face.
A gray-hair'd and majestical old man,
Chain'd to a pillar. It was almost night,
And the last seller from his place had gone,
And not a sound was heard but of a dog
Crunching beneath the stall a refuse bone,
Or the dull echo from the pavement rung,
As the faint captive changed his weary feet.
He had stood there since morning, and had borne
From every eye in Athens the cold gaze
Of curious scorn. The Jew had taunted him
For an Olynthian slave. The buyer came
And roughly struck his palm upon his breast,
And touch'd his unheal'd wounds, and with a sneer
Pass'd on; and when, with weariness o'erspent,
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Th' inhuman soldier smote him, and, with threats
Of torture to his children, summon'd back
The ebbing blood into his pallid face.
'Twas evening, and the half-descended sun
Tipp'd with a golden fire the many domes
Of Athens, and a yellow atmosphere
Lay rich and dusky in the shaded street
Through which the captive gazed. He had borne up
With a stout heart that long and weary day,
Haughtily patient of his many wrongs,
But now he was alone, and from his nerves
The needless strength departed, and he lean'd
Prone on his massy chain, and let his thoughts
Throng on him as they would. Unmark'd of him,
Parrhasius at the nearest pillar stood,
Gazing upon his grief. Th' Athenian's cheek
Flush'd as he measured with a painter's eye
The moving picture. The abandon'd limbs,
Stain'd with the oozing blood, were laced with veins
Swollen to purple fulness; the gray hair,
Thin and disorder'd, hung about his eyes;
And as a thought of wilder bitterness
Rose in his memory, his lips grew white,
And the fast workings of his bloodless face
Told what a tooth of fire was at his heart.
The golden light into the painter's roomTipp'd with a golden fire the many domes
Of Athens, and a yellow atmosphere
Lay rich and dusky in the shaded street
Through which the captive gazed. He had borne up
With a stout heart that long and weary day,
Haughtily patient of his many wrongs,
But now he was alone, and from his nerves
The needless strength departed, and he lean'd
Prone on his massy chain, and let his thoughts
Throng on him as they would. Unmark'd of him,
Parrhasius at the nearest pillar stood,
Gazing upon his grief. Th' Athenian's cheek
Flush'd as he measured with a painter's eye
The moving picture. The abandon'd limbs,
Stain'd with the oozing blood, were laced with veins
Swollen to purple fulness; the gray hair,
Thin and disorder'd, hung about his eyes;
And as a thought of wilder bitterness
Rose in his memory, his lips grew white,
And the fast workings of his bloodless face
Told what a tooth of fire was at his heart.
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From the dark pictures radiantly forth,
And in the soft and dewy atmosphere
Like forms and landscapes magical they lay.
The walls were hung with armor, and about
In the dim corners stood the sculptured forms
Of Cytheris, and Dian, and stern Jove,
And from the casement soberly away
Fell the grotesque long shadows, full and true,
And, like a veil of filmy mellowness,
The lint-spects floated in the twilight air.
Parrhasius stood, gazing forgetfully
Upon his canvass. There Prometheus lay,
Chain'd to the cold rocks of Mount Caucasus—
The vulture at his vitals, and the links
Of the lame Lemnian festering in his flesh:
And, as the painter's mind felt through the dim,
Rapt mystery, and pluck'd the shadows forth
With its far-reaching fancy, and with form
And color clad them, his fine, earnest eye,
Flash'd with a passionate fire, and the quick curl
Of his thin nostril, and his quivering lip
Were like the wing'd God's, breathing from his flight.
“Bring me the captive now!
My hand feels skilful, and the shadows lift
From my waked spirit airily and swift,
And I could paint the bow
Upon the bended heavens—around me play
Colors of such divinity to-day.
My hand feels skilful, and the shadows lift
From my waked spirit airily and swift,
And I could paint the bow
Upon the bended heavens—around me play
Colors of such divinity to-day.
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“Ha! bind him on his back!
Look!—as Prometheus in my picture here!
Quick—or he faints!—stand with the cordial near!
Now—bend him to the rack!
Press down the poison'd links into his flesh;
And tear agape that healing wound afresh!
Look!—as Prometheus in my picture here!
Quick—or he faints!—stand with the cordial near!
Now—bend him to the rack!
Press down the poison'd links into his flesh;
And tear agape that healing wound afresh!
“So—let him writhe! How long
Will he live thus? Quick, my good pencil, now!
What a fine agony works upon his brow!
Ha! gray-hair'd, and so strong!
How fearfully he stifles that short moan!
Gods! if I could but paint a dying groan!
Will he live thus? Quick, my good pencil, now!
What a fine agony works upon his brow!
Ha! gray-hair'd, and so strong!
How fearfully he stifles that short moan!
Gods! if I could but paint a dying groan!
“‘Pity’ thee! So I do!
I pity the dumb victim at the altar—
But does the robed priest for his pity falter?
I'd rack thee though I knew
A thousand lives were perishing in thine—
What were ten thousand to a fame like mine?
I pity the dumb victim at the altar—
But does the robed priest for his pity falter?
I'd rack thee though I knew
A thousand lives were perishing in thine—
What were ten thousand to a fame like mine?
“‘Hereafter!’ Ay—hereafter!
A whip to keep a coward to his track!
What gave Death ever from his kingdom back
To check the skeptic's laughter?
Come from the grave to-morrow with that story—
And I may take some softer path to glory.
A whip to keep a coward to his track!
What gave Death ever from his kingdom back
To check the skeptic's laughter?
Come from the grave to-morrow with that story—
And I may take some softer path to glory.
“‘No, no, old man! we die
Even as the flowers, and we shall breathe away
Our life upon the chance wind, even as they!
Strain well thy fainting eye—
For when that bloodshot quivering is o'er,
The light of heaven will never reach thee more.
Even as the flowers, and we shall breathe away
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Strain well thy fainting eye—
For when that bloodshot quivering is o'er,
The light of heaven will never reach thee more.
‘Yet there's a deathless name!
A spirit that the smothering vault shall spurn,
And like a steadfast planet mount and burn—
And though its crown of flame
Consumed my brain to ashes as it shone,
By all the fiery stars! I'd bind it on!
A spirit that the smothering vault shall spurn,
And like a steadfast planet mount and burn—
And though its crown of flame
Consumed my brain to ashes as it shone,
By all the fiery stars! I'd bind it on!
“Ay—though it bid me rifle
My heart's last fount for its insatiate thirst—
Though every life-strung nerve be madden'd first—
Though it should bid me stifle
The yearning in my throat for my sweet child,
And taunt its mother till my brain went wild—
My heart's last fount for its insatiate thirst—
Though every life-strung nerve be madden'd first—
Though it should bid me stifle
The yearning in my throat for my sweet child,
And taunt its mother till my brain went wild—
“All—I would do it all—
Sooner than die, like a dull worm, to rot—
Thrust foully into earth to be forgot!
Oh heavens!—but I appal
Your heart, old man! forgive—ha! on your lives
Let him not faint!—rack him till he revives!
Sooner than die, like a dull worm, to rot—
Thrust foully into earth to be forgot!
Oh heavens!—but I appal
Your heart, old man! forgive—ha! on your lives
Let him not faint!—rack him till he revives!
“Vain—vain—give o'er! His eye
Glazes apace. He does not feel you now—
Stand back! I'll paint the death-dew on his brow!
Gods! if he do not die
But for one moment—one—till I eclipse
Conception with the scorn of those calm lips!
Glazes apace. He does not feel you now—
Stand back! I'll paint the death-dew on his brow!
Gods! if he do not die
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Conception with the scorn of those calm lips!
“Shivering! Hark! he mutters
Brokenly now—that was a difficult breath—
Another? Wilt thou never come, oh Death!
Look! how his temple flutters!
Is his heart still? Aha? lift up his head!
He shudders—gasps—Jove help him!—so—he's dead.”
How like a mounting devil in the heartBrokenly now—that was a difficult breath—
Another? Wilt thou never come, oh Death!
Look! how his temple flutters!
Is his heart still? Aha? lift up his head!
He shudders—gasps—Jove help him!—so—he's dead.”
Rules the unrein'd ambition! Let it once
But play the monarch, and its haughty brow
Glows with a beauty that bewilders thought
And unthrones peace forever. Putting on
The very pomp of Lucifer, it turns
The heart to ashes, and with not a spring
Left in the bosom for the spirit's lip,
We look upon our splendor and forget
The thirst of which we perish! Yet hath life
Many a falser idol. There are hopes
Promising well; and love-touch'd dreams for some;
And passions, many a wild one; and fair schemes
For gold and pleasure—yet will only this
Balk not the soul—Ambition only, gives,
Even of bitterness, a beaker full!
Friendship is but a slow awaking dream,
Troubled at best—Love is a lamp unseen,
Burning to waste, or, if its light is found,
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Gain is a grovelling care, and Folly tires,
And Quiet is a hunger never fed—
And from Love's very bosom, and from Gain,
Or Folly, or a Friend, or from Repose—
From all but keen Ambition—will the soul
Snatch the first moment of forgetfulness
To wander like a restless child away.
Oh, if there were not better hopes than these—
Were there no palm beyond a feverish fame—
If the proud wealth flung back upon the heart
Must canker in its coffers—if the links
Falsehood hath broken will unite no more—
If the deep-yearning love, that hath not found
Its like in the cold world, must waste in tears—
If truth, and fervor, and devotedness,
Finding no worthy altar, must return
And die of their own fulness—if beyond
The grave there is no heaven in whose wide air
The spirit may find room, and in the love
Of whose bright habitants the lavish heart
May spend itself—what thrice-mock'd fools are we!
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THE SCHOLAR OF THEBET BEN KHORAT.
“Influentia cœli morbum hunc movet, interdum omnibus aliis amotis.”
—Melancthon de Anima, Cap. de Humoribus.I.
Night in Arabia. An hour ago,
Pale Dian had descended from the sky,
Flinging her cestus out upon the sea,
And at their watches, now, the solemn stars
Stood vigilant and lone; and, dead asleep,
With not a shadow moving on its breast,
The breathing earth lay in its silver dew,
And, trembling on their myriad viewless wings,
Th' imprison'd odors left the flowers to dream,
And stole away upon the yielding air.
Ben Khorat's tower stands shadowy and tall
In Mecca's loneliest street; and ever there,
When night is at the deepest, burns his lamp
As constant as the Cynosure, and forth
From his loop'd window stretch the brazen tubes,
Pointing forever at the central star
Of that dim nebula just lifting now
Over Mount Arafat. The sky to-night
Is of a clearer blackness than is wont,
And far within its depths the colored stars
Sparkle like gems—capricious Antares
Flushing and paling in the Southern arch
And azure Lyra, like a woman's eye,
Burning with soft blue lustre; and away
Over the desert the bright Polar star,
White as a flashing icicle; and here,
Hung like a lamp above th' Arabian sea,
Mars with his dusky glow; and fairer yet,
Mild Sirius, tinct with dewy violet,
Set like a flower upon the breast of Eve;
And in the zenith the sweet Pleiades,
(Alas—that even a star may pass from heaven
And not be miss'd!)—the linkéd Pleiades
Undimm'd are there, though from the sister band
The fairest has gone down; and, South away,
Hirundo with its little company;
And white-brow'd Vesta, lamping on her path
Lonely and planet-calm, and, all through heaven,
Articulate almost, they troop to-night,
Like unrobed angels in a prophet's trance.
Pale Dian had descended from the sky,
Flinging her cestus out upon the sea,
And at their watches, now, the solemn stars
Stood vigilant and lone; and, dead asleep,
With not a shadow moving on its breast,
The breathing earth lay in its silver dew,
And, trembling on their myriad viewless wings,
Th' imprison'd odors left the flowers to dream,
And stole away upon the yielding air.
Ben Khorat's tower stands shadowy and tall
In Mecca's loneliest street; and ever there,
When night is at the deepest, burns his lamp
As constant as the Cynosure, and forth
From his loop'd window stretch the brazen tubes,
Pointing forever at the central star
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Over Mount Arafat. The sky to-night
Is of a clearer blackness than is wont,
And far within its depths the colored stars
Sparkle like gems—capricious Antares
Flushing and paling in the Southern arch
And azure Lyra, like a woman's eye,
Burning with soft blue lustre; and away
Over the desert the bright Polar star,
White as a flashing icicle; and here,
Hung like a lamp above th' Arabian sea,
Mars with his dusky glow; and fairer yet,
Mild Sirius, tinct with dewy violet,
Set like a flower upon the breast of Eve;
And in the zenith the sweet Pleiades,
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And not be miss'd!)—the linkéd Pleiades
Undimm'd are there, though from the sister band
The fairest has gone down; and, South away,
Hirundo with its little company;
And white-brow'd Vesta, lamping on her path
Lonely and planet-calm, and, all through heaven,
Articulate almost, they troop to-night,
Like unrobed angels in a prophet's trance.
Ben Khorat knelt before his telescope,
Gazing with earnest stillness on the stars.
The gray hairs, struggling from his turban-folds,
Play'd with the entering wind upon his cheeks,
And on his breast his venerable beard
With supernatural whiteness loosely fell.
The black flesh swell'd about his sandal-thongs,
Tight with his painful posture, and his lean
And wither'd fingers to his knees were clench'd
And the thin lashes of his straining eye
Lay with unwinking closeness to the lens,
Stiffen'd with tense up-turning. Hour by hour,
Till the stars melted in the flush of morn,
The old astrologer knelt moveless there,
Ravish'd past pain with the bewildering spheres,
And, hour by hour, with the same patient thought,
Pored his pale scholar on the characters
Of Chaldee writ, or, as his gaze grew dim
With weariness, the dark-eyed Arab laid
His head upon the window and look'd forth
Upon the heavens awhile, until the dews
And the soft beauty of the silent night
Cool'd his flush'd eyelids, and then patiently
He turn'd unto his constant task again.
Gazing with earnest stillness on the stars.
The gray hairs, struggling from his turban-folds,
Play'd with the entering wind upon his cheeks,
And on his breast his venerable beard
With supernatural whiteness loosely fell.
The black flesh swell'd about his sandal-thongs,
Tight with his painful posture, and his lean
And wither'd fingers to his knees were clench'd
And the thin lashes of his straining eye
Lay with unwinking closeness to the lens,
Stiffen'd with tense up-turning. Hour by hour,
Till the stars melted in the flush of morn,
The old astrologer knelt moveless there,
Ravish'd past pain with the bewildering spheres,
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Pored his pale scholar on the characters
Of Chaldee writ, or, as his gaze grew dim
With weariness, the dark-eyed Arab laid
His head upon the window and look'd forth
Upon the heavens awhile, until the dews
And the soft beauty of the silent night
Cool'd his flush'd eyelids, and then patiently
He turn'd unto his constant task again.
The sparry glinting of the Morning Star
Shot through the leaves of a majestic palm
Fringing Mount Arafat, and, as it caught
The eye of the rapt scholar, he arose
And clasp'd the volume with an eager haste,
And as the glorious planet mounted on,
Melting her way into the upper sky,
He breathlessly gazed on her:—
Shot through the leaves of a majestic palm
Fringing Mount Arafat, and, as it caught
The eye of the rapt scholar, he arose
And clasp'd the volume with an eager haste,
And as the glorious planet mounted on,
Melting her way into the upper sky,
He breathlessly gazed on her:—
“Star of the silver ray!
Bright as a god, but punctual as a slave—
What spirit the eternal canon gave
That bends thee to thy way?
What is the soul that, on thine arrowy light,
Is walking earth and heaven in pride to-night?
Bright as a god, but punctual as a slave—
What spirit the eternal canon gave
That bends thee to thy way?
What is the soul that, on thine arrowy light,
Is walking earth and heaven in pride to-night?
“We know when thou wilt soar
Over the mount—thy change, and place, and time—
'Tis written in the Chaldee's mystic rhyme
As 'twere a priceless lore!
I knew as much in my Bedouin garb—
Coursing the desert on my flying barb!
Over the mount—thy change, and place, and time—
'Tis written in the Chaldee's mystic rhyme
As 'twere a priceless lore!
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Coursing the desert on my flying barb!
“How oft amid the tents
Upon Sahara's sands I've walk'd alone,
Waiting all night for thee, resplendent one!
With what magnificence,
In the last watches, to my thirsting eye,
Thy passionate beauty flush'd into the sky!
Upon Sahara's sands I've walk'd alone,
Waiting all night for thee, resplendent one!
With what magnificence,
In the last watches, to my thirsting eye,
Thy passionate beauty flush'd into the sky!
“Oh God! how flew my soul
Out to thy glory—upward on thy ray—
Panting as thou ascendedst on thy way,
As if thine own control—
This searchless spirit that I cannot find—
Had set its radiant law upon my mind!
Out to thy glory—upward on thy ray—
Panting as thou ascendedst on thy way,
As if thine own control—
This searchless spirit that I cannot find—
Had set its radiant law upon my mind!
“More than all stars in heaven
I felt thee in my heart! my love became
A frenzy, and consumed me with its flame.
Ay, in the desert even—
My dark-eyed Abra coursing at my side—
The star, not Abra, not my spirit's bride!
I felt thee in my heart! my love became
A frenzy, and consumed me with its flame.
Ay, in the desert even—
My dark-eyed Abra coursing at my side—
The star, not Abra, not my spirit's bride!
“My Abra is no more!
My ‘desert-bird’ is in a stranger's stall—
My tribe, my tent—I sacrificed them all
For this heart-wasting lore!—
Yet, than all these, the thought is sweeter far—
Thou wert ascendant at my birth, bright star!
My ‘desert-bird’ is in a stranger's stall—
My tribe, my tent—I sacrificed them all
For this heart-wasting lore!—
Yet, than all these, the thought is sweeter far—
Thou wert ascendant at my birth, bright star!
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“The Chaldee calls me thine—
And in this breast, that I must rend to be
A spirit upon wings of light like thee,
I feel that thou art mine!
Oh God! that these dull fetters would give way
And let me forth to track thy silver ray!”
And in this breast, that I must rend to be
A spirit upon wings of light like thee,
I feel that thou art mine!
Oh God! that these dull fetters would give way
And let me forth to track thy silver ray!”
[OMITTED] Ben Khorat rose
And silently look'd forth upon the East.
The dawn was stealing up into the sky
On its gray feet, the stars grew dim apace,
And faded, till the Morning Star alone,
Soft as a molten diamond's liquid fire,
Burn'd in the heavens. The morn grew freshlier—
The upper clouds were faintly touch'd with gold;
The fan-palms rustled in the early air;
Daylight spread cool and broadly to the hills;
And still the star was visible, and still
The young Bedouin with a straining eye
Drank its departing light into his soul.
It faded—melted—and the fiery rim
Of the clear sun came up, and painfully
The passionate scholar press'd upon his eyes
His dusky fingers, and, with limbs as weak
As a sick child's, turn'd fainting to his couch,
And slept. [OMITTED]
And silently look'd forth upon the East.
The dawn was stealing up into the sky
On its gray feet, the stars grew dim apace,
And faded, till the Morning Star alone,
Soft as a molten diamond's liquid fire,
Burn'd in the heavens. The morn grew freshlier—
The upper clouds were faintly touch'd with gold;
The fan-palms rustled in the early air;
Daylight spread cool and broadly to the hills;
And still the star was visible, and still
The young Bedouin with a straining eye
Drank its departing light into his soul.
It faded—melted—and the fiery rim
Of the clear sun came up, and painfully
The passionate scholar press'd upon his eyes
His dusky fingers, and, with limbs as weak
As a sick child's, turn'd fainting to his couch,
And slept. [OMITTED]
“Even to the naked eye, the stars appear of palpably different colors; but when viewed with a prismatic glass, they may be very accurately classed into the red, the yellow, the brilliant white, the dull white, and the anomalous. This is true also of planets, which shine by reflected light, and of course the difference of color must be supposed to arise from their different powers to absorb and reflect the rays of the sun. The original composition of the stars, and the different dispersive powers of their different atmospheres, may be supposed to account also for this phenomenon.”
This star exhibits a peculiar quality—a rapid and beautiful change in the color of its light; every alternate twinkling being of an intense reddish crimson color, and the answering one of a brilliant white.
An Arabic constellation placed instead of the Piscis Australis, because the swallow arrives in Arabia about the time of the heliacal rising of the Fishes.
An anachronism, the author is aware. The Telescope was not invented for a century or two after the time of Ben Khorat.
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II.
[OMITTED] It was the morning watch once more,
The clouds were drifting rapidly above,
And dim and fast the glimmering stars flew through;
And as the fitful gust sough'd mournfully,
The shutters shook, and on the sloping roof
Plash'd, heavily, large, single drops of rain—
And all was still again. Ben Khorat sat
By the dim lamp, and, while his scholar slept,
Pored on the Chaldee wisdom. At his feet,
Stretch'd on a pallet, lay the Arab boy,
Muttering fast in his unquiet sleep,
And working his dark fingers in his palms
Convulsively. His sallow lips were pale,
And, as they moved, his teeth show'd ghastly through,
White as a charnel bone, and—closely drawn
Upon his sunken eyes, as if to press
Some frightful image from the bloodshot balls—
His lids a moment quiver'd, and again
Relax'd, half open, in a calmer sleep.
Ben Khorat gazed upon the drooping sands
Of the departing hour. The last white grain
Fell through, and with the tremulous hand of age
The old astrologer reversed the glass;
And, as the voiceless monitor went on,
Wasting and wasting with the precious hour,
He look'd upon it with a moving lip,
And, starting, turn'd his gaze upon the heavens,
Cursing the clouds impatiently.
The clouds were drifting rapidly above,
And dim and fast the glimmering stars flew through;
And as the fitful gust sough'd mournfully,
The shutters shook, and on the sloping roof
Plash'd, heavily, large, single drops of rain—
And all was still again. Ben Khorat sat
By the dim lamp, and, while his scholar slept,
Pored on the Chaldee wisdom. At his feet,
Stretch'd on a pallet, lay the Arab boy,
Muttering fast in his unquiet sleep,
And working his dark fingers in his palms
Convulsively. His sallow lips were pale,
And, as they moved, his teeth show'd ghastly through,
White as a charnel bone, and—closely drawn
Upon his sunken eyes, as if to press
Some frightful image from the bloodshot balls—
His lids a moment quiver'd, and again
Relax'd, half open, in a calmer sleep.
Ben Khorat gazed upon the drooping sands
Of the departing hour. The last white grain
Fell through, and with the tremulous hand of age
The old astrologer reversed the glass;
And, as the voiceless monitor went on,
Wasting and wasting with the precious hour,
He look'd upon it with a moving lip,
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Cursing the clouds impatiently.
“'Tis time!”
Mutter'd the dying scholar, and he dash'd
The tangled hair from his black eyes away,
And, seizing on Ben Khorat's mantle-folds,
He struggled to his feet, and falling prone
Upon the window-ledge, gazed steadfastly
Into the East:—
Mutter'd the dying scholar, and he dash'd
The tangled hair from his black eyes away,
And, seizing on Ben Khorat's mantle-folds,
He struggled to his feet, and falling prone
Upon the window-ledge, gazed steadfastly
Into the East:—
“There is a cloud between—
She sits this instant on the mountain's brow,
And that dusk veil hides all her glory now—
Yet floats she as serene
Into the heavens!—Oh God! that even so
I could o'ermount my spirit-cloud, and go!
She sits this instant on the mountain's brow,
And that dusk veil hides all her glory now—
Yet floats she as serene
Into the heavens!—Oh God! that even so
I could o'ermount my spirit-cloud, and go!
“The cloud begins to drift!
Aha! fling open! 'tis the star—the sky!
Touch me, immortal mother! and I fly!
Wider! thou cloudy rift!
Let through!—such glory should have radiant room!
Let through!—a star-child on its light goes home!
Aha! fling open! 'tis the star—the sky!
Touch me, immortal mother! and I fly!
Wider! thou cloudy rift!
Let through!—such glory should have radiant room!
Let through!—a star-child on its light goes home!
“Speak to me, brethren bright!
Ye who are floating in these living beams!
Ye who have come to me in starry dreams!
Ye who have wing'd the light
Of our bright mother with its thoughts of flame—
—(I knew it pass'd through spirits as it came)—
Ye who are floating in these living beams!
Ye who have come to me in starry dreams!
Ye who have wing'd the light
Of our bright mother with its thoughts of flame—
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“Tell me! what power have ye?
What are the heights ye reach upon your wings?
What know ye of the myriad wondrous things
I perish but to see?
Are ye thought-rapid?—Can ye fly as far—
As instant as a thought, from star to star?
What are the heights ye reach upon your wings?
What know ye of the myriad wondrous things
I perish but to see?
Are ye thought-rapid?—Can ye fly as far—
As instant as a thought, from star to star?
“Where has the Pleiad gone?
Where have all missing stars found light and home?
Who bids the Stella Mira go and come?
Why sits the Pole-star lone?
And why, like banded sisters, through the air
Go in bright troops the constellations fair?
Where have all missing stars found light and home?
Who bids the Stella Mira go and come?
Why sits the Pole-star lone?
And why, like banded sisters, through the air
Go in bright troops the constellations fair?
“Ben Khorat! dost thou mark?
The star! the star? By heaven! the cloud drifts o'er!
Gone—and I live! nay—will my heart beat more?
Look! master! 'tis all dark!
Not a clear speck in heaven?—my eyeballs smother!
Break through the clouds once more! oh starry mother!
The star! the star? By heaven! the cloud drifts o'er!
238
Look! master! 'tis all dark!
Not a clear speck in heaven?—my eyeballs smother!
Break through the clouds once more! oh starry mother!
“I will lie down! Yet stay,
The rain beats out the odor from the gums,
And strangely soft to-night the spice-wind comes!
I am a child alway
When it is on my forehead! Abra sweet!
Would I were in the desert at thy feet!
The rain beats out the odor from the gums,
And strangely soft to-night the spice-wind comes!
I am a child alway
When it is on my forehead! Abra sweet!
Would I were in the desert at thy feet!
“My barb! my glorious steed!
Methinks my soul would mount upon its track
More fleetly, could I die upon thy back!
How would thy thrilling speed
Quicken my pulse!—Oh Allah! I get wild!
Would that I were once more a desert-child!
Methinks my soul would mount upon its track
More fleetly, could I die upon thy back!
How would thy thrilling speed
Quicken my pulse!—Oh Allah! I get wild!
Would that I were once more a desert-child!
“Nay—nay—I had forgot!
My mother! my starry mother!—Ha! my breath
Stifles—more air!—Ben Khorat! this is—death!
Touch me!—I feel you not!
Dying!—Farewell! good master!—room! more room!
Abra! I loved thee! star! bright star! I—come!”
My mother! my starry mother!—Ha! my breath
Stifles—more air!—Ben Khorat! this is—death!
Touch me!—I feel you not!
Dying!—Farewell! good master!—room! more room!
Abra! I loved thee! star! bright star! I—come!”
How idly of the human heart we speak,
Giving it gods of clay! How worse than vain
Is the school homily, that Eden's fruit
Cannot be pluck'd too freely from “the tree
Of good and evil.” Wisdom sits alone,
Topmost in heaven;—she is its light—its God!
And in the heart of man she sits as high—
Though grovelling eyes forget her oftentimes,
Seeing but this world's idols. The pure mind
Sees her forever: and in youth we come
Fill'd with her sainted ravishment, and kneel,
Worshipping God through her sweet altar-fires,
And then is knowledge “good.” We come too oft—
The heart grows proud with fulness, and we soon
Look with licentious freedom on the maid
Throned in celestial beauty. There she sits,
Robed in her soft and seraph loveliness,
Instructing and forgiving, and we gaze
Until desire grows wild, and, with our hands
Upon her very garments, are struck down
Blasted with a consuming fire from heaven!
Yet, oh! how full of music from her lips
Breathe the calm tones of wisdom! Human praise
Is sweet—till envy mars it, and the touch
Of new-won gold stirs up the pulses well;
And woman's love, if in a beggar's lamp
'Twould burn, might light us clearly through the world;
But Knowledge hath a far more 'wildering tongue,
And she will stoop and lead you to the stars,
And witch you with her mysteries—till gold
Is a forgotten dross, and power and fame
Toys of an hour, and woman's careless love,
Light as the breath that breaks it. He who binds
His soul to knowledge steals the key of heaven—
But 'tis a bitter mockery that the fruit
May hang within his reach, and when, with thirst
Wrought to a maddening frenzy, he would taste—
It burns his lips to ashes!
Giving it gods of clay! How worse than vain
Is the school homily, that Eden's fruit
Cannot be pluck'd too freely from “the tree
239
Topmost in heaven;—she is its light—its God!
And in the heart of man she sits as high—
Though grovelling eyes forget her oftentimes,
Seeing but this world's idols. The pure mind
Sees her forever: and in youth we come
Fill'd with her sainted ravishment, and kneel,
Worshipping God through her sweet altar-fires,
And then is knowledge “good.” We come too oft—
The heart grows proud with fulness, and we soon
Look with licentious freedom on the maid
Throned in celestial beauty. There she sits,
Robed in her soft and seraph loveliness,
Instructing and forgiving, and we gaze
Until desire grows wild, and, with our hands
Upon her very garments, are struck down
Blasted with a consuming fire from heaven!
Yet, oh! how full of music from her lips
Breathe the calm tones of wisdom! Human praise
Is sweet—till envy mars it, and the touch
Of new-won gold stirs up the pulses well;
And woman's love, if in a beggar's lamp
'Twould burn, might light us clearly through the world;
But Knowledge hath a far more 'wildering tongue,
And she will stoop and lead you to the stars,
And witch you with her mysteries—till gold
Is a forgotten dross, and power and fame
Toys of an hour, and woman's careless love,
Light as the breath that breaks it. He who binds
His soul to knowledge steals the key of heaven—
240
May hang within his reach, and when, with thirst
Wrought to a maddening frenzy, he would taste—
It burns his lips to ashes!
‘Missing stars’ are often spoken of in the old books of astronomy. Hipparchus mentions one that appeared and vanished very suddenly; and in the beginning of the sixteenth century Kepler discovered a new star near the heel of the right foot of Serpentarius, “so bright and sparkling that it exceeded any thing he had ever seen before.” He “took notice that it was every moment changing into some of the colors of the rainbow, except when it was near the horizon, when it was generally white.” It disappeared in the following year, and has not been seen since.
A wonderful star in the neck of the Whale, discovered by Fabricius in the fifteenth century. It appears and disappears seven times in six years, and continues in the greatest lustre for fifteen days together.
A famous Arabian astrologer, who is said to have spent forty years in discovering the motion of the eighth sphere. He had a scholar, a young Bedouin Arab, who, with a singular passion for knowledge, abandoned his wandering tribe, and, applying himself too closely to astrology, lost his reason and died.
241
THE DYING ALCHYMIST.
The night wind with a desolate moan swept by;
And the old shutters of the turret swung
Screaming upon their hinges; and the moon,
As the torn edges of the clouds flew past,
Struggled aslant the stain'd and broken panes
So dimly, that the watchful eye of death
Scarcely was conscious when it went and came.
And the old shutters of the turret swung
Screaming upon their hinges; and the moon,
As the torn edges of the clouds flew past,
Struggled aslant the stain'd and broken panes
So dimly, that the watchful eye of death
Scarcely was conscious when it went and came.
The fire beneath the crucible was low;
Yet still it burn'd; and ever as his thoughts
Grew insupportable, he raised himself
Upon his wasted arm, and stirr'd the coals
With difficult energy; and when the rod
Fell from his nerveless fingers, and his eye
Felt faint within its socket, he shrunk back
Upon his pallet, and with unclosed lips
Mutter'd a curse on death! The silent room,
From its dim corners, mockingly gave back
His rattling breath; the humming in the fire
Had the distinctness of a knell; and when
Duly the antique horologe beat one,
He drew a phial from beneath his head,
And drank. And instantly his lips compress'd,
And, with a shudder in his skeleton frame,
He rose with supernatural strength, and sat
Upright, and communed with himself:—
Yet still it burn'd; and ever as his thoughts
Grew insupportable, he raised himself
Upon his wasted arm, and stirr'd the coals
With difficult energy; and when the rod
Fell from his nerveless fingers, and his eye
Felt faint within its socket, he shrunk back
Upon his pallet, and with unclosed lips
Mutter'd a curse on death! The silent room,
From its dim corners, mockingly gave back
His rattling breath; the humming in the fire
Had the distinctness of a knell; and when
Duly the antique horologe beat one,
He drew a phial from beneath his head,
And drank. And instantly his lips compress'd,
242
He rose with supernatural strength, and sat
Upright, and communed with himself:—
I did not think to die
Till I had finish'd what I had to do,
I thought to pierce th' eternal secret through
With this my mortal eye;
I felt—oh God! it seemeth even now
This cannot be the death-dew on my brow!
Till I had finish'd what I had to do,
I thought to pierce th' eternal secret through
With this my mortal eye;
I felt—oh God! it seemeth even now
This cannot be the death-dew on my brow!
And yet it is—I feel,
Of this dull sickness at my heart, afraid!
And in my eyes the death-sparks flash and fade;
And something seems to steal
Over my bosom like a frozen hand—
Binding its pulses with an icy band.
Of this dull sickness at my heart, afraid!
And in my eyes the death-sparks flash and fade;
And something seems to steal
Over my bosom like a frozen hand—
Binding its pulses with an icy band.
And this is death! But why
Feel I this wild recoil? It cannot be
Th' immortal spirit shuddereth to be free!
Would it not leap to fly,
Like a chain'd eaglet at its parent's call?
I fear—I fear—that this poor life is all!
Feel I this wild recoil? It cannot be
Th' immortal spirit shuddereth to be free!
Would it not leap to fly,
Like a chain'd eaglet at its parent's call?
I fear—I fear—that this poor life is all!
Yet thus to pass away!—
To live but for a hope that mocks at last—
To agonize, to strive, to watch, to fast,
To waste the light of day,
Night's better beauty, feeling, fancy, thought,
All that we have and are—for this—for naught!
To live but for a hope that mocks at last—
To agonize, to strive, to watch, to fast,
To waste the light of day,
Night's better beauty, feeling, fancy, thought,
243
Grant me another year,
God of my spirit!—but a day—to win
Something to satisfy this thirst within!
I would know something here!
Break for me but one seal that is unbroken!
Speak for me but one word that is unspoken!
God of my spirit!—but a day—to win
Something to satisfy this thirst within!
I would know something here!
Break for me but one seal that is unbroken!
Speak for me but one word that is unspoken!
Vain—vain!—my brain is turning
With a swift dizziness, and my heart grows sick,
And these hot temple-throbs come fast and thick,
And I am freezing—burning—
Dying! Oh God! if I might only live!
My phial—Ha! it thrills me—I revive!
With a swift dizziness, and my heart grows sick,
And these hot temple-throbs come fast and thick,
And I am freezing—burning—
Dying! Oh God! if I might only live!
My phial—Ha! it thrills me—I revive!
[OMITTED]
Ay—were not man to die,
He were too mighty for this narrow sphere!
Had he but time to brood on knowledge here—
Could he but train his eye—
Might he but wait the mystic word and hour—
Only his Maker would transcend his power!
He were too mighty for this narrow sphere!
Had he but time to brood on knowledge here—
Could he but train his eye—
Might he but wait the mystic word and hour—
Only his Maker would transcend his power!
Earth has no mineral strange—
Th' illimitable air no hidden wings—
Water no quality in covert springs,
And fire no power to change—
Seasons no mystery, and stars no spell,
Which the unwasting soul might not compel.
Th' illimitable air no hidden wings—
Water no quality in covert springs,
And fire no power to change—
Seasons no mystery, and stars no spell,
Which the unwasting soul might not compel.
244
Oh, but for time to track
The upper stars into the pathless sky—
To see th' invisible spirits, eye to eye—
To hurl the lightning back—
To tread unhurt the sea's dim-lighted halls—
To chase Day's chariot to the horizon-walls—
The upper stars into the pathless sky—
To see th' invisible spirits, eye to eye—
To hurl the lightning back—
To tread unhurt the sea's dim-lighted halls—
To chase Day's chariot to the horizon-walls—
And more, much more—for now
The life-seal'd fountains of my nature move—
To nurse and purify this human love—
To clear the godlike brow
Of weakness and mistrust, and bow it down,
Worthy and beautiful, to the much-loved one—
The life-seal'd fountains of my nature move—
To nurse and purify this human love—
To clear the godlike brow
Of weakness and mistrust, and bow it down,
Worthy and beautiful, to the much-loved one—
This were indeed to feel
The soul-thirst slaken at the living stream—
To live—oh God! that life is but a dream!
And death—Aha! I reel—
Dim—dim—I faint—darkness comes o'er my eye—
Cover me! save me!—God of heaven! I die!
The soul-thirst slaken at the living stream—
To live—oh God! that life is but a dream!
And death—Aha! I reel—
Dim—dim—I faint—darkness comes o'er my eye—
Cover me! save me!—God of heaven! I die!
'Twas morning, and the old man lay alone.
No friend had closed his eyelids, and his lips,
Open and ashy pale, th' expression wore
Of his death-struggle. His long silvery hair
Lay on his hollow temples thin and wild,
His frame was wasted, and his features wan
And haggard as with want, and in his palm
His nails were driven deep, as if the throe
Of the last agony had wrung him sore.
No friend had closed his eyelids, and his lips,
Open and ashy pale, th' expression wore
Of his death-struggle. His long silvery hair
Lay on his hollow temples thin and wild,
His frame was wasted, and his features wan
And haggard as with want, and in his palm
His nails were driven deep, as if the throe
Of the last agony had wrung him sore.
245
The storm was raging still. The shutters swung
Screaming as harshly in the fitful wind,
And all without went on—as aye it will,
Sunshine or tempest, reckless that a heart
Is breaking, or has broken, in its change.
Screaming as harshly in the fitful wind,
And all without went on—as aye it will,
Sunshine or tempest, reckless that a heart
Is breaking, or has broken, in its change.
The fire beneath the crucible was out;
The vessels of his mystic art lay round,
Useless and cold as the ambitious hand
That fashion'd them, and the small rod,
Familier to his touch for threescore years,
Lay on th' alembic's rim, as if it still
Might vex the elements at its master's will.
The vessels of his mystic art lay round,
Useless and cold as the ambitious hand
That fashion'd them, and the small rod,
Familier to his touch for threescore years,
Lay on th' alembic's rim, as if it still
Might vex the elements at its master's will.
And thus had pass'd from its unequal frame
A soul of fire—a sun-bent eagle stricken
From his high soaring down—an instrument
Broken with its own compass. Oh how poor
Seems the rich gift of genius, when it lies,
Like the adventurous bird that hath out-flown
His strength upon the sea, ambition-wreck'd—
A thing the thrush might pity, as she sits
Brooding in quiet in her lowly nest!
A soul of fire—a sun-bent eagle stricken
From his high soaring down—an instrument
Broken with its own compass. Oh how poor
Seems the rich gift of genius, when it lies,
Like the adventurous bird that hath out-flown
His strength upon the sea, ambition-wreck'd—
A thing the thrush might pity, as she sits
Brooding in quiet in her lowly nest!
246
TO ERMENGARDE.
I know not if the sunshine waste—
The world is dark since thou art gone!
The hours are, oh! so leaden-paced!
The birds sing, and the stars float on,
But sing not well, and look not fair—
A weight is in the summer air,
And sadness in the sight of flowers;
And if I go where others smile,
Their love but makes me think of ours,
And heavier gets my heart the while.
Like one upon a desert isle,
I languish of the weary hours;
I never thought a life could be
So flung upon one hope, as mine, dear love, on thee!
The world is dark since thou art gone!
The hours are, oh! so leaden-paced!
The birds sing, and the stars float on,
But sing not well, and look not fair—
A weight is in the summer air,
And sadness in the sight of flowers;
And if I go where others smile,
Their love but makes me think of ours,
And heavier gets my heart the while.
Like one upon a desert isle,
I languish of the weary hours;
I never thought a life could be
So flung upon one hope, as mine, dear love, on thee!
I sit and watch the summer sky.
There comes a cloud through heaven alone;
A thousand stars are shining nigh—
It feels no light, but darkles on!
Yet now it nears the lovelier moon;
And, flushing through its fringe of snow,
There steals a rosier dye, and soon
Its bosom is one fiery glow!
The Queen of Light within it lies!
Yet mark how lovers meet to part!
The cloud already onward flies,
And shadows sink into its heart,
And (dost thou see them where thou art?)
Fade fast, fade all those glorious dyes!
Its light, like mine, is seen no more,
And, like my own, its heart seems darker than before!
There comes a cloud through heaven alone;
A thousand stars are shining nigh—
It feels no light, but darkles on!
Yet now it nears the lovelier moon;
And, flushing through its fringe of snow,
There steals a rosier dye, and soon
Its bosom is one fiery glow!
The Queen of Light within it lies!
247
The cloud already onward flies,
And shadows sink into its heart,
And (dost thou see them where thou art?)
Fade fast, fade all those glorious dyes!
Its light, like mine, is seen no more,
And, like my own, its heart seems darker than before!
Where press this hour those fairy feet?
Where look this hour those eyes of blue?
What music in thine ear is sweet?
What odor breathes thy lattice through?
What word is on thy lip? what tone—
What look—replying to thine own?
Thy steps along the Danube stray—
Alas! it seeks an orient sea!
Thou wouldst not seem so far away
Flow'd but its waters back to me!
I bless the slowly coming moon
Because its eye look'd late in thine!
I envy the west wind of June
Whose wings will bear it up the Rhine;
The flower I press upon my brow
Were sweeter if its like perfumed thy chamber now!
Where look this hour those eyes of blue?
What music in thine ear is sweet?
What odor breathes thy lattice through?
What word is on thy lip? what tone—
What look—replying to thine own?
Thy steps along the Danube stray—
Alas! it seeks an orient sea!
Thou wouldst not seem so far away
Flow'd but its waters back to me!
I bless the slowly coming moon
Because its eye look'd late in thine!
I envy the west wind of June
Whose wings will bear it up the Rhine;
The flower I press upon my brow
Were sweeter if its like perfumed thy chamber now!
248
MELANIE.
I.
I stood on yonder rocky brow,
And marvell'd at the Sibyl's fane,
When I was not what I am now.
My life was then untouch'd of pain;
And, as the breeze that stirr'd my hair,
My spirit freshen'd in the sky,
And all things that were true and fair
Lay closely to my loving eye,
With nothing shadowy between—
I was a boy of seventeen.
Yon wondrous temple crests the rock—
As light upon its giddy base,
As stirless with the torrent's shock,
As pure in its proportion'd grace,
And seems a thing of air—as then,
Afloat above this fairy glen;
But though mine eye will kindle still
In looking on the shapes of art,
The link is lost that sent the thrill,
Like lightning instant to my heart.
And thus may break, before we die,
Th' electric chain 'twixt soul and eye!
And marvell'd at the Sibyl's fane,
When I was not what I am now.
My life was then untouch'd of pain;
And, as the breeze that stirr'd my hair,
My spirit freshen'd in the sky,
And all things that were true and fair
Lay closely to my loving eye,
With nothing shadowy between—
I was a boy of seventeen.
Yon wondrous temple crests the rock—
As light upon its giddy base,
As stirless with the torrent's shock,
As pure in its proportion'd grace,
And seems a thing of air—as then,
Afloat above this fairy glen;
But though mine eye will kindle still
In looking on the shapes of art,
The link is lost that sent the thrill,
249
And thus may break, before we die,
Th' electric chain 'twixt soul and eye!
Ten years—like yon bright valley, sown
Alternately with weeds and flowers—
Had swiftly, if not gaily, flown,
And still I loved the rosy Hours;
And if there lurk'd within my breast
Some nerve that had been overstrung
And qviver'd in my hours of rest,
Like bells by their own echo rung,
I was with Hope a masquer yet,
And well could hide the look of sadness;
And, if my heart would not forget,
I knew, at least, the trick of gladness;
And when another sang the strain,
I mingled in the old refrain.
Alternately with weeds and flowers—
Had swiftly, if not gaily, flown,
And still I loved the rosy Hours;
And if there lurk'd within my breast
Some nerve that had been overstrung
And qviver'd in my hours of rest,
Like bells by their own echo rung,
I was with Hope a masquer yet,
And well could hide the look of sadness;
And, if my heart would not forget,
I knew, at least, the trick of gladness;
And when another sang the strain,
I mingled in the old refrain.
'Twere idle to remember now,
Had I the heart, my thwarted schemes.
I bear beneath this alter'd brow
The ashes of a thousand dreams—
Some wrought of wild Ambition's fingers,
Some color'd of Love's pencil well—
But none of which a shadow lingers,
And none whose story I could tell.
Enough, that when I climb'd again
To Tivoli's romantic steep,
Life had no joy, and scarce a pain,
Whose wells I had not tasted deep;
And from my lips the thirst had pass'd
For every fount save one—the sweetest, and the last.
Had I the heart, my thwarted schemes.
I bear beneath this alter'd brow
The ashes of a thousand dreams—
Some wrought of wild Ambition's fingers,
Some color'd of Love's pencil well—
But none of which a shadow lingers,
And none whose story I could tell.
Enough, that when I climb'd again
To Tivoli's romantic steep,
Life had no joy, and scarce a pain,
250
And from my lips the thirst had pass'd
For every fount save one—the sweetest, and the last.
The last—the last! My friends were dead,
Or false; my mother in her grave;
Above my father's honor'd head
The sea had lock'd its hiding wave;
Ambition had but foil'd my grasp,
And love had perish'd in my clasp;
And still, I say, I did not slack
My love of life, and hope of pleasure,
But gather'd my affections back;
And, as the miser hugs his treasure
When plague and ruin bid him flee,
I closer clung to mine—my loved, lost Melanie!
Or false; my mother in her grave;
Above my father's honor'd head
The sea had lock'd its hiding wave;
Ambition had but foil'd my grasp,
And love had perish'd in my clasp;
And still, I say, I did not slack
My love of life, and hope of pleasure,
But gather'd my affections back;
And, as the miser hugs his treasure
When plague and ruin bid him flee,
I closer clung to mine—my loved, lost Melanie!
The last of the De Brevern race,
My sister claim'd no kinsman's care;
And, looking from each other's face,
The eye stole upward unaware—
For there was naught whereon to lean
Each other's heart and heaven between—
Yet that was world enough for me;
And, for a brief but blessed while,
There seem'd no care for Melanie
If she could see her brother smile!
But life with her was at the flow,
And every wave went sparkling higher,
While mine was ebbing, fast and low,
From the same shore of vain desire;
And knew I, with prophetic heart,
That we were wearing, aye, insensibly apart.
My sister claim'd no kinsman's care;
And, looking from each other's face,
The eye stole upward unaware—
For there was naught whereon to lean
Each other's heart and heaven between—
Yet that was world enough for me;
And, for a brief but blessed while,
There seem'd no care for Melanie
If she could see her brother smile!
But life with her was at the flow,
And every wave went sparkling higher,
While mine was ebbing, fast and low,
251
And knew I, with prophetic heart,
That we were wearing, aye, insensibly apart.
II.
We came to Italy. I felt
A yearning for its sunny sky;
My very spirit seem'd to melt
As swept its first warm breezes by.
From lip and cheek a chilling mist,
From life and soul a frozen rime,
By every breath seem'd softly kiss'd—
God's blessing on its radiant clime!
It was an endless joy to me
To see my sister's new delight;
From Venice in its golden sea
To Pœstum in its purple light—
By sweet Val d'Arno's tinted hills—
In Vallombrosa's convent gloom—
'Mid Terni's vale of singing rills—
By deathless lairs in solemn Rome—
In gay Palermo's “Golden Shell”—
At Arethusa's hidden well—
We loiter'd like th' impassion'd sun.
That slept so lovingly on all,
And made a home of every one—
Ruin, and fane, and waterfall—
And crown'd the dying day with glory
If we had seen, since morn, but one old haunt of story
A yearning for its sunny sky;
My very spirit seem'd to melt
As swept its first warm breezes by.
From lip and cheek a chilling mist,
From life and soul a frozen rime,
By every breath seem'd softly kiss'd—
God's blessing on its radiant clime!
It was an endless joy to me
To see my sister's new delight;
From Venice in its golden sea
To Pœstum in its purple light—
By sweet Val d'Arno's tinted hills—
In Vallombrosa's convent gloom—
'Mid Terni's vale of singing rills—
By deathless lairs in solemn Rome—
In gay Palermo's “Golden Shell”—
At Arethusa's hidden well—
We loiter'd like th' impassion'd sun.
That slept so lovingly on all,
And made a home of every one—
Ruin, and fane, and waterfall—
252
If we had seen, since morn, but one old haunt of story
We came with Spring to Tivoli.
My sister loved its laughing air
And merry waters, though, for me,
My heart was in another key;
And sometimes I could scarcely bear
The mirth of their eternal play,
And, like a child that longs for home
When weary of its holiday,
I sigh'd for melancholy Rome.
Perhaps—the fancy haunts me still—
'Twas but a boding sense of ill.
My sister loved its laughing air
And merry waters, though, for me,
My heart was in another key;
And sometimes I could scarcely bear
The mirth of their eternal play,
And, like a child that longs for home
When weary of its holiday,
I sigh'd for melancholy Rome.
Perhaps—the fancy haunts me still—
'Twas but a boding sense of ill.
It was a morn, of such a day
As might have dawn'd on Eden first,
Early in the Italian May.
Vine-leaf and flower had newly burst,
And on the burthen of the air
The breath of buds faint and rare;
And far in the transparent sky
The small, earth-keeping birds were seen
Soaring deliriously high;
And through the clefts of newer green
Yon waters dash'd their living pearls;
And with a gayer smile and bow
Troop'd on the merry village-girls;
And from the Contadino's brow
The low-slouch'd hat was backward thrown,
With air that scarcely seem'd his own;
And Melanie, with lips apart,
And claspéd hands upon my arm,
Flung open her impassion'd heart,
And bless'd life's mere and breathing charm;
And sang old songs, and gather'd flowers,
And passionately bless'd once more life's thrilling hours.
As might have dawn'd on Eden first,
Early in the Italian May.
Vine-leaf and flower had newly burst,
And on the burthen of the air
The breath of buds faint and rare;
And far in the transparent sky
The small, earth-keeping birds were seen
Soaring deliriously high;
And through the clefts of newer green
Yon waters dash'd their living pearls;
And with a gayer smile and bow
Troop'd on the merry village-girls;
And from the Contadino's brow
The low-slouch'd hat was backward thrown,
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And Melanie, with lips apart,
And claspéd hands upon my arm,
Flung open her impassion'd heart,
And bless'd life's mere and breathing charm;
And sang old songs, and gather'd flowers,
And passionately bless'd once more life's thrilling hours.
In happiness and idleness
We wander'd down yon sunny vale—
Oh mocking eyes!—a golden tress
Floats back upon this summer gale!
A foot is tripping on the grass!
A laugh rings merry in mine ear!
I see a bounding shadow pass!—
O God! my sister once was here!
Come with me, friend!—We rested yon!
There grew a flower she pluck'd and wore!
She sat upon this mossy stone—
That broken fountain running o'er
With the same ring, like silver bells.
She listen'd to its babbling flow,
And said, “Perhaps the gossip tells
Some fountain-nymph's love-story now.”
And as her laugh rang clear and wild,
A youth—a painter—pass'd and smiled.
We wander'd down yon sunny vale—
Oh mocking eyes!—a golden tress
Floats back upon this summer gale!
A foot is tripping on the grass!
A laugh rings merry in mine ear!
I see a bounding shadow pass!—
O God! my sister once was here!
Come with me, friend!—We rested yon!
There grew a flower she pluck'd and wore!
She sat upon this mossy stone—
That broken fountain running o'er
With the same ring, like silver bells.
She listen'd to its babbling flow,
And said, “Perhaps the gossip tells
Some fountain-nymph's love-story now.”
And as her laugh rang clear and wild,
A youth—a painter—pass'd and smiled.
He gave the greeting of the morn
With voice that linger'd in mine ear.
I knew him sad and gentle born
By those two words—so calm and clear.
His frame was slight, his forehead high
And swept by threads of raven hair,
The fire of thought was in his eye,
And he was pale and marble fair,
And Grecian chisel never caught
The soul in those slight features wrought.
I watch'd his graceful step of pride,
Till hidden by yon leaning tree,
And loved him ere the echo died;
And so, alas! did Melanie!
With voice that linger'd in mine ear.
I knew him sad and gentle born
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His frame was slight, his forehead high
And swept by threads of raven hair,
The fire of thought was in his eye,
And he was pale and marble fair,
And Grecian chisel never caught
The soul in those slight features wrought.
I watch'd his graceful step of pride,
Till hidden by yon leaning tree,
And loved him ere the echo died;
And so, alas! did Melanie!
We sat and watch'd the fount awhile
In silence, but our thoughts were one;
And then arose, and, with a smile
Of sympathy, we saunter'd on;
And she by sudden fits was gay,
And then her laughter died away.
And in this changefulness of mood,
(Forgotten now those May-day spells,)
We turn'd where Varro's villa stood,
And gazing on the Cascatelles,
(Whose hurrying waters wild and white
Seem madden'd as they burst to light,)
I chanced to turn my eyes away,
And lo! upon a bank, alone,
The youthful painter, sleeping, lay!
His pencils on the grass were thrown,
And by his side a sketch was flung,
And near him as I lightly crept,
To see the picture as he slept,
Upon his feet he lightly sprung;
And, gazing with a wild surprise,
Upon the face of Melanie,
He said—and dropp'd his earnest eyes—
“Forgive me! but I dream'd of thee!”
His sketch, the while, was in my hand,
And, for the lines I look'd to trace—
A torrent by a palace spann'd,
Half classic and half fairy-land—
I only found—my sister's face!
In silence, but our thoughts were one;
And then arose, and, with a smile
Of sympathy, we saunter'd on;
And she by sudden fits was gay,
And then her laughter died away.
And in this changefulness of mood,
(Forgotten now those May-day spells,)
We turn'd where Varro's villa stood,
And gazing on the Cascatelles,
(Whose hurrying waters wild and white
Seem madden'd as they burst to light,)
I chanced to turn my eyes away,
And lo! upon a bank, alone,
The youthful painter, sleeping, lay!
His pencils on the grass were thrown,
And by his side a sketch was flung,
And near him as I lightly crept,
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Upon his feet he lightly sprung;
And, gazing with a wild surprise,
Upon the face of Melanie,
He said—and dropp'd his earnest eyes—
“Forgive me! but I dream'd of thee!”
His sketch, the while, was in my hand,
And, for the lines I look'd to trace—
A torrent by a palace spann'd,
Half classic and half fairy-land—
I only found—my sister's face!
III.
Our life was changed. Another love
In its lone woof began to twine;
But ah! the golden thread was wove
Between my sister's heart and mine!
She who had lived for me before—
She who had smiled for me alone—
Would live and smile for me no more!
The echo to my heart was gone!
It seem'd to me the very skies
Had shone through those averted eyes;
The air had breathed of balm—the flower
Of radiant beauty seem'd to be—
But as she loved them, hour by hour,
And murmur'd of that love to me!
Oh, though it be so heavenly high
The selfishness of earth above,
That, of the watchers in the sky,
He sleeps who guards a brother's love—
Though to a sister's present weal
The deep devotion far transcends
The utmost that the soul can feel
For even its own higher ends—
Though next to God, and more than heaven
For his own sake, he loves her, even—
'Tis difficult to see another,
A passing stranger of a day,
Who never hath been friend or brother,
Pluck with a look her heart away—
To see the fair, unsullied brow,
Ne'er kiss'd before without a prayer,
Upon a stranger's bosom now,
Who for the boon took little care—
Who is enrich'd, he knows not why—
Who suddenly hath found a treasure
Golconda were too poor to buy,
And he, perhaps, too cold to measure—
(Albeit, in her forgetful dream,
Th' unconscious idol happier seem,)
'Tis difficult at once to crush
The rebel mourner in the breast,
To press the heart to earth, and hush
Its bitter jealously to rest—
And difficult—the eye gets dim,
The lip wants power—to smile on him!
I thank sweet Mary Mother now,
Who gave me strength those pangs to hide—
And touch'd mine eyes and lit my brow
With sunshine that my heart belied.
I never spoke of wealth or race
To one who ask'd so much from me—
I look'd but in my sister's face,
And mused if she would happier be;
And hour by hour, and day by day,
I loved the gentle painter more,
And, in the same soft measure, wore
My selfish jealousy away;
And I began to watch his mood,
And fear, with her, love's trembling care,
And bade God bless him as he woo'd
That loving girl so fond and fair.
And on my mind would sometimes press
A fear that she might love him less.
In its lone woof began to twine;
But ah! the golden thread was wove
Between my sister's heart and mine!
She who had lived for me before—
She who had smiled for me alone—
Would live and smile for me no more!
The echo to my heart was gone!
It seem'd to me the very skies
Had shone through those averted eyes;
The air had breathed of balm—the flower
Of radiant beauty seem'd to be—
But as she loved them, hour by hour,
And murmur'd of that love to me!
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The selfishness of earth above,
That, of the watchers in the sky,
He sleeps who guards a brother's love—
Though to a sister's present weal
The deep devotion far transcends
The utmost that the soul can feel
For even its own higher ends—
Though next to God, and more than heaven
For his own sake, he loves her, even—
'Tis difficult to see another,
A passing stranger of a day,
Who never hath been friend or brother,
Pluck with a look her heart away—
To see the fair, unsullied brow,
Ne'er kiss'd before without a prayer,
Upon a stranger's bosom now,
Who for the boon took little care—
Who is enrich'd, he knows not why—
Who suddenly hath found a treasure
Golconda were too poor to buy,
And he, perhaps, too cold to measure—
(Albeit, in her forgetful dream,
Th' unconscious idol happier seem,)
'Tis difficult at once to crush
The rebel mourner in the breast,
To press the heart to earth, and hush
Its bitter jealously to rest—
And difficult—the eye gets dim,
The lip wants power—to smile on him!
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Who gave me strength those pangs to hide—
And touch'd mine eyes and lit my brow
With sunshine that my heart belied.
I never spoke of wealth or race
To one who ask'd so much from me—
I look'd but in my sister's face,
And mused if she would happier be;
And hour by hour, and day by day,
I loved the gentle painter more,
And, in the same soft measure, wore
My selfish jealousy away;
And I began to watch his mood,
And fear, with her, love's trembling care,
And bade God bless him as he woo'd
That loving girl so fond and fair.
And on my mind would sometimes press
A fear that she might love him less.
But Melanie—I little dream'd
What spells the stirring heart may move—
Pygmalion's statue never seem'd
More changed with life, than she with love!
The pearl-tint of the early dawn
Flush'd into day-spring's rosy hue—
The meek, moss-folded bud of morn
Flung open to the light and dew—
The first and half-seen star of even
Wax'd clear amid the deepening heaven—
Similitudes perchance may be!
But these are changes oftener seen,
And do not image half to me
My sister's change of face and mien.
'Twas written in her very air
That Love had pass'd and enter'd there.
What spells the stirring heart may move—
Pygmalion's statue never seem'd
More changed with life, than she with love!
The pearl-tint of the early dawn
Flush'd into day-spring's rosy hue—
The meek, moss-folded bud of morn
Flung open to the light and dew—
The first and half-seen star of even
Wax'd clear amid the deepening heaven—
Similitudes perchance may be!
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And do not image half to me
My sister's change of face and mien.
'Twas written in her very air
That Love had pass'd and enter'd there.
IV.
A calm and lovely paradise
Is Italy, for minds at ease.
The sadness of its sunny skies
Weighs not upon the lives of these.
The ruin'd aisle, the crumbling fane,
The broken column, vast and prone—
It may be joy—it may be pain—
Amid such wrecks to walk alone!
The saddest man will sadder be,
The gentlest lover gentler there—
As if, whate'er the spirit's key,
It strengthen'd in that solemn air.
Is Italy, for minds at ease.
The sadness of its sunny skies
Weighs not upon the lives of these.
The ruin'd aisle, the crumbling fane,
The broken column, vast and prone—
It may be joy—it may be pain—
Amid such wrecks to walk alone!
The saddest man will sadder be,
The gentlest lover gentler there—
As if, whate'er the spirit's key,
It strengthen'd in that solemn air.
The heart soon grows to mournful things,
And Italy has not a breeze
But comes on melancholy wings;
And even her majestic trees
Stand ghostlike in the Cæsars' home,
As if their conscious roots were set
In the old graves of giant Rome,
And drew their sap all kingly yet!
And every stone your feet beneath
Is broken from some mighty thought;
And sculptures in the dust still breathe
The fire with which their lines were wrought;
And sunder'd arch, and plunder'd tomb
Still thunder back the echo, “Rome!”
And Italy has not a breeze
But comes on melancholy wings;
And even her majestic trees
Stand ghostlike in the Cæsars' home,
As if their conscious roots were set
In the old graves of giant Rome,
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And every stone your feet beneath
Is broken from some mighty thought;
And sculptures in the dust still breathe
The fire with which their lines were wrought;
And sunder'd arch, and plunder'd tomb
Still thunder back the echo, “Rome!”
Yet, gaily o'er Egeria's fount
The ivy flings its emerald veil,
And flowers grow fair on Numa's mount,
And light-sprung arches span the dale;
And soft, from Caracalla's baths,
The herdsman's song comes down the breeze,
While climb his goats the giddy paths
To grass-grown architrave and frieze
And gracefully Albano's hill
Curves into the horizon's line;
And sweetly sings that classic rill;
And fairly stands that nameless shrine:
And here, oh, many a sultry noon
And starry eve, that happy June,
Came Angelo and Melanie!
And earth for us was all in tune—
For while Love talk'd with them, Hope walk'd apart with me!
The ivy flings its emerald veil,
And flowers grow fair on Numa's mount,
And light-sprung arches span the dale;
And soft, from Caracalla's baths,
The herdsman's song comes down the breeze,
While climb his goats the giddy paths
To grass-grown architrave and frieze
And gracefully Albano's hill
Curves into the horizon's line;
And sweetly sings that classic rill;
And fairly stands that nameless shrine:
And here, oh, many a sultry noon
And starry eve, that happy June,
Came Angelo and Melanie!
And earth for us was all in tune—
For while Love talk'd with them, Hope walk'd apart with me!
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V.
I shrink from the embitter'd close
Of my own melancholy tale.
'Tis long since I have waked my woes—
And nerve and voice together fail!
The throb beats faster at my brow,
My brain feels warm with starting tears,
And I shall weep—but heed not thou!
'Twill soothe awhile the ache of years!
The heart transfix'd—worn out with grief—
Will turn the arrow for relief.
Of my own melancholy tale.
'Tis long since I have waked my woes—
And nerve and voice together fail!
The throb beats faster at my brow,
My brain feels warm with starting tears,
And I shall weep—but heed not thou!
'Twill soothe awhile the ache of years!
The heart transfix'd—worn out with grief—
Will turn the arrow for relief.
The painter was a child of shame!
It stirr'd my pride to know it first,
For I had question'd but his name,
And thought, alas! I knew the worst,
Believing him unknown and poor.
His blood, indeed, was not obscure;
A high-born Conti was his mother,
But, though he knew one parent's face,
He never had beheld the other,
Nor knew his country or his race.
The Roman hid his daughter's shame
Within St. Mona's convent wall,
And gave the boy a painter's name—
And little else to live withal!
And, with a noble's high desires
Forever mounting in his heart,
The boy consumed with hidden fires,
But wrought in silence at his art;
And sometimes at St. Mona's shrine,
Worn thin with penance harsh and long
He saw his mother's form divine,
And loved her for their mutual wrong.
I said my pride was stirr'd—but no!
The voice that told its bitter tale
Was touch'd so mournfully with wo,
And, as he ceased, all deathly pale,
He loosed the hand of Melanie,
And gazed so gaspingly on me—
The demon in my bosom died!
“Not thine,” I said, “another's guilt;
I break no hearts for silly pride;
So, kiss yon weeper if thou wilt!”
It stirr'd my pride to know it first,
For I had question'd but his name,
And thought, alas! I knew the worst,
Believing him unknown and poor.
His blood, indeed, was not obscure;
A high-born Conti was his mother,
But, though he knew one parent's face,
He never had beheld the other,
Nor knew his country or his race.
The Roman hid his daughter's shame
Within St. Mona's convent wall,
And gave the boy a painter's name—
And little else to live withal!
And, with a noble's high desires
Forever mounting in his heart,
261
But wrought in silence at his art;
And sometimes at St. Mona's shrine,
Worn thin with penance harsh and long
He saw his mother's form divine,
And loved her for their mutual wrong.
I said my pride was stirr'd—but no!
The voice that told its bitter tale
Was touch'd so mournfully with wo,
And, as he ceased, all deathly pale,
He loosed the hand of Melanie,
And gazed so gaspingly on me—
The demon in my bosom died!
“Not thine,” I said, “another's guilt;
I break no hearts for silly pride;
So, kiss yon weeper if thou wilt!”
VI.
St. Mona's morning mass was done,
The shrine-lamps struggled with the day;
And rising slowly, one by one,
Stole the last worshippers away.
The organist play'd out the hymn,
The incense, to St. Mary swung,
Had mounted to the cherubim,
Or to the pillars thinly clung;
And boyish chorister replaced
The missal that was read no more,
And closed, with half irreverent haste,
Confessional and chancel door;
And as, through aisle and oriel pane,
The sun wore round his slanting beam,
The dying martyr stirr'd again,
And warriors battled in its gleam;
And costly tomb and sculptured knight
Show'd warm and wondrous in the light.
I have not said that Melanie
Was radiantly fair—
This earth again may never see
A loveliness so rare!
She glided up St. Mona's aisle
That morning as a bride,
And, full as was my heart the while,
I bless'd her in my pride!
The fountain may not fail the less
Whose sands are golden ore,
And a sister for her loveliness,
May not be loved the more;
But as, the fount's full heart beneath,
Those golden sparkles shine,
My sister's beauty seem'd to breathe
Its brightness over mine!
The shrine-lamps struggled with the day;
And rising slowly, one by one,
Stole the last worshippers away.
The organist play'd out the hymn,
The incense, to St. Mary swung,
Had mounted to the cherubim,
Or to the pillars thinly clung;
And boyish chorister replaced
The missal that was read no more,
262
Confessional and chancel door;
And as, through aisle and oriel pane,
The sun wore round his slanting beam,
The dying martyr stirr'd again,
And warriors battled in its gleam;
And costly tomb and sculptured knight
Show'd warm and wondrous in the light.
I have not said that Melanie
Was radiantly fair—
This earth again may never see
A loveliness so rare!
She glided up St. Mona's aisle
That morning as a bride,
And, full as was my heart the while,
I bless'd her in my pride!
The fountain may not fail the less
Whose sands are golden ore,
And a sister for her loveliness,
May not be loved the more;
But as, the fount's full heart beneath,
Those golden sparkles shine,
My sister's beauty seem'd to breathe
Its brightness over mine!
St. Mona has a chapel dim
Within the altar's fretted pale,
Where faintly comes the swelling hymn,
And dies, half lost, the anthem's wail.
And here, in twilight meet for prayer,
A single lamp hangs o'er the shrine,
And Raphael's Mary, soft and fair,
Looks down with sweetness half divine,
And here St. Mona's nuns alway
Through latticed bars are seen to pray.
Within the altar's fretted pale,
Where faintly comes the swelling hymn,
And dies, half lost, the anthem's wail.
And here, in twilight meet for prayer,
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And Raphael's Mary, soft and fair,
Looks down with sweetness half divine,
And here St. Mona's nuns alway
Through latticed bars are seen to pray.
Avé and sacrament were o'er,
And Angelo and Melanie
Still knelt the holy shrine before;
But prayer that morn was not for me!
My heart was lock'd! The lip might stir,
The frame might agonize—and yet,
Oh God! I could not pray for her!
A seal upon my brow was set—
My brow was hot—my brain oppress'd—
And fiends seem'd muttering round, “Your bridal is unblest!”
And Angelo and Melanie
Still knelt the holy shrine before;
But prayer that morn was not for me!
My heart was lock'd! The lip might stir,
The frame might agonize—and yet,
Oh God! I could not pray for her!
A seal upon my brow was set—
My brow was hot—my brain oppress'd—
And fiends seem'd muttering round, “Your bridal is unblest!”
With forehead to the lattice laid,
And thin, white fingers straining through,
A nun the while had softly pray'd.
Oh, even in prayer that voice I knew!
Each faltering word—each mournful tone—
Each pleading cadence, half suppress'd—
Such music had its like alone
On lips that stole it at her breast!
And ere the orison was done
I loved the mother as the son!
And thin, white fingers straining through,
A nun the while had softly pray'd.
Oh, even in prayer that voice I knew!
Each faltering word—each mournful tone—
Each pleading cadence, half suppress'd—
Such music had its like alone
On lips that stole it at her breast!
And ere the orison was done
I loved the mother as the son!
And now, the marriage vows to hear,
The nun unveil'd her brow—
When, sudden, to my startled ear,
There crept a whisper, hoarse like fear,
“De Brevern! is it thou!”
The priest let fall the golden ring,
The bridegroom stood aghast,
While, like some weird and frantic thing,
The nun was muttering fast;
And as, in dread, I nearer drew,
She thrust her arms the lattice through,
The nun unveil'd her brow—
264
There crept a whisper, hoarse like fear,
“De Brevern! is it thou!”
The priest let fall the golden ring,
The bridegroom stood aghast,
While, like some weird and frantic thing,
The nun was muttering fast;
And as, in dread, I nearer drew,
She thrust her arms the lattice through,
And held me to her straining view—
But suddenly begun
To steal upon her brain a light
That stagger'd soul, and sense, and sight,
And, with a mouth all ashy white,
She shriek'd, “It is his son!
The bridegroom is thy blood—thy brother!
Rodolph de Brevern wrong'd his mother!”
And, as that doom of love was heard,
My sister sunk—and died—without a sign or word!
But suddenly begun
To steal upon her brain a light
That stagger'd soul, and sense, and sight,
And, with a mouth all ashy white,
She shriek'd, “It is his son!
The bridegroom is thy blood—thy brother!
Rodolph de Brevern wrong'd his mother!”
And, as that doom of love was heard,
My sister sunk—and died—without a sign or word!
I shed no tear for her. She died
With her last sunshine in her eyes.
Earth held for her no joy beside
The hope just shatter'd—and she lies
In a green nook of yonder dell;
And near her, in a newer bed,
Her lover—brother—sleeps as well!
Peace to the broken-hearted dead!
With her last sunshine in her eyes.
Earth held for her no joy beside
The hope just shatter'd—and she lies
In a green nook of yonder dell;
And near her, in a newer bed,
Her lover—brother—sleeps as well!
Peace to the broken-hearted dead!
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THE DEATH OF HARRISON
What! soar'd the old eagle to die at the sun!
Lies he stiff with spread wings at the goal he had won!
Are there spirits more blest than the “Planet of Even,”
Who mount to their zenith, then melt into Heaven—
No waning of fire, no quenching of ray,
But rising, still rising, when passing away?
Farewell, gallant eagle! thou'rt buried in light!
God-speed into Heaven, lost star of our night!
Lies he stiff with spread wings at the goal he had won!
Are there spirits more blest than the “Planet of Even,”
Who mount to their zenith, then melt into Heaven—
No waning of fire, no quenching of ray,
But rising, still rising, when passing away?
Farewell, gallant eagle! thou'rt buried in light!
God-speed into Heaven, lost star of our night!
Death! Death in the White House! Ah, never before,
Trod his skeleton foot on the President's floor!
He is look'd for in hovel, and dreaded in hall—
The king in his closet keeps hatchment and pall—
The youth in his birth-place, the old man at home,
Make clean from the door-stone the path to the tomb;—
But the lord of this mansion was cradled not here—
In a churchyard far off stands his beckoning bier!
He is here as the wave-crest heaves flashing on high—
As the arrow is stopp'd by its prize in the sky—
The arrow to earth, and the foam to the shore—
Death finds them when swiftness and sparkle are o'er—
But Harrison's death fills the climax of story—
He went with his old stride—from glory to glory!
Trod his skeleton foot on the President's floor!
He is look'd for in hovel, and dreaded in hall—
The king in his closet keeps hatchment and pall—
The youth in his birth-place, the old man at home,
Make clean from the door-stone the path to the tomb;—
But the lord of this mansion was cradled not here—
In a churchyard far off stands his beckoning bier!
He is here as the wave-crest heaves flashing on high—
As the arrow is stopp'd by its prize in the sky—
The arrow to earth, and the foam to the shore—
266
But Harrison's death fills the climax of story—
He went with his old stride—from glory to glory!
Lay his sword on his breast! There's no spot on its blade
In whose cankering breath his bright laurels will fade!
'Twas the first to lead on at humanity's call—
It was stay'd with sweet mercy when “glory” was all!
As calm in the council as gallant in war,
He fought for his country, and not its “hurrah!”
In the path of the hero with pity he trod—
Let him pass, with his sword, to the presence of God!
In whose cankering breath his bright laurels will fade!
'Twas the first to lead on at humanity's call—
It was stay'd with sweet mercy when “glory” was all!
As calm in the council as gallant in war,
He fought for his country, and not its “hurrah!”
In the path of the hero with pity he trod—
Let him pass, with his sword, to the presence of God!
What more? Shall we on, with his ashes? Yet, stay!
He hath ruled the wide realm of a king in his day!
At his word, like a monarch's, went treasure and land—
The bright gold of thousands has pass'd thro' his hand—
Is there nothing to show of his glittering hoard?
No jewel to deck the rude hilt of his sword—
No trappings—no horses?—what had he, but now?
On!—on with his ashes!—HE LEFT BUT HIS PLOUGH!
Brave old Cincinnatus! Unwind ye his sheet!
Let him sleep as he lived—with his purse at his feet!
He hath ruled the wide realm of a king in his day!
At his word, like a monarch's, went treasure and land—
The bright gold of thousands has pass'd thro' his hand—
Is there nothing to show of his glittering hoard?
No jewel to deck the rude hilt of his sword—
No trappings—no horses?—what had he, but now?
On!—on with his ashes!—HE LEFT BUT HIS PLOUGH!
Brave old Cincinnatus! Unwind ye his sheet!
Let him sleep as he lived—with his purse at his feet!
Follow now, as ye list! The first mourner to-day
Is the nation—whose father is taken away!
Wife, children, and neighbor, may moan at his knell—
He was “lover and friend” to his country, as well!
For the stars on our banner, grown suddenly dim,
Let us weep, in our darkness—but weep not for him!
Not for him—who, departing, leaves millions in tears!
Not for him—who has died full of honor and years!
Not for him—who ascended Fame's ladder so high
From the round at the top he has stepp'd to the sky!
Is the nation—whose father is taken away!
Wife, children, and neighbor, may moan at his knell—
He was “lover and friend” to his country, as well!
267
Let us weep, in our darkness—but weep not for him!
Not for him—who, departing, leaves millions in tears!
Not for him—who has died full of honor and years!
Not for him—who ascended Fame's ladder so high
From the round at the top he has stepp'd to the sky!
268
ANDRE'S REQUEST TO WASHINGTON.
It is not the fear of death
That damps my brow,
It is not for another breath
I ask thee now;
I can die with a lip unstirr'd
And a quiet heart—
Let but this prayer be heard
Ere I depart.
That damps my brow,
It is not for another breath
I ask thee now;
I can die with a lip unstirr'd
And a quiet heart—
Let but this prayer be heard
Ere I depart.
I can give up my mother's look—
My sister's kiss;
I can think of love—yet brook
A death like this!
I can give up the young fame
I burn'd to win—
All—but the spotless name
I glory in.
My sister's kiss;
I can think of love—yet brook
A death like this!
I can give up the young fame
I burn'd to win—
All—but the spotless name
I glory in.
Thine is the power to give,
Thine to deny,
Joy for the hour I live—
Calmness to die.
By all the brave should cherish,
By my dying breath,
I ask that I may perish
By a soldier's death!
Thine to deny,
Joy for the hour I live—
Calmness to die.
By all the brave should cherish,
By my dying breath,
I ask that I may perish
By a soldier's death!
269
LORD IVON AND HIS DAUGHTER.
“Dost thou despise
A love like this? A lady should not scorn
One soul that loves her, howe'er lowly it be.”
A love like this? A lady should not scorn
One soul that loves her, howe'er lowly it be.”
LORD IVON.
How beautiful it is! Come here, my daughter!
Is it not a face of much bewildering brightness?
ISIDORE.
The features are all fair, sir, but so cold—
I could not love such beauty!
LORD IVON.
Yet, e'en so
Look'd thy lost mother, Isidore! Her brow
Lofty like this—her lips thus delicate,
Yet icy cold in their slight vermeil threads—
Her neck thus queenly, and the sweeping curve
Thus matchless, from the small and “pearl round ear'
To the o'er-polish'd shoulder. Never swan
Dream'd on the water with a grace so calm!
ISIDORE.
And was she proud, sir?
270
Or I had not loved her.
ISIDORE.
Then runs my lesson wrong. I ever read
Pride was unlovely.
LORD IVON.
Dost thou prate already
Of books, my little one? Nay, then, 'tis time
That a sad tale were told thee. Is thy bird
Fed for the day? Canst thou forget the rein
Of thy beloved Arabian for an hour,
And, the first time in all thy sunny life,
Take sadness to thy heart? Wilt listen, sweet?
ISIDORE.
Hang I not ever on thy lips, dear father?
LORD IVON.
As thou didst enter, I was musing here
Upon this picture. 'Tis the face of one
I never knew; but, for its glorious pride,
I bought it of the painter. There has hung
Ever the cunning curse upon my soul
To love this look in woman. Not the flower
Of all Arcadia, in the Age of Gold,
Look'd she a shepherdess, would be to me
More than the birds are. As th' astrologer
271
Dreams not of him, and tramples on the lily
That flings, unask'd, its fragrance in his way,
Yet both (as are the high-born and the low)
Wrought of the same fine Hand—so, daringly,
Flew my boy-hopes beyond me. You are here
In a brave palace, Isidore! The gem
That sparkles on your hair imprisons light
Drunk in the flaming Orient; and gold
Waits on the bidding of those girlish lips
In measure that Aladdin never knew.
Yet was I—lowly born!
ISIDORE.
Lord Ivon!
LORD IVON.
Ay,
You wonder; but I tell you that the lord
Of this tall palace was a peasant's child!
And, looking sometimes on his fair domain,
Thy sire bethinks him of a sickly boy,
Nursed by his mother on a mountain side,
His only wealth a book of poetry,
With which he daily crept into the sun,
To cheat sharp pains with the bewildering dream
Of beauty he had only read of there.
ISIDORE.
Have you the volume still, sir?
272
'Twas the gift
Of a poor scholar wandering in the hills,
Who pitied my sick idleness. I fed
My inmost soul upon the witching rhyme—
A silly tale of a low minstrel boy,
Who broke his heart in singing for a bridal.
ISIDORE.
Loved he the lady, sir?
LORD IVON.
So ran the tale.
How well do I remember it!
ISIDORE.
Alas!
Poor youth!
LORD IVON.
I never thought to pity him.
The bride was a duke's sister; and I mused
Upon the wonder of his daring love,
Till my heart changed within me. I became
Restless and sad; and in my sleep I saw
Beautiful dames all scornfully go by;
And one o'er-weary morn I crept away
Into the glen, and, flung upon a rock,
Over a torrent whose swift, giddy waters
Fill'd me with energy, I swore my soul
To better that false vision, if there were
Manhood or fire within my wretched frame.
I turn'd me homeward with the sunset hour,
Changed—for the thought had conquer'd even disease;
And my poor mother check'd her busy wheel
To wonder at the step with which I came.
The bride was a duke's sister; and I mused
Upon the wonder of his daring love,
Till my heart changed within me. I became
Restless and sad; and in my sleep I saw
Beautiful dames all scornfully go by;
And one o'er-weary morn I crept away
Into the glen, and, flung upon a rock,
Over a torrent whose swift, giddy waters
273
To better that false vision, if there were
Manhood or fire within my wretched frame.
I turn'd me homeward with the sunset hour,
Changed—for the thought had conquer'd even disease;
And my poor mother check'd her busy wheel
To wonder at the step with which I came.
Oh, heavens! that soft and dewy April eve,
When, in a minstrel's garb, but with a heart
As lofty as the marble shafts uprear'd
Beneath the stately portico, I stood
At this same palace door!
When, in a minstrel's garb, but with a heart
As lofty as the marble shafts uprear'd
Beneath the stately portico, I stood
At this same palace door!
ISIDORE.
Our own! and you
A minstrel boy!
LORD IVON.
Yes—I had wander'd far
Since I shook off my sickness in the hills,
And, with some cunning on the lute, had learn'd
A subtler lesson than humility
In the quick school of want. A menial stood
By the Egyptian sphinx; and when I came
And pray'd to sing beneath the balcony
A song of love for a fair lady's ear,
He insolently bade me to begone.
Listening not, I swept my fingers o'er
274
Struck me!
ISIDORE.
Impossible!
LORD IVON.
I dash'd my lute
Into his face, and o'er the threshold flew;
And threading rapidly the loftly rooms,
Sought vainly for his master. Suddenly
A wing rush'd o'er me, and a radiant girl,
Young as myself, but fairer than the dream
Of my most wild imagining, sprang forth,
Chasing a dove, that, 'wilder'd with pursuit,
Dropp'd breathless on my bosom.
ISIDORE.
Nay, dear father!
Was't so indeed?
LORD IVON.
I thank'd my blessed star!
And, as the fair, transcendent creature stood
Silent with wonder, I resign'd the bird
To her white hands: and, with a rapid thought,
And lips already eloquent of love,
Turn'd the strange chance to a similitude
Of my own story. Her slight, haughty lip
275
And on the ivory oval of her cheek
The rose flush'd outward with a deeper red;
And from that hour the minstrel was at home,
And horse and hound were his, and none might cross
The minion of the noble Lady Clare.
Art weary of my tale?
ISIDORE.
Dear father
LORD IVON.
Well!
A summer, and a winter, and a spring,
Went over me like brief and noteless hours.
Forever at the side of one who grew
With every morn more beautiful; the slave,
Willing and quick, of every idle whim;
Singing for no one's bidding but her own,
And then a song from my own passionate heart,
Sung with a lip of fire, but ever named
As an old rhyme that I had chanced to hear;
Riding beside her, sleeping at her door,
Doing her maddest bidding at the risk
Of life—what marvel if at last I grew
Presumptuous?
A summer, and a winter, and a spring,
Went over me like brief and noteless hours.
Forever at the side of one who grew
With every morn more beautiful; the slave,
Willing and quick, of every idle whim;
Singing for no one's bidding but her own,
And then a song from my own passionate heart,
Sung with a lip of fire, but ever named
As an old rhyme that I had chanced to hear;
Riding beside her, sleeping at her door,
Doing her maddest bidding at the risk
Of life—what marvel if at last I grew
Presumptuous?
A messenger one morn
Spurr'd through the gate—“A revel at the court!
And many minstrels, come from many lands,
Will try their harps in presence of the king;
And 'tis the royal pleasure that my lord
Come with the young and lovely Lady Clare,
Robed as the queen of Faery, who shall crown
The victor with his bays.”
Spurr'd through the gate—“A revel at the court!
And many minstrels, come from many lands,
276
And 'tis the royal pleasure that my lord
Come with the young and lovely Lady Clare,
Robed as the queen of Faery, who shall crown
The victor with his bays.”
Pass over all
To that bewildering day. She sat enthroned
Amid the court; and never twilight star
Sprang with such sweet surprise upon the eye,
As she with her rare beauty on the gaze
Of the gay multitude. The minstrels changed
Their studied songs, and chose her for a theme;
And ever at the pause all eyes upturn'd
And fed upon her loveliness.
To that bewildering day. She sat enthroned
Amid the court; and never twilight star
Sprang with such sweet surprise upon the eye,
As she with her rare beauty on the gaze
Of the gay multitude. The minstrels changed
Their studied songs, and chose her for a theme;
And ever at the pause all eyes upturn'd
And fed upon her loveliness.
The last
Long lay was ended, and the silent crowd
Waited the king's award—when suddenly
The sharp strings of a lyre were swept without,
And a clear voice claim'd hearing for a bard
Belated on his journey. Mask'd, and clad
In a long stole, the herald led me in.
A thousand eyes were on me: but I saw
The new-throned queen, in her high place, alone;
And, kneeling, at her feet, I press'd my brow
Upon her footstool, till the images
Of my past hours rush'd thick upon my brain;
Then, rising hastily, I struck my lyre;
And, in a story woven of my own,
I so did paint her in her loveliness—
Pouring my heart all out upon the lines
I knew too faithfully, and lavishing
The hoarded fire of a whole age of love
Upon each passionate word, that, as I sunk
Exhausted at the close, the ravish'd crowd
Flung gold and flowers on my still quivering lyre;
And the moved monarch in his gladness swore
There was no boon beneath his kingly crown
Too high for such a minstrel!
Long lay was ended, and the silent crowd
Waited the king's award—when suddenly
The sharp strings of a lyre were swept without,
And a clear voice claim'd hearing for a bard
Belated on his journey. Mask'd, and clad
In a long stole, the herald led me in.
A thousand eyes were on me: but I saw
The new-throned queen, in her high place, alone;
And, kneeling, at her feet, I press'd my brow
Upon her footstool, till the images
Of my past hours rush'd thick upon my brain;
Then, rising hastily, I struck my lyre;
277
I so did paint her in her loveliness—
Pouring my heart all out upon the lines
I knew too faithfully, and lavishing
The hoarded fire of a whole age of love
Upon each passionate word, that, as I sunk
Exhausted at the close, the ravish'd crowd
Flung gold and flowers on my still quivering lyre;
And the moved monarch in his gladness swore
There was no boon beneath his kingly crown
Too high for such a minstrel!
Did my star
Speak in my fainting ear? Heard I the king?
Or did the audible pulses of my heart
Seem to me so articulate? I rose,
And tore my mask away; and, as the stole
Dropp'd from my shoulders, I glanced hurriedly
A look upon the face of Lady Clare.
It was enough! I saw that she was changed—
That a brief hour had chill'd the open child
To calculating woman—that she read
With cold displeasure my o'er-daring thought:
And on that brow, to me as legible
As stars to the rapt Arab, I could trace
The scorn that waited on me! Sick of life,
Yet, even then, with a half-rallied hope
Prompting my faltering tongue, I blindly knelt,
And claim'd the king's fair promise—
Speak in my fainting ear? Heard I the king?
Or did the audible pulses of my heart
Seem to me so articulate? I rose,
And tore my mask away; and, as the stole
Dropp'd from my shoulders, I glanced hurriedly
A look upon the face of Lady Clare.
It was enough! I saw that she was changed—
That a brief hour had chill'd the open child
To calculating woman—that she read
With cold displeasure my o'er-daring thought:
And on that brow, to me as legible
As stars to the rapt Arab, I could trace
The scorn that waited on me! Sick of life,
Yet, even then, with a half-rallied hope
Prompting my faltering tongue, I blindly knelt,
And claim'd the king's fair promise—
278
For the hand
Of Lady Clare?
LORD IVON.
No, sweet one—for a sword.
ISIDORE.
You surely spoke to her?
LORD IVON.
I saw her face
No more for years. I went unto the wars;
And when again I sought that palace door,
A glory heralded the minstrel boy
That monarchs might have envied.
ISIDORE.
Was she there?
LORD IVON.
Yes—and, O God! how beautiful! The last,
The ripest seal of loveliness, was set
Upon her form; and the all-glorious pride
That I had worshipp'd on her girlish lip,
When her scared dove fled to me, was matured
Into a queenly grace; and nobleness
Was bound like a tiara to her brow,
279
Nothing on earth so ravishingly fair.
ISIDORE.
And you still loved her?
LORD IVON.
I had perill'd life
In every shape—had battled on the sea,
And burnt upon the desert, and outgone
Spirits most mad for glory, with this one
O'ermastering hope upon me. Honor, fame,
Gold, even, were as dust beneath my feet;
And war was my disgust, though I had sought
Its horrors like a bloodhound—for her praise.
My life was drunk up with the love of her.
ISIDORE.
And now she scorn'd you not?
LORD IVON.
Worse, Isidore!
She pitied me! I did not need a voice
To tell my love. She knew her sometime minion—
And felt that she should never be adored
With such idolatry as his, and sigh'd
That hearts so true beat not in palaces—
But I was poor, with all my bright renown,
And lowly born; and she—the Lady Clare!
280
She could not tell you this?
LORD IVON.
She broke my heart
As kindly as the fisher hooks the worm—
Pitying me the while!
ISIDORE.
And you—
LORD IVON.
Lived on!
But the remembrance irks me, and my throat
Chokes with the utterance!
ISIDORE.
Dear father!
LORD IVON.
Nay—
Thanks to sweet Mary Mother, it is past;
And in this world I shall have no more need
To speak of it.
ISIDORE.
But there were brighter days
In store. My mother and this palace—
281
You outrun
My tale, dear Isidore! But 'tis as well.
I would not linger on it.
My tale, dear Isidore! But 'tis as well.
I would not linger on it.
Twenty years
From this heart-broken hour, I stood again,
An old man and a stranger, at the door
Of this same palace. I had been a slave
For gold that time! My star had wrought with me!
And I was richer than the wizard king
Throned in the mines of Ind. I could not look
On my innumerable gems, the glare
Pain'd so my sun-struck eyes! My gold was countless.
From this heart-broken hour, I stood again,
An old man and a stranger, at the door
Of this same palace. I had been a slave
For gold that time! My star had wrought with me!
And I was richer than the wizard king
Throned in the mines of Ind. I could not look
On my innumerable gems, the glare
Pain'd so my sun-struck eyes! My gold was countless.
ISIDORE.
And Lady Clare?
LORD IVON.
I met upon the threshold
Her very self—all youth, all loveliness—
So like the fresh-kept picture in my brain,
That for a moment I forgot all else,
And stagger'd back and wept. She pass'd me by
With a cold look—
ISIDORE.
Oh! not the Lady Clare!
282
Her daughter, yet herself! But what a change
Waited me here! My thin and grizzled locks
Were fairer now than the young minstrel's curls—
My sun-burnt visage and contracted eye
Than the gay soldier with his gallant mien!
My words were wit, my looks interpreted;
And Lady Clare—I tell you, Lady Clare
Lean'd fondly—fondly! on my wasted arm.
O God! how changed my nature with all this!
I, that had been all love and tenderness—
The truest and most gentle heart, till now,
That ever beat—grew suddenly a devil!
I bought me lands, and titles, and received
Men's homage with a smooth hypocrisy;
And—you will scarce believe me, Isidore—
I suffer'd them to wile their peerless daughter,
The image and the pride of Lady Clare,
To wed me!
ISIDORE.
Sir! you did not!
LORD IVON.
Ay! I saw
Th' indignant anger when her mother first
Broke the repulsive wish, and the degrees
Of shuddering reluctance as her mind
Admitted the intoxicating tales
Of wealth unlimited. And when she look'd
283
Wasted before its time, and turn'd away
To hide from me her tears, her very mother
Whisper'd the cursed comfort in her ear
That made her what she is!
ISIDORE.
You could not wed her,
Knowing all this!
LORD IVON.
I felt that I had lost
My life else. I had wrung, for forty years,
My frame to its last withers; I had flung
My boyhood's fire away—the energy
Of a most sinless youth—the toil, and fret,
And agony of manhood. I had dared,
Fought, suffer'd, slaved—and never for an hour
Forgot or swerved from my resolve; and now—
With the delirious draught upon my lips—
Dash down the cup!
ISIDORE.
Yet she had never wrong'd you!
LORD IVON.
Thou'rt pleading for thy mother, my sweet child!
And angels hear thee. But, if she was wrong'd,
The sin be on the pride that sells its blood
284
Had I offer'd youth first? Came I not,
With my hands brimm'd with glory, to buy love—
And was I not denied?
ISIDORE.
Yet, dearest father
They forced her not to wed?
LORD IVON.
I call'd her back
Myself from the church threshold, and, before
Her mother and her kinsmen, bade her swear
It was her own free choice to marry me.
I show'd her my shrunk hand, and bade her think
If that was like a bridegroom, and beware
Of perjuring her chaste and spotless soul,
If now she loved me not.
ISIDORE.
What said she, sir?
LORD IVON.
Oh! they had made her even as themselves;
And her young heart was cooler than the slab
Unsunn'd beneath Pentelicus. She press'd
My wither'd fingers in her dewy clasp,
And smiled up in my face, and chid “my lord”
For his wild fancies, and led on!
285
And no
Misgiving at the altar?
LORD IVON.
None! She swore
To love and cherish me till death should part us,
With a voice clear as mine.
ISIDORE.
And kept it, father!
In mercy tell me so!
LORD IVON.
She lives, my daughter!
[OMITTED]
Long ere my babe was born, my pride had ebb'd,
And let my heart down to its better founts
Of tenderness. I had no friends—not one!
My love gush'd to my wife. I rack'd my brain
To find her a new pleasure every hour—
Yet not with me—I fear'd to haunt her eye!
Only at night, when she was slumbering
In all her beauty, I would put away
The curtains till the pale night-lamp shone on her,
And watch her through my tears.
[OMITTED]
Long ere my babe was born, my pride had ebb'd,
And let my heart down to its better founts
Of tenderness. I had no friends—not one!
My love gush'd to my wife. I rack'd my brain
To find her a new pleasure every hour—
Yet not with me—I fear'd to haunt her eye!
Only at night, when she was slumbering
In all her beauty, I would put away
The curtains till the pale night-lamp shone on her,
And watch her through my tears.
One night her lips
Parted as I gazed on them, and the name
Of a young noble, who had been my guest,
Stole forth in broken murmurs. I let fall
The curtains silently, and left her there
To slumber and dream on; and gliding forth
Upon the terrace, knelt to my pale star,
And swore, that if it pleased the God of light
To let me look upon the unborn child
Lying beneath her heart, I would but press
One kiss upon its lips, and take away
My life—that was a blight upon her years.
Parted as I gazed on them, and the name
286
Stole forth in broken murmurs. I let fall
The curtains silently, and left her there
To slumber and dream on; and gliding forth
Upon the terrace, knelt to my pale star,
And swore, that if it pleased the God of light
To let me look upon the unborn child
Lying beneath her heart, I would but press
One kiss upon its lips, and take away
My life—that was a blight upon her years.
ISIDORE.
I was that child
LORD IVON.
Yes—and I heard the cry
Of thy small “piping mouth” as 'twere a call
From my remembering star. I waited only
Thy mother's strength to bear the common shock
Of death within the doors. She rose at last,
And, oh! so sweetly pale! And thou, my child!
My heart misgave me as I look'd upon thee;
But he was ever at her side whose name
She murmur'd in her sleep; and, lingering on
To drink a little of thy sweetness more
Before I died, I watch'd their stolen love
As she had been my daughter, with a pure,
Passionless joy that I should leave her soon
To love him as she would. I know not how
To tell thee more. [OMITTED]
[OMITTED] Come, sweet! she is not worthy
Of tears like thine and mine! [OMITTED]
Of thy small “piping mouth” as 'twere a call
From my remembering star. I waited only
Thy mother's strength to bear the common shock
Of death within the doors. She rose at last,
And, oh! so sweetly pale! And thou, my child!
My heart misgave me as I look'd upon thee;
But he was ever at her side whose name
She murmur'd in her sleep; and, lingering on
To drink a little of thy sweetness more
Before I died, I watch'd their stolen love
As she had been my daughter, with a pure,
Passionless joy that I should leave her soon
To love him as she would. I know not how
To tell thee more. [OMITTED]
287
Of tears like thine and mine! [OMITTED]
[OMITTED] She fled and left me
The very night! The poison was prepared—
And she had been a widow with the morn
Rich as Golconda. As the midnight chimed,
My star rose. Gazing on its mounting orb,
I raised the chalice—but a weakness came
Over my heart; and, taking up the lamp,
I glided to her chamber, and removed
The curtains for a last, a parting look
Upon my child. [OMITTED]
The very night! The poison was prepared—
And she had been a widow with the morn
Rich as Golconda. As the midnight chimed,
My star rose. Gazing on its mounting orb,
I raised the chalice—but a weakness came
Over my heart; and, taking up the lamp,
I glided to her chamber, and removed
The curtains for a last, a parting look
Upon my child. [OMITTED]
[OMITTED] Had she but taken thee,
I could have felt she had a mother's heart,
And drain'd the chalice still. I could not leave
My babe alone in such a heartless world!
I could have felt she had a mother's heart,
And drain'd the chalice still. I could not leave
My babe alone in such a heartless world!
ISIDORE.
Thank God! Thank God!
288
THE CONFESSIONAL.
‘When thou hast met with careless hearts and cold,
Hearts that young love may touch, but never hold—
Not changeless, as the loved and left of old—
Remember me—remember me—
I passionately pray of thee!”
Lady E. S. Wortley.
Hearts that young love may touch, but never hold—
Not changeless, as the loved and left of old—
Remember me—remember me—
I passionately pray of thee!”
Lady E. S. Wortley.
I thought of thee—I thought of thee,
On ocean many a weary night—
When heaved the long and sullen sea,
With only waves and stars in sight.
We stole along by isles of balm,
We furl'd before the coming gale,
We slept amid the breathless calm,
We flew beneath the straining sail—
But thou wert lost for years to me,
And, day and night, I thought of thee!
On ocean many a weary night—
When heaved the long and sullen sea,
With only waves and stars in sight.
We stole along by isles of balm,
We furl'd before the coming gale,
We slept amid the breathless calm,
We flew beneath the straining sail—
But thou wert lost for years to me,
And, day and night, I thought of thee!
I thought of thee—I thought of thee,
In France—amid the gay saloon,
Where eyes as dark as eyes may be
Are many as the leaves in June—
Where life is love, and even the air
Is pregnant with impassion'd thought,
And song and dance and music are
With one warm meaning only fraught—
My half-snared heart broke lightly free,
And, with a blush, I thought of thee!
In France—amid the gay saloon,
Where eyes as dark as eyes may be
Are many as the leaves in June—
Where life is love, and even the air
Is pregnant with impassion'd thought,
And song and dance and music are
289
My half-snared heart broke lightly free,
And, with a blush, I thought of thee!
I thought of thee—I thought of thee,
In Florence,—where the fiery hearts
Of Italy are breathed away
In wonders of the deathless arts;
Where strays the Contadina down
Val d'Arno with a song of old;
Where clime and woman seldom frown,
And life runs over sands of gold;
I stray'd to lone Fiesolé
On many an eve, and thought of thee.
In Florence,—where the fiery hearts
Of Italy are breathed away
In wonders of the deathless arts;
Where strays the Contadina down
Val d'Arno with a song of old;
Where clime and woman seldom frown,
And life runs over sands of gold;
I stray'd to lone Fiesolé
On many an eve, and thought of thee.
I thought of thee—I thought of thee,
In Rome,—when on the Palatine
Night left the Cæsar's palace free
To Time's forgetful foot and mine;
Or, on the Coliseum's wall,
When moonlight touch'd the ivied stone,
Reclining, with a thought of all
That o'er this scene has come and gone—
The shades of Rome would start and flee
Unconsciously—I thought of thee.
In Rome,—when on the Palatine
Night left the Cæsar's palace free
To Time's forgetful foot and mine;
Or, on the Coliseum's wall,
When moonlight touch'd the ivied stone,
Reclining, with a thought of all
That o'er this scene has come and gone—
The shades of Rome would start and flee
Unconsciously—I thought of thee.
I thought of thee—I thought of thee,
In Vallombrosa's holy shade,
Where nobles born the friars be,
By life's rude changes humbler made.
Here Milton framed his Paradise;
I slept within his very cell;
And, as I closed my weary eyes,
I thought the cowl would fit me well—
The cloisters breathed, it seem'd to me,
Of heart's-ease—but I thought of thee.
In Vallombrosa's holy shade,
Where nobles born the friars be,
By life's rude changes humbler made.
290
I slept within his very cell;
And, as I closed my weary eyes,
I thought the cowl would fit me well—
The cloisters breathed, it seem'd to me,
Of heart's-ease—but I thought of thee.
I thought of thee—I thought of thee,
In Venice,—on a night in June;
When, through the city of the sea,
Like dust of silver slept the moon.
Slow turn'd his oar the gondolier,
And, as the black barks glided by,
The water to my leaning ear
Bore back the lover's passing sigh—
It was no place alone to be—
I thought of thee—I thought of thee.
In Venice,—on a night in June;
When, through the city of the sea,
Like dust of silver slept the moon.
Slow turn'd his oar the gondolier,
And, as the black barks glided by,
The water to my leaning ear
Bore back the lover's passing sigh—
It was no place alone to be—
I thought of thee—I thought of thee.
I thought of thee—I thought of thee,
In the Ionian isles—when straying
With wise Ulysses by the sea—
Old Homer's songs around me playing;
Or, watching the bewitch'd caique,
That o'er the star-lit waters flew,
I listen'd to the helmsman Greek,
Who sung the song that Sappho knew—
The poet's spell, the bark, the sea,
All vanish'd—as I thought of thee.
In the Ionian isles—when straying
With wise Ulysses by the sea—
Old Homer's songs around me playing;
Or, watching the bewitch'd caique,
That o'er the star-lit waters flew,
I listen'd to the helmsman Greek,
Who sung the song that Sappho knew—
The poet's spell, the bark, the sea,
All vanish'd—as I thought of thee.
I thought of thee—I thought of thee,
In Greece—when rose the Parthenon
Majestic o'er the Egean sea,
And heroes with it, one by one;
When, in the grove of Academe,
Where Lais and Leontium stray'd
Discussing Plato's mystic theme,
I lay at noontide in the shade—
The Egean wind, the whispering tree,
Had voices—and I thought of thee.
291
Majestic o'er the Egean sea,
And heroes with it, one by one;
When, in the grove of Academe,
Where Lais and Leontium stray'd
Discussing Plato's mystic theme,
I lay at noontide in the shade—
The Egean wind, the whispering tree,
Had voices—and I thought of thee.
I thought of thee—I thought of thee,
In Asia—on the Dardanelles;
Where swiftly as the waters flee,
Each wave some sweet old story tells;
And, seated by the marble tank
Which sleeps by Ilium's ruins old,
(The fount where peerless Helen drank,
And Venus laved her locks of gold,)
I thrill'd such classic haunts to see,
Yet even here—I thought of thee.
In Asia—on the Dardanelles;
Where swiftly as the waters flee,
Each wave some sweet old story tells;
And, seated by the marble tank
Which sleeps by Ilium's ruins old,
(The fount where peerless Helen drank,
And Venus laved her locks of gold,)
I thrill'd such classic haunts to see,
Yet even here—I thought of thee.
I thought of thee—I thought of thee,
Where glide the Bosphor's lovely waters,
All palace-lined from sea to sea;
And ever on its shores the daughters
Of the delicious East are seen,
Printing the brink with slipper'd feet.
And oh, the snowy folds between,
What eyes of heaven your glances meet!
Peris of light no fairer be—
Yet—in Stamboul—I thought of thee.
Where glide the Bosphor's lovely waters,
All palace-lined from sea to sea;
And ever on its shores the daughters
Of the delicious East are seen,
292
And oh, the snowy folds between,
What eyes of heaven your glances meet!
Peris of light no fairer be—
Yet—in Stamboul—I thought of thee.
I've thought of thee—I've thought of thee,
Through change that teaches to forget;
Thy face looks up from every sea,
In every star thine eyes are set,
Though roving beneath Orient skies,
Whose golden beauty breathes of rest,
I envy every bird that flies
Into the far and clouded West:
I think of thee—I think of thee!
Oh, dearest! hast thou thought of me?
Through change that teaches to forget;
Thy face looks up from every sea,
In every star thine eyes are set,
Though roving beneath Orient skies,
Whose golden beauty breathes of rest,
I envy every bird that flies
Into the far and clouded West:
I think of thee—I think of thee!
Oh, dearest! hast thou thought of me?
In the Scamander,—before contending for the prize of beauty on Mount Ida. Its head waters fill a beautiful tank near the walls of Troy.
293
FLORENCE GRAY
I was in Greece. It was the hour of noon,
And the Egean wind had dropp'd asleep
Upon Hymettus, and the thymy isles
Of Salamis and Egina lay hung
Like clouds upon the bright and breathless sea.
I had climbed up the Acropolis at morn,
And hours had fled, as time will in a dream,
Amidst its deathless ruins—for the air
Is full of spirits in these mighty fanes,
And they walk with you! As it sultrier grew,
I laid me down within a shadow deep
Of a tall column of the Parthenon,
And, in an absent idleness of thought,
I scrawl'd upon the smooth and marble base.
Tell me, O memory, what wrote I there?
The name of a sweet child I knew at Rome!
And the Egean wind had dropp'd asleep
Upon Hymettus, and the thymy isles
Of Salamis and Egina lay hung
Like clouds upon the bright and breathless sea.
I had climbed up the Acropolis at morn,
And hours had fled, as time will in a dream,
Amidst its deathless ruins—for the air
Is full of spirits in these mighty fanes,
And they walk with you! As it sultrier grew,
I laid me down within a shadow deep
Of a tall column of the Parthenon,
And, in an absent idleness of thought,
I scrawl'd upon the smooth and marble base.
Tell me, O memory, what wrote I there?
The name of a sweet child I knew at Rome!
I was in Asia. 'Twas a peerless night
Upon the plains of Sardis, and the moon,
Touching my eyelids through the wind-stirr'd tent,
Had witch'd me from my slumber. I arose
And silently stole forth, and by the brink
Of “gold Pactolus,” where his waters bathe
The bases of Cybele's columns fair,
I paced away the hours. In wakeful mood
I mused upon the storied past awhile,
Watching the moon, that, with the same mild eye,
Had look'd upon the mighty Lydian kings
Sleeping around me—Crœsus who had heap'd
Within that mouldering portico his gold,
And Gyges, buried with his viewless ring
Beneath yon swelling tumulus—and then
I loiter'd up the valley to a small
And humbler ruin, where the undefiled
Upon the plains of Sardis, and the moon,
Touching my eyelids through the wind-stirr'd tent,
Had witch'd me from my slumber. I arose
And silently stole forth, and by the brink
Of “gold Pactolus,” where his waters bathe
The bases of Cybele's columns fair,
294
I mused upon the storied past awhile,
Watching the moon, that, with the same mild eye,
Had look'd upon the mighty Lydian kings
Sleeping around me—Crœsus who had heap'd
Within that mouldering portico his gold,
And Gyges, buried with his viewless ring
Beneath yon swelling tumulus—and then
I loiter'd up the valley to a small
And humbler ruin, where the undefiled
Of the Apocalypse their garments kept
Spotless; and crossing with a conscious awe
The broken threshold, to my spirit's eye
It seem'd as if, amid the moonlight, stood
“The angel of the church of Sardis” still!
And I again pass'd onward, and as dawn
Paled the bright morning-star, I laid me down
Weary and sad beside the river's brink,
And 'twixt the moonlight and the rosy morn,
Wrote with my finger in the “golden sands.”
Tell me, O memory, what wrote I there?
The name of a sweet child I knew at Rome!
Spotless; and crossing with a conscious awe
The broken threshold, to my spirit's eye
It seem'd as if, amid the moonlight, stood
“The angel of the church of Sardis” still!
And I again pass'd onward, and as dawn
Paled the bright morning-star, I laid me down
Weary and sad beside the river's brink,
And 'twixt the moonlight and the rosy morn,
Wrote with my finger in the “golden sands.”
Tell me, O memory, what wrote I there?
The name of a sweet child I knew at Rome!
The dust is old upon my “sandal-shoon,”
And still I am a pilgrim; I have roved
From wild America to spicy Ind,
And worshipp'd at innumerable shrines
Of beauty; and the painter's art, to me,
And sculpture, speak as with a living tongue,
And of dead kingdoms I recall the soul,
Sitting amid their ruins. I have stored
My memory with thoughts that can allay
Fever and sadness, and when life gets dim,
And I am overladen in my years,
Minister to me. But when wearily
The mind gives over toiling, and with eyes
Open but seeing not, and senses all
Lying awake within their chambers dim,
Thought settles like a fountain, still and clear—
Far in its sleeping depths, as 'twere a gem,
Tell me, O memory, what shines so fair?
The face of the sweet child I knew at Rome!
And still I am a pilgrim; I have roved
From wild America to spicy Ind,
295
Of beauty; and the painter's art, to me,
And sculpture, speak as with a living tongue,
And of dead kingdoms I recall the soul,
Sitting amid their ruins. I have stored
My memory with thoughts that can allay
Fever and sadness, and when life gets dim,
And I am overladen in my years,
Minister to me. But when wearily
The mind gives over toiling, and with eyes
Open but seeing not, and senses all
Lying awake within their chambers dim,
Thought settles like a fountain, still and clear—
Far in its sleeping depths, as 'twere a gem,
Tell me, O memory, what shines so fair?
The face of the sweet child I knew at Rome!
“Thou hast a few names even in Sardis which have not defiled their garments: and they shall walk with me in white: for they are worthy.” —Revelation iii: 4.
296
THE PITY OF THE PARK FOUNTAIN.
'Twas a summery day in the last of May—
Pleasant in sun or shade;
And the hours went by, as the poets say,
Fragrant and fair on their flowery way;
And a hearse crept slowly through Broadway—
And the fountain gaily play'd.
Pleasant in sun or shade;
And the hours went by, as the poets say,
Fragrant and fair on their flowery way;
And a hearse crept slowly through Broadway—
And the fountain gaily play'd.
The Fountain play'd right merrily,
And the world look'd bright and gay;
And a youth went by, with a restless eye,
Whose heart was sick and whose brain was dry;
And he pray'd to God that he might die—
And the Fountain play'd away.
And the world look'd bright and gay;
And a youth went by, with a restless eye,
Whose heart was sick and whose brain was dry;
And he pray'd to God that he might die—
And the Fountain play'd away.
Uprose the spray like a diamond throne,
And the drops like music rang—
And of those who marvell'd how it shone,
Was a proud man, left, in his shame, alone;
And he shut his teeth with a smother'd groan—
And the Fountain sweetly sang.
And the drops like music rang—
And of those who marvell'd how it shone,
Was a proud man, left, in his shame, alone;
And he shut his teeth with a smother'd groan—
And the Fountain sweetly sang.
And a rainbow spann'd it changefully,
Like a bright ring broke in twain;
And the pale, fair girl, who stopp'd to see,
Was sick with the pangs of poverty—
And from hunger to guilt she chose to flee
As the rainbow smiled again.
Like a bright ring broke in twain;
And the pale, fair girl, who stopp'd to see,
297
And from hunger to guilt she chose to flee
As the rainbow smiled again.
And all as gay, on another day,
The morning will have shone;
And at noon, unmark'd, through bright Broadway,
A hearse will take its silent way;
And the bard who sings will have pass'd away—
And the Fountain will play on!
The morning will have shone;
And at noon, unmark'd, through bright Broadway,
A hearse will take its silent way;
And the bard who sings will have pass'd away—
And the Fountain will play on!
298
“CHAMBER SCENE.
[An exquisite picture in the studio of a young artist at Rome.]
She rose from her untroubled sleep,
And put away her soft brown hair,
And, in a tone as low and deep
As love's first whisper, breathed a prayer—
Her snow-white hands together press'd,
Her blue eyes shelter'd in the lid,
The folded linen on her breast
Just swelling with the charms it hid;
And from her long and flowing dress
Escaped a bare and slender foot,
Whose shape upon the earth did press
Like a new snow-flake, white and “mute;”
And there, from slumber pure and warm,
Like a young spirit fresh from heaven,
She bow'd her slight and graceful form,
And humbly pray'd to be forgiven.
And put away her soft brown hair,
And, in a tone as low and deep
As love's first whisper, breathed a prayer—
Her snow-white hands together press'd,
Her blue eyes shelter'd in the lid,
The folded linen on her breast
Just swelling with the charms it hid;
And from her long and flowing dress
Escaped a bare and slender foot,
Whose shape upon the earth did press
Like a new snow-flake, white and “mute;”
And there, from slumber pure and warm,
Like a young spirit fresh from heaven,
She bow'd her slight and graceful form,
And humbly pray'd to be forgiven.
Oh God! if souls unsoil'd as these
Need daily mercy from Thy throne—
If she upon her bended knees—
Our loveliest and our purest one—
She, with a face so clear and bright
We deem her some stray child of light—
If she, with those soft eyes in tears,
Day after day in her first years,
Must kneel and pray for grace from Thee—
What far, far deeper need have we?
How hardly, if she win not heaven,
Will our wild errors be forgiven!
Need daily mercy from Thy throne—
If she upon her bended knees—
Our loveliest and our purest one—
She, with a face so clear and bright
299
If she, with those soft eyes in tears,
Day after day in her first years,
Must kneel and pray for grace from Thee—
What far, far deeper need have we?
How hardly, if she win not heaven,
Will our wild errors be forgiven!
300
THE WIFE'S APPEAL.
“Love borrows greatly from opinion. Pride, above all things, strengthens affection.”
—E. L. Bulwer.
He sat and read. A book with silver clasps,
All gorgeous with illuminated lines
Of gold and crimson, lay upon a frame
Before him. 'Twas a volume of old time;
And in it were fine mysteries of the stars
Solved with a cunning wisdom, and strange thoughts,
Half prophecy, half poetry, and dreams
Clearer than truth, and speculations wild
That touch'd the secrets of your very soul,
They were so based on Nature. With a face
Glowing with thought, he pored upon the book.
The cushions of an Indian loom lay soft
Beneath his limbs, and, as he turn'd the page,
The sunlight, streaming through the curtain's fold,
Fell from the rose-tint on his jewell'd hand;
And the rich woods of the quaint furniture
Lay deepening their vein'd colors in the sun,
And the stain'd marbles on the pedestals
Stood like a silent company—Voltaire,
With an infernal sneer upon his lips;
And Socrates, with godlike human love
Stamp'd on his countenance; and orators,
Of times gone by that made them; and old bards,
And Medicean Venus, half divine.
Around the room were shelves of dainty lore,
And rich old pictures hung upon the walls
Where the slant light fell on them; and wrought gems,
Medallions, rare mosaics, and antiques
From Herculaneum, the niches fill'd;
And on the table of enamel, wrought
With a lost art in Italy, there lay
Prints of fair women, and engravings rare,
And a new poem, and a costly toy;
And in their midst a massive lamp of bronze
Burning sweet spices constantly. Asleep
Upon the carpet couch'd a graceful hound,
Of a rare breed; and, as his master gave
A murmer of delight at some sweet line,
He raised his slender head, and kept his eye
Upon him till the pleasant smile had pass'd
From his mild lips, and then he slept again.
The light beyond the crimson folds grew dusk,
And the clear letters of the pleasant book
Mingled and blurr'd, and the lithe hound rose up,
And, with his earnest eye upon the door,
Listen'd attentively. It came as wont—
The fall of a light foot upon the stair—
And the fond animal sprang out to meet
His mistress, and caress the ungloved hand,
He seem'd to know was beautiful. She stoop'd
Gracefully down and touch'd his silken ears
As she pass'd in—then, with a tenderness,
Half playful and half serious, she knelt
Upon the ottoman and press'd her lips
Upon her husband's forehead.
All gorgeous with illuminated lines
Of gold and crimson, lay upon a frame
Before him. 'Twas a volume of old time;
And in it were fine mysteries of the stars
Solved with a cunning wisdom, and strange thoughts,
Half prophecy, half poetry, and dreams
Clearer than truth, and speculations wild
That touch'd the secrets of your very soul,
They were so based on Nature. With a face
Glowing with thought, he pored upon the book.
The cushions of an Indian loom lay soft
Beneath his limbs, and, as he turn'd the page,
The sunlight, streaming through the curtain's fold,
Fell from the rose-tint on his jewell'd hand;
And the rich woods of the quaint furniture
Lay deepening their vein'd colors in the sun,
And the stain'd marbles on the pedestals
Stood like a silent company—Voltaire,
With an infernal sneer upon his lips;
And Socrates, with godlike human love
301
Of times gone by that made them; and old bards,
And Medicean Venus, half divine.
Around the room were shelves of dainty lore,
And rich old pictures hung upon the walls
Where the slant light fell on them; and wrought gems,
Medallions, rare mosaics, and antiques
From Herculaneum, the niches fill'd;
And on the table of enamel, wrought
With a lost art in Italy, there lay
Prints of fair women, and engravings rare,
And a new poem, and a costly toy;
And in their midst a massive lamp of bronze
Burning sweet spices constantly. Asleep
Upon the carpet couch'd a graceful hound,
Of a rare breed; and, as his master gave
A murmer of delight at some sweet line,
He raised his slender head, and kept his eye
Upon him till the pleasant smile had pass'd
From his mild lips, and then he slept again.
The light beyond the crimson folds grew dusk,
And the clear letters of the pleasant book
Mingled and blurr'd, and the lithe hound rose up,
And, with his earnest eye upon the door,
Listen'd attentively. It came as wont—
The fall of a light foot upon the stair—
And the fond animal sprang out to meet
His mistress, and caress the ungloved hand,
He seem'd to know was beautiful. She stoop'd
Gracefully down and touch'd his silken ears
302
Half playful and half serious, she knelt
Upon the ottoman and press'd her lips
Upon her husband's forehead.
She rose and put the curtain-folds aside
From the high window, and look'd out upon
The shining stars in silence. “Look they not
Like Paradises to thine eye?” he said—
But, as he spoke, a tear fell through the light—
And—starting from his seat—he folded her
Close to his heart, and—with unsteady voice—
Ask'd—if she was not happy. A faint smile
Broke through her tears; and pushing off the hair
From his broad forehead, she held back his head
With her white hand, and, gazing on his face,
Gave to her heart free utterance:—
From the high window, and look'd out upon
The shining stars in silence. “Look they not
Like Paradises to thine eye?” he said—
But, as he spoke, a tear fell through the light—
And—starting from his seat—he folded her
Close to his heart, and—with unsteady voice—
Ask'd—if she was not happy. A faint smile
Broke through her tears; and pushing off the hair
From his broad forehead, she held back his head
With her white hand, and, gazing on his face,
Gave to her heart free utterance:—
“Happy?—yes, dearest!—blest
Beyond the limit of my wildest dream—
Too bright, indeed, my blessings ever seem;
There lives not in my breast
One of Hope's promises by Love unkept,
And yet—forgive me, Ernest—I have wept.
Beyond the limit of my wildest dream—
Too bright, indeed, my blessings ever seem;
There lives not in my breast
One of Hope's promises by Love unkept,
And yet—forgive me, Ernest—I have wept.
“How shall I speak of sadness,
And seem not thankless to my God and thee?
How can the lightest wish but seem to be
The very whim of madness?
Yet, oh, there is a boon thy love beside—
And I will ask it of thee—in my pride!
And seem not thankless to my God and thee?
How can the lightest wish but seem to be
The very whim of madness?
303
And I will ask it of thee—in my pride!
“List, while my boldness lingers!
If thou hadst won yon twinkling star to hear thee—
If thou couldst bid the rainbow's curve bend near thee—
If thou couldst charm thy fingers
To weave for thee the sunset's tent of gold—
Wouldst in thine own heart treasure it untold?
If thou hadst won yon twinkling star to hear thee—
If thou couldst bid the rainbow's curve bend near thee—
If thou couldst charm thy fingers
To weave for thee the sunset's tent of gold—
Wouldst in thine own heart treasure it untold?
“If thou hadst Ariel's gift,
To course the veined metals of the earth—
If thou couldst wind a fountain to its birth—
If thou couldst know the drift
Of the lost cloud that sail'd into the sky—
Wouldst keep it for thine own unanswer'd eye?
To course the veined metals of the earth—
If thou couldst wind a fountain to its birth—
If thou couldst know the drift
Of the lost cloud that sail'd into the sky—
Wouldst keep it for thine own unanswer'd eye?
“It is thy life and mine!—
Thou, in thyself—and I in thee—misprison
Gifts like a circle of bright stars unrisen—
For thou whose mind should shine,
Eminent as a planet's light, art here—
Moved with the starting of a woman's tear
Thou, in thyself—and I in thee—misprison
Gifts like a circle of bright stars unrisen—
For thou whose mind should shine,
Eminent as a planet's light, art here—
Moved with the starting of a woman's tear
“I have told o'er thy powers
In secret, as a miser tells his gold;
I know thy spirit calm, and true, and bold.
I've watch'd thy lightest hours,
And seen thee, in the wildest flush of youth,
Touch'd with the instinct ravishment of truth.
In secret, as a miser tells his gold;
I know thy spirit calm, and true, and bold.
I've watch'd thy lightest hours,
And seen thee, in the wildest flush of youth,
Touch'd with the instinct ravishment of truth.
304
“Thou hast the secret strange
To read that hidden book, the human heart;
Thou hast the ready writer's practised art;
Thou hast the thought to range
The broadest circles Intellect hath ran—
And thou art God's best work—an honest man
To read that hidden book, the human heart;
Thou hast the ready writer's practised art;
Thou hast the thought to range
The broadest circles Intellect hath ran—
And thou art God's best work—an honest man
“And yet thou slumberest here
Like a caged bird that never knew its pinions,
And others track in glory the dominions
Where thou hast not thy peer—
Setting their weaker eyes unto the sun,
And plucking honor that thou shouldst have won.
Like a caged bird that never knew its pinions,
And others track in glory the dominions
Where thou hast not thy peer—
Setting their weaker eyes unto the sun,
And plucking honor that thou shouldst have won.
“Oh, if thou lovedst me ever,
Ernest, my husband!—if th' idolatry
That lets go heaven to fling its all on thee—
If to dismiss thee never
In dream or prayer, have given me aught to claim—
Heed me—oh, heed me! and awake to fame!”
Ernest, my husband!—if th' idolatry
That lets go heaven to fling its all on thee—
If to dismiss thee never
In dream or prayer, have given me aught to claim—
Heed me—oh, heed me! and awake to fame!”
Her lips
Closed with an earnest sweetness, and she sat
Gazing into his eyes as if her look
Search'd their dark orbs for answer. The hot blood
Into his temples mounted, and across
His countenance the flush of passionate thoughts
Pass'd with irresolute quickness. He rose up
And paced the dim room rapidly awhile,
Calming his troubled mind; and then he came
And laid his hand upon her orbéd brow,
And in a voice of heavenly tenderness
Answer'd her:—
Closed with an earnest sweetness, and she sat
Gazing into his eyes as if her look
Search'd their dark orbs for answer. The hot blood
Into his temples mounted, and across
His countenance the flush of passionate thoughts
Pass'd with irresolute quickness. He rose up
And paced the dim room rapidly awhile,
Calming his troubled mind; and then he came
305
And in a voice of heavenly tenderness
Answer'd her:—
“Before I knew thee, Mary,
Ambition was my angel. I did hear
Forever its witch'd voices in mine ear;
My days were visionary—
My nights were like the slumbers of the mad—
And every dream swept o'er me glory-clad.
Ambition was my angel. I did hear
Forever its witch'd voices in mine ear;
My days were visionary—
My nights were like the slumbers of the mad—
And every dream swept o'er me glory-clad.
“I read the burning letters
Of warlike pomp, on History's page, alone;
I counted nothing the struck widow's moan;
I heard no clank of fetters;
I only felt the trumpet's stirring blast,
And lean-eyed Famine stalk'd unchallenged past!
Of warlike pomp, on History's page, alone;
I counted nothing the struck widow's moan;
I heard no clank of fetters;
I only felt the trumpet's stirring blast,
And lean-eyed Famine stalk'd unchallenged past!
“I heard with veins of lightning
The utterance of the Statesman's word of power—
Binding and loosing nations in an hour—
But, while my eye was bright'ning,
A mask'd detraction breathed upon his fame,
And a cursed serpent slimed his written name.
The utterance of the Statesman's word of power—
Binding and loosing nations in an hour—
But, while my eye was bright'ning,
A mask'd detraction breathed upon his fame,
And a cursed serpent slimed his written name.
“The Poet rapt mine ears
With the transporting music that he sung.
With fibres from his life his lyre he strung,
And bathed the world in tears—
And then he turn'd away to muse apart,
And Scorn stole after him—and broke his heart!
With the transporting music that he sung.
With fibres from his life his lyre he strung,
And bathed the world in tears—
And then he turn'd away to muse apart,
And Scorn stole after him—and broke his heart!
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“Yet here and there I saw
One who did set the world at calm defiance,
And press right onward with a bold reliance;
And he did seem to awe
The very shadows pressing on his breast,
And, with a strong heart, held himself at rest.
One who did set the world at calm defiance,
And press right onward with a bold reliance;
And he did seem to awe
The very shadows pressing on his breast,
And, with a strong heart, held himself at rest.
“And then I look'd again—
And he had shut the door upon the crowd,
And on his face he lay and groan'd aloud—
Wrestling with hidden pain;
And in her chamber sat his wife in tears,
And his sweet babes grew sad with whisper'd fears.
And he had shut the door upon the crowd,
And on his face he lay and groan'd aloud—
Wrestling with hidden pain;
And in her chamber sat his wife in tears,
And his sweet babes grew sad with whisper'd fears.
“And so I turn'd sick-hearted
From the bright cup away, and, in my sadness,
Search'd mine own bosom for some spring of gladness;
And lo! a fountain started
Whose waters even in death flow calm and fast,
And my wild fever-thirst was slaked at last.
From the bright cup away, and, in my sadness,
Search'd mine own bosom for some spring of gladness;
And lo! a fountain started
Whose waters even in death flow calm and fast,
And my wild fever-thirst was slaked at last.
“And then I met thee, Mary,
And felt how love may into fulness pour,
Like light into a fountain running o'er:
And I did hope to vary
My life but with surprises sweet as this—
A dream—but for thy waking—fill'd with bliss.
And felt how love may into fulness pour,
Like light into a fountain running o'er:
And I did hope to vary
My life but with surprises sweet as this—
A dream—but for thy waking—fill'd with bliss.
“Yet now I feel my spirit
Bitterly stirr'd, and—nay, lift up thy brow!
It is thine own voice echoing to thee now,
And thou didst pray to hear it—
I must unto my work and my stern hours!
Take from my room thy harp, and books, and flowers!
Bitterly stirr'd, and—nay, lift up thy brow!
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And thou didst pray to hear it—
I must unto my work and my stern hours!
Take from my room thy harp, and books, and flowers!
[OMITTED]
[OMITTED] A year—
And in his room again he sat alone.
His frame had lost its fulness in that time;
His manly features had grown sharp and thin,
And from his lips the constant smile had faded.
Wild fires had barn'd the languor from his eye:
The lids look'd fever'd, and the brow was bent
With an habitual frown. He was much changed.
His chin was resting on his clenchéd hand,
And with his foot he beat upon the floor,
Unconsciously, the time of a sad tune.
Thoughts of the past prey'd on him bitterly.
He had won power and held it. He had walk'd
Steadily upward to the eye of Fame,
And kept his truth unsullied—but his home
Had been invaded by envenom'd tongues;
His wife—his spotless wife—had been assail'd
By slander, and his child had grown afraid
To come to him—his manner was so stern.
He could not speak beside his own hearth freely.
His friends were half estranged, and vulgar men
Presumed upon their services and grew
Familiar with him. He'd small time to sleep,
And none to pray; and, with his heart in fetters,
He bore harsh insults silently, and bow'd
Respectfully to men who knew he loathed them!
And, when his heart was eloquent with truth,
And love of country, and an honest zeal
Burn'd for expression, he could find no words
They would not misinterpret with their lies.
What were his many honors to him now?
The good half doubted, falsehood was so strong—
His home was hateful with its cautious fears—
His wife lay trembling on his very breast
Frighted with calumny!—And this is FAME!
[OMITTED] A year—
And in his room again he sat alone.
His frame had lost its fulness in that time;
His manly features had grown sharp and thin,
And from his lips the constant smile had faded.
Wild fires had barn'd the languor from his eye:
The lids look'd fever'd, and the brow was bent
With an habitual frown. He was much changed.
His chin was resting on his clenchéd hand,
And with his foot he beat upon the floor,
Unconsciously, the time of a sad tune.
Thoughts of the past prey'd on him bitterly.
He had won power and held it. He had walk'd
Steadily upward to the eye of Fame,
And kept his truth unsullied—but his home
Had been invaded by envenom'd tongues;
His wife—his spotless wife—had been assail'd
By slander, and his child had grown afraid
To come to him—his manner was so stern.
He could not speak beside his own hearth freely.
His friends were half estranged, and vulgar men
Presumed upon their services and grew
Familiar with him. He'd small time to sleep,
And none to pray; and, with his heart in fetters,
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Respectfully to men who knew he loathed them!
And, when his heart was eloquent with truth,
And love of country, and an honest zeal
Burn'd for expression, he could find no words
They would not misinterpret with their lies.
What were his many honors to him now?
The good half doubted, falsehood was so strong—
His home was hateful with its cautious fears—
His wife lay trembling on his very breast
Frighted with calumny!—And this is FAME!
309
TO A STOLEN RING.
Oh for thy history now! Hadst thou a tongueTo whisper of thy secrets, I could lay
Upon thy jewell'd tracery mine ear,
And dream myself in heaven. Thou hast been worn
In that fair creature's pride, and thou hast felt
The bounding of the haughtiest blood that e'er
Sprang from the heart of woman; and thy gold
Has lain upon her forehead in the hour
Of sadness, when the weary thoughts came fast,
And life was but a bitterness with all
Its vividness and beauty. She has gazed
In her fair girlhood on thy snowy pearls,
And mused away the hours, and she has bent
On thee the downcast radiance of her eye
When a deep tone was eloquent in her ear,
And thou hast lain upon her cheek, and press'd
Back on her heart its beatings, and put by
From her vein'd temples the luxuriant curls;
And in her peaceful sleep, when she has lain
In her unconscious beauty, and the dreams
Of her high heart came goldenly and soft,
Thou hast been there unchidden, and hast felt
The swelling of the clear transparent veins
As the rich blood rush'd through them, warm and fast.
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Thou inarticulate jewel! Thou hast heard
With thy dull ear such music!—the low tone
Of a young sister's tenderness, when night
Has folded them together like one flower—
The sudden snatch of a remember'd song
Warbled capriciously—the careless word
Lightly betraying the inaudible thought
Working within the heart; and more, than all,
Thou hast been lifted when the fervent prayer
For a loved mother, or the sleeping one
Lying beside her, trembling on her lip,
And the warm tear that from her eye stole out
As the soft lash fell over it, has lain
Amid thy shining jewels like a star.
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TO HER WHO HAS HOPES OF ME.
Oh stern, yet lovely monitress!
Thine eye should be of colder hue,
And on thy neck a paler tress
Should toy among those veins of blue!
For thou art to thy mission true—
An angel clad in human guise—
But sinners sometimes have such eyes,
And braid for love such tresses too;
And, while thou talk'st to me of heaven,
I sigh that thou hast not a sin to be forgiven!
Thine eye should be of colder hue,
And on thy neck a paler tress
Should toy among those veins of blue!
For thou art to thy mission true—
An angel clad in human guise—
But sinners sometimes have such eyes,
And braid for love such tresses too;
And, while thou talk'st to me of heaven,
I sigh that thou hast not a sin to be forgiven!
Night comes, with love upon the breeze,
And the calm clock strikes, stilly, “ten.”
I start to hear it beat, for then
I knew that thou art on thy knees—
And, at that hour, where'er thou be,
Ascends to heaven a prayer for me!
My heart drops to its bended knee—
The mirth upon my lip is dumb—
Yet, as a thought of heaven would come,
There glides, before it, one of thee—
Thou, in thy white dress, kneeling there!—
I fear I could leave heaven to see thee at thy prayer!
I follow up the sacred aisle,
Thy light step on the Sabbath-day,
And—as perhaps thou pray'st the while—
My light thoughts pass away!
As swells in air the holy hymn,
My breath comes thick, my eyes are dim,
And through my tears I pray!
I do not think my heart is stone—
But, while for heaven it beats alone—
In heaven would willing stay—
One rustle of thy snow-white gown
Sends all my thoughts astray!
The preaching dies upon my ear—
What “is the better world” when thy dark eyes are here!
And the calm clock strikes, stilly, “ten.”
I start to hear it beat, for then
I knew that thou art on thy knees—
And, at that hour, where'er thou be,
Ascends to heaven a prayer for me!
My heart drops to its bended knee—
The mirth upon my lip is dumb—
Yet, as a thought of heaven would come,
There glides, before it, one of thee—
Thou, in thy white dress, kneeling there!—
I fear I could leave heaven to see thee at thy prayer!
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Thy light step on the Sabbath-day,
And—as perhaps thou pray'st the while—
My light thoughts pass away!
As swells in air the holy hymn,
My breath comes thick, my eyes are dim,
And through my tears I pray!
I do not think my heart is stone—
But, while for heaven it beats alone—
In heaven would willing stay—
One rustle of thy snow-white gown
Sends all my thoughts astray!
The preaching dies upon my ear—
What “is the better world” when thy dark eyes are here!
Yet pray! my years have been but few—
And many a wile the tempter weaves,
And many a saint the sinner grieves
Ere Mercy brings him through!
But oh, when Mercy sits serene
And strives to bend to me,
Pray, that the cloud which comes between
May less resemble thee!
The world that would my soul beguile
Tints all its roses with thy smile!
In heaven 'twere well to be!
But,—to desire that blessed shore—
Oh lady! thy dark eyes must first have gone before!
And many a wile the tempter weaves,
And many a saint the sinner grieves
Ere Mercy brings him through!
But oh, when Mercy sits serene
And strives to bend to me,
Pray, that the cloud which comes between
May less resemble thee!
The world that would my soul beguile
Tints all its roses with thy smile!
In heaven 'twere well to be!
But,—to desire that blessed shore—
Oh lady! thy dark eyes must first have gone before!
313
“SHE WAS NOT THERE.”
“The bird,
Let loose, to his far nest will flee,
And love, though breathed but on a word,
Will find thee, over land and sea.”
Let loose, to his far nest will flee,
And love, though breathed but on a word,
Will find thee, over land and sea.”
'Tis midnight deep—I came but now
From the close air of lighted halls;
And while I hold my aching brow
I gaze upon my dim-lit walls;
And, feeling here that I am free
To wear the look that suits my mood,
And let my thoughts flow back to thee,
I bless my tranquil solitude,
And bidding all thoughts else begone,
I muse upon thy love alone.
Yet was the music sweet to-night,
And fragrant odors fill'd the air,
And flowers were drooping in the light,
And lovely women wander'd there;
And fruits and wines with lavish waste
Were on the marble tables piled,
And all that tempts the eye and taste,
And sets the haggard pulses wild,
And wins from care, and deadens sadness,
Were there—but yet I felt no gladness.
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Each cunning change the music play'd,
Each fragrant breath that stole to me,
My wandering thought more truant made.
The lovely women pass'd me by,
The wit fell powerless on mine ear,
I look'd on all with vacant eye,
I did not see—I did not hear!
The skill'd musician's master-tone
Was sweet—thy voice were sweeter far!
They were soft eyes the lamps shone on—
The eyes I worship gentler are!
The halls were broad, the mirrors tall,
With silver lamps and costly wine—
I only thought how poor was all
To one low tone from lips like thine—
I only felt how well forgot
Were all the stars look on—and thy sweet eyes do not!
315
FAIL ME NOT THOU!
“Oh, by that little word
How many thoughts are stirr'd!—
The last, the last, the last!”
How many thoughts are stirr'd!—
The last, the last, the last!”
The star may but a meteor be,
That breaks upon the stormy night;
And I may err, believing thee
A spark of heaven's own changeless light!
But if on earth beams aught so fair,
It seems, of all the lights that shine,
Serenest in its truth, 'tis there,
Burning in those soft eyes of thine.
Yet long-watch'd stars from heaven have rush'd,
And long-loved friends have dropp'd away,
And mine—my very heart have crush'd!
And I have hoped this many a day,
It lived no more for love or pain!
But thou hast stirr'd its depths again,
And, to its dull, out-wearied ear,
Thy voice of melody has crept,
In tones it cannot choose but hear;
And now I feel it only slept,
And know, at even thy lightest smile,
It gather'd fire and strength the while.
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My heart would never rouse again.
Thou art the brightest—but the last!
And if this trust, this love is vain—
If thou, all peerless as thou art,
Be not less fair than true of heart—
My loves are o'er! The sun will shine
Upon no grave so hush'd as this dark breast of mine.
317
TO M---, FROM ABROAD.
“The desire of the moth for the star—
Of the night for the morrow—
The devotion to something afar
From the sphere of our sorrow.”
Shelley.
Of the night for the morrow—
The devotion to something afar
From the sphere of our sorrow.”
Shelley.
“L'alma, quel che non ha, sogna e figura.”
Metastasio.
Metastasio.
As, gazing on the Pleiades,
We count each fair and starry one,
Yet wander from the light of these
To muse upon the Pleiad gone—
As, bending o'er fresh-gather'd flowers,
The rose's most enchanting hue
Reminds us but of other hours
Whose roses were all lovely too—
So, dearest, when I rove among
The bright ones of this foreign sky,
And mark the smile, and list the song,
And watch the dancers gliding by,
The fairer still they seem to be,
The more it stirs a thought of thee!
We count each fair and starry one,
Yet wander from the light of these
To muse upon the Pleiad gone—
As, bending o'er fresh-gather'd flowers,
The rose's most enchanting hue
Reminds us but of other hours
Whose roses were all lovely too—
So, dearest, when I rove among
The bright ones of this foreign sky,
And mark the smile, and list the song,
And watch the dancers gliding by,
The fairer still they seem to be,
The more it stirs a thought of thee!
The sad, sweet bells of twilight chime,
Of many hearts may touch but one,
And so this seeming careless rhyme
Will whisper to thy heart alone.
I give it to the winds! The bird,
Let loose, to his far nest will flee,
And love, though breathed but on a word,
Will find thee over land and sea.
Though clouds across the sky have driven,
We trust the star at last will shine,
And like the very light of heaven
I trust thy love. Trust thou in mine!
Of many hearts may touch but one,
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Will whisper to thy heart alone.
I give it to the winds! The bird,
Let loose, to his far nest will flee,
And love, though breathed but on a word,
Will find thee over land and sea.
Though clouds across the sky have driven,
We trust the star at last will shine,
And like the very light of heaven
I trust thy love. Trust thou in mine!
319
TO A FACE BELOVED.
The music of the waken'd lyre
Dies not upon the quivering strings,
Nor burns alone the minstrel's fire
Upon the lip that trembling sings;
Nor shines the moon in heaven unseen,
Nor shuts the flower its fragrant cells,
Nor sleeps the fountain's wealth, I ween,
Forever in its sparry wells—
The spells of the enchanter lie
Not on his own lone heart—his own rapt ear and eye.
Dies not upon the quivering strings,
Nor burns alone the minstrel's fire
Upon the lip that trembling sings;
Nor shines the moon in heaven unseen,
Nor shuts the flower its fragrant cells,
Nor sleeps the fountain's wealth, I ween,
Forever in its sparry wells—
The spells of the enchanter lie
Not on his own lone heart—his own rapt ear and eye.
I look upon a face as fair
As ever made a lip of heaven
Falter amid its music-prayer!
The first-lit star of summer even
Springs not so softly on the eye,
Nor grows, with watching, half so bright,
Nor 'mid its sisters of the sky,
So seems of heaven the dearest light—
Men murmur, where that face is seen,
My youth's angelic dream was of that look and mien.
As ever made a lip of heaven
Falter amid its music-prayer!
The first-lit star of summer even
Springs not so softly on the eye,
Nor grows, with watching, half so bright,
Nor 'mid its sisters of the sky,
So seems of heaven the dearest light—
Men murmur, where that face is seen,
My youth's angelic dream was of that look and mien.
Yet though we deem the stars are blest,
And envy, in our grief, the flower
That bears but sweetness in its breast,
And fear th' enchanter for his power,
And love the minstrel for the spell
He winds out of his lyre so well—
The stars are almoners of light,
The lyrist of melodious air,
The fountain of its waters bright,
And every thing most sweet and fair
Of that by which it charms the ear,
The eye, of him that passes near—
A lamp is lit in woman's eye
That souls, else lost on earth, remember angels by.
And envy, in our grief, the flower
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And fear th' enchanter for his power,
And love the minstrel for the spell
He winds out of his lyre so well—
The stars are almoners of light,
The lyrist of melodious air,
The fountain of its waters bright,
And every thing most sweet and fair
Of that by which it charms the ear,
The eye, of him that passes near—
A lamp is lit in woman's eye
That souls, else lost on earth, remember angels by.
321
BETTER MOMENTS.
My mother's voice! how often creeps
Its cadence on my lonely hours!
Like healing sent on wings of sleep,
Or dew to the unconscious flowers.
Its cadence on my lonely hours!
Like healing sent on wings of sleep,
Or dew to the unconscious flowers.
I can forget her melting prayer
While leaping pulses madly fly,
But in the still, unbroken air,
Her gentle tone comes stealing by—
And years, and sin, and manhood flee,
And leave me at my mother's knee.
While leaping pulses madly fly,
But in the still, unbroken air,
Her gentle tone comes stealing by—
And years, and sin, and manhood flee,
And leave me at my mother's knee.
The book of nature, and the print
Of beauty on the whispering sea,
Give aye to me some lineament
Of what I have been taught to be.
My heart is harder, and perhaps
My manliness hath drunk up tears;
And there's a mildew in the lapse
Of a few swift and chequer'd years—
But nature's book is even yet
With all my mother's lessons writ.
Of beauty on the whispering sea,
Give aye to me some lineament
Of what I have been taught to be.
My heart is harder, and perhaps
My manliness hath drunk up tears;
And there's a mildew in the lapse
Of a few swift and chequer'd years—
But nature's book is even yet
With all my mother's lessons writ.
I have been out at eventide
Beneath a moonlight sky of spring,
When earth was garnish'd like a bride,
And night had on her silver wing—
When bursting leaves, and diamond grass,
And waters leaping to the light,
And all that make the pulses pass
With wilder fleetness, throng'd the night—
When all was beauty—then have I
With friends on whom my love is flung
Like myrrh on winds of Araby,
Gazed up where evening's lamp is hung,
And when the beautiful spirit there
Flung over me its golden chain,
My mother's voice came on the air
Like the light dropping of the rain—
And resting on some silver star
The spirit of a bended knee,
I've pour'd out low and fervent prayer
That our eternity might be
To rise in heaven, like stars at night
To tread a living path of light.
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When earth was garnish'd like a bride,
And night had on her silver wing—
When bursting leaves, and diamond grass,
And waters leaping to the light,
And all that make the pulses pass
With wilder fleetness, throng'd the night—
When all was beauty—then have I
With friends on whom my love is flung
Like myrrh on winds of Araby,
Gazed up where evening's lamp is hung,
And when the beautiful spirit there
Flung over me its golden chain,
My mother's voice came on the air
Like the light dropping of the rain—
And resting on some silver star
The spirit of a bended knee,
I've pour'd out low and fervent prayer
That our eternity might be
To rise in heaven, like stars at night
To tread a living path of light.
I have been on the dewy hills,
When night was stealing from the dawn
And mist was on the waking rills,
And tints were delicately drawn
In the gray East—when birds were waking,
With a low murmur in the trees,
And melody by fits was breaking
Upon the whisper of the breeze—
And this when I was forth, perchance
As a worn reveller from the dance—
And when the sun sprang gloriously
And freely up, and hill and river
Were catching upon wave and tree
The arrows from his subtle quiver—
I say a voice has thrill'd me then,
Heard on the still and rushing light,
Or, creeping from the silent glen,
Like words from the departing night,
Hath stricken me, and I have press'd
On the wet grass my fever'd brow,
And pouring forth the earliest
First prayer, with which I learn'd to bow
Have felt my mother's spirit rush.
Upon me as in by-past years,
And, yielding to the blessed gush
Of my ungovernable tears,
Have risen up—the gay, the wild—
Subdued and humble as a child.
When night was stealing from the dawn
And mist was on the waking rills,
And tints were delicately drawn
In the gray East—when birds were waking,
With a low murmur in the trees,
And melody by fits was breaking
Upon the whisper of the breeze—
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As a worn reveller from the dance—
And when the sun sprang gloriously
And freely up, and hill and river
Were catching upon wave and tree
The arrows from his subtle quiver—
I say a voice has thrill'd me then,
Heard on the still and rushing light,
Or, creeping from the silent glen,
Like words from the departing night,
Hath stricken me, and I have press'd
On the wet grass my fever'd brow,
And pouring forth the earliest
First prayer, with which I learn'd to bow
Have felt my mother's spirit rush.
Upon me as in by-past years,
And, yielding to the blessed gush
Of my ungovernable tears,
Have risen up—the gay, the wild—
Subdued and humble as a child.
324
SUNRISE THOUGHTS AT THE CLOSE OF A BALL.
Morn in the East! How coldly fair
It breaks upon my fever'd eye!
How chides the calm and dewy air!
How chides the pure and pearly sky!
The stars melt in a brighter fire—
The dew, in sunshine, leaves the flowers—
They, from their watch, in light retire,
While we, in sadness, pass from ours.
It breaks upon my fever'd eye!
How chides the calm and dewy air!
How chides the pure and pearly sky!
The stars melt in a brighter fire—
The dew, in sunshine, leaves the flowers—
They, from their watch, in light retire,
While we, in sadness, pass from ours.
I turn from the rebuking morn,—
The cold gray sky, and fading star,—
And listen to the harp and horn,
And see the waltzers near and far—
The lamps and flowers are bright as yet,
And lips beneath more bright than they,—
How can a scene so fair beget
The mournful thoughts we bear away!
The cold gray sky, and fading star,—
And listen to the harp and horn,
And see the waltzers near and far—
The lamps and flowers are bright as yet,
And lips beneath more bright than they,—
How can a scene so fair beget
The mournful thoughts we bear away!
'Tis something that thou are not here,
Sweet lover of my lightest word!
'Tis something that my mother's tear
By these forgetful hours is stirr'd!
But I have long a loiterer been
In haunts where Joy is said to be,
And though with Peace I enter in,
The nymph comes never forth with me!
Sweet lover of my lightest word!
'Tis something that my mother's tear
By these forgetful hours is stirr'd!
But I have long a loiterer been
In haunts where Joy is said to be,
And though with Peace I enter in,
The nymph comes never forth with me!
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UNSEEN SPIRITS.
The shadows lay along Broadway,
'Twas near the twilight-tide—
And slowly there a lady fair
Was walking in her pride.
Alone walk'd she; but, viewlessly,
Walk'd spirits at her side.
'Twas near the twilight-tide—
And slowly there a lady fair
Was walking in her pride.
Alone walk'd she; but, viewlessly,
Walk'd spirits at her side.
Peace charm'd the street beneath her feet,
And Honor charm'd the air;
And all astir look'd kind on her,
And call'd her good as fair—
For all God ever gave to her
She kept with chary care.
And Honor charm'd the air;
And all astir look'd kind on her,
And call'd her good as fair—
For all God ever gave to her
She kept with chary care.
She kept with care her beauties rare
From lovers warm and true—
For her heart was cold to all but gold,
And the rich came not to woo—
But honor'd well are charms to sell
If priests the selling do.
From lovers warm and true—
For her heart was cold to all but gold,
And the rich came not to woo—
But honor'd well are charms to sell
If priests the selling do.
Now walking there was one more fair—
A slight girl, lily-pale;
And she had unseen company
To make the spirit quail—
'Twixt Want and Scorn she walk'd forlorn
And nothing could avail.
A slight girl, lily-pale;
And she had unseen company
326
'Twixt Want and Scorn she walk'd forlorn
And nothing could avail.
No mercy now can clear her brow
For this world's peace to pray;
For, as love's wild prayer dissolved in air,
Her woman's heart gave way!—
But the sin forgiven by Christ in heaven
By man is cursed alway!
For this world's peace to pray;
For, as love's wild prayer dissolved in air,
Her woman's heart gave way!—
But the sin forgiven by Christ in heaven
By man is cursed alway!
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THE ANNOYER.
“Common as light is love,
And its familiar voice wearies not ever.”
—Shelley.
And its familiar voice wearies not ever.”
—Shelley.
Love knowest every form of air,
And every shape of earth,
And comes, unbidden, everywhere,
Like thought's mysterious birth.
The moonlit sea and the sunset sky
Are written with Love's words,
And you hear his voice unceasingly,
Like song in the time of birds.
And every shape of earth,
And comes, unbidden, everywhere,
Like thought's mysterious birth.
The moonlit sea and the sunset sky
Are written with Love's words,
And you hear his voice unceasingly,
Like song in the time of birds.
He peeps into the warrior's heart
From the tip of a stooping plume,
And the serried spears and the many men
May not deny him room.
He'll come to his tent in the weary night,
And be busy in his dream;
And he'll float to his eye in morning light
Like a fay on a silver beam.
From the tip of a stooping plume,
And the serried spears and the many men
May not deny him room.
He'll come to his tent in the weary night,
And be busy in his dream;
And he'll float to his eye in morning light
Like a fay on a silver beam.
He hears the sound of the hunter's gun,
And rides on the echo back,
And sighs in his ear, like a stirring leaf,
And flits in his woodland track.
The shade of the wood, and the sheen of the river,
The cloud and the open sky—
He will haunt them all with his subtle quiver,
Like the light of your very eye.
And rides on the echo back,
And sighs in his ear, like a stirring leaf,
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The shade of the wood, and the sheen of the river,
The cloud and the open sky—
He will haunt them all with his subtle quiver,
Like the light of your very eye.
The fisher hangs over the leaning boat,
And ponders the silver sea,
For Love is under the surface hid,
And a spell of thought has he.
He heaves the wave like a bosom sweet,
And speaks in the ripple low,
Till the bait is gone from the crafty line,
And the hook hangs bare below.
And ponders the silver sea,
For Love is under the surface hid,
And a spell of thought has he.
He heaves the wave like a bosom sweet,
And speaks in the ripple low,
Till the bait is gone from the crafty line,
And the hook hangs bare below.
He blurs the print of the scholar's book,
And intrudes in the maiden's prayer,
And profanes the cell of the holy man,
In the shape of a lady fair.
In the darkest night, and the bright daylight,
In earth, and sea, and sky,
In every home of human thought,
Will Love be lurking nigh.
And intrudes in the maiden's prayer,
And profanes the cell of the holy man,
In the shape of a lady fair.
In the darkest night, and the bright daylight,
In earth, and sea, and sky,
In every home of human thought,
Will Love be lurking nigh.
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THE TORN HAT.
[OMITTED] “A leaf
Fresh flung upon a river, that will dance
Upon the wave that stealeth out its life,
Then sink of its own heaviness.”
Philip Slingsby
Fresh flung upon a river, that will dance
Upon the wave that stealeth out its life,
Then sink of its own heaviness.”
Philip Slingsby
There's something in a noble boy,
A brave, free-hearted, careless one,
With his uncheck'd, unbidden joy,
His dread of books and love of fun,
And in his clear and ready smile,
Unshaded by a thought of guile,
And unrepress'd by sadness—
Which brings me to my childhood back,
As if I trod its very track,
And felt its very gladness.
And yet it is not in his play,
When every trace of thought is lost,
And not when you would call him gay,
That his bright presence thrills me most.
His shout may ring upon the hill,
His voice be echoed in the hall,
His merry laugh like music trill,
And I unheeding hear it all—
For, like the wrinkles on my brow,
I scarcely notice such things now—
But when, amid the earnest game,
He stops, as if he music heard,
And, heedless of his shouted name
As of the carol of a bird,
Stands gazing on the empty air
As if some dream were passing there—
'Tis then that on his face I look,
His beautiful but thoughtful face,
And, like a long-forgotten book,
Its sweet, familiar meanings trace—
Remembering a thousand things
Which pass'd me on those golden wings,
Which time has fetter'd now—
Things that came o'er me with a thrill,
And left me silent, sad, and still,
And threw upon my brow
A holier and a gentler cast,
That was too innocent to last.
A brave, free-hearted, careless one,
With his uncheck'd, unbidden joy,
His dread of books and love of fun,
And in his clear and ready smile,
Unshaded by a thought of guile,
And unrepress'd by sadness—
Which brings me to my childhood back,
As if I trod its very track,
And felt its very gladness.
And yet it is not in his play,
When every trace of thought is lost,
And not when you would call him gay,
That his bright presence thrills me most.
His shout may ring upon the hill,
His voice be echoed in the hall,
His merry laugh like music trill,
And I unheeding hear it all—
For, like the wrinkles on my brow,
I scarcely notice such things now—
But when, amid the earnest game,
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And, heedless of his shouted name
As of the carol of a bird,
Stands gazing on the empty air
As if some dream were passing there—
'Tis then that on his face I look,
His beautiful but thoughtful face,
And, like a long-forgotten book,
Its sweet, familiar meanings trace—
Remembering a thousand things
Which pass'd me on those golden wings,
Which time has fetter'd now—
Things that came o'er me with a thrill,
And left me silent, sad, and still,
And threw upon my brow
A holier and a gentler cast,
That was too innocent to last.
'Tis strange how thought upon a child
Will, like a presence, sometimes press—
And when his pulse is beating wild,
And life itself is in excess—
When foot and hand, and ear and eye,
Are all with ardor straining high—
How in his heart will spring
A feeling, whose mysterious thrall
Is stronger, sweeter far than all;
And, on its silent wing,
How with the clouds he'll float away,
As wandering and as lost as they!
Will, like a presence, sometimes press—
And when his pulse is beating wild,
And life itself is in excess—
When foot and hand, and ear and eye,
Are all with ardor straining high—
How in his heart will spring
A feeling, whose mysterious thrall
Is stronger, sweeter far than all;
And, on its silent wing,
How with the clouds he'll float away,
As wandering and as lost as they!
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DAWN.
“That line I learned not in the old sad song.”
—Charles Lamb.
—Charles Lamb.
Throw up the window! 'Tis a morn for life
In its most subtle luxury. The air
Is like a breathing from a rarer world;
And the south wind is like a gentle friend,
Parting the hair so softly on my brow.
It has come over gardens, and the flowers
That kiss'd it are betray'd; for as it parts,
With its invisible fingers, my loose hair,
I know it has been trifling with the rose,
And stooping to the violet. There is joy
For all God's creatures in it. The wet leaves
Are stirring at its touch, and birds are singing
As if to breathe were music; and the grass
Sends up its modest odor with the dew,
Like the small tribute of humility.
In its most subtle luxury. The air
Is like a breathing from a rarer world;
And the south wind is like a gentle friend,
Parting the hair so softly on my brow.
It has come over gardens, and the flowers
That kiss'd it are betray'd; for as it parts,
With its invisible fingers, my loose hair,
I know it has been trifling with the rose,
And stooping to the violet. There is joy
For all God's creatures in it. The wet leaves
Are stirring at its touch, and birds are singing
As if to breathe were music; and the grass
Sends up its modest odor with the dew,
Like the small tribute of humility.
I had awoke from an unpleasant dream,
And light was welcome to me. I look'd out
To feel the common air, and when the breath
Of the delicious morning met my brow,
Cooling its fever, and the pleasant sun
Shone on familiar objects, it was like
The feeling of the captive who comes forth
From darkness to the cheerful light of day.
Oh! could we wake from sorrow; were it all
A troubled dream like this, to cast aside
Like an untimely garment with the morn;
Could the long fever of the heart be cool'd
By a sweet breath from nature; or the gloom
Of a bereaved affection pass away
With looking on the lively tint of flowers—
How lightly were the spirit reconciled
To make this beautiful, bright world its home!
And light was welcome to me. I look'd out
To feel the common air, and when the breath
Of the delicious morning met my brow,
Cooling its fever, and the pleasant sun
Shone on familiar objects, it was like
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From darkness to the cheerful light of day.
Oh! could we wake from sorrow; were it all
A troubled dream like this, to cast aside
Like an untimely garment with the morn;
Could the long fever of the heart be cool'd
By a sweet breath from nature; or the gloom
Of a bereaved affection pass away
With looking on the lively tint of flowers—
How lightly were the spirit reconciled
To make this beautiful, bright world its home!
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TO LAURA W---, TWO YEARS OF AGE.
Bright be the skies that cover thee,
Child of the sunny brow—
Bright as the dream flung over thee—
By all that meets thee now—
Thy heart is beating joyously,
Thy voice is like a bird's—
And sweetly breaks the melody
Of thy imperfect words.
I know no fount that gushes out
As gladly as thy tiny shout
Child of the sunny brow—
Bright as the dream flung over thee—
By all that meets thee now—
Thy heart is beating joyously,
Thy voice is like a bird's—
And sweetly breaks the melody
Of thy imperfect words.
I know no fount that gushes out
As gladly as thy tiny shout
I would that thou might'st ever be
As beautiful as now,—
That time might ever leave as free
Thy yet unwritten brow:
I would life were “all poetry”
To gentle measure set,
That nought but chasten'd melody
Might stain thine eye of jet—
Nor one discordant note be spoken,
Till God the cunning harp hath broken.
As beautiful as now,—
That time might ever leave as free
Thy yet unwritten brow:
I would life were “all poetry”
To gentle measure set,
That nought but chasten'd melody
Might stain thine eye of jet—
Nor one discordant note be spoken,
Till God the cunning harp hath broken.
I would—but deeper things than these
With woman's lot are wove
Wrought of intensest sympathies,
And nerved by purest love—
By the strong spirit's discipline,
By the fierce wrong forgiven,
By all that wrings the heart of sin,
Is woman won to heaven.
“Her lot is on thee,” lovely child—
God keep thy spirit undefiled!
With woman's lot are wove
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And nerved by purest love—
By the strong spirit's discipline,
By the fierce wrong forgiven,
By all that wrings the heart of sin,
Is woman won to heaven.
“Her lot is on thee,” lovely child—
God keep thy spirit undefiled!
I fear thy gentle loveliness,
Thy witching tone and air,
Thine eye's beseeching easnestness
May be to thee a snare.
The silver stars may purely shine,
The waters taintless flow—
But they who kneel at woman's shrine,
Breathe on it as they bow—
Peace may fling back the gift again,
But the crush'd flower will leave a stain.
Thy witching tone and air,
Thine eye's beseeching easnestness
May be to thee a snare.
The silver stars may purely shine,
The waters taintless flow—
But they who kneel at woman's shrine,
Breathe on it as they bow—
Peace may fling back the gift again,
But the crush'd flower will leave a stain.
What shall preserve thee, beautiful child?
Keep thee as thou art now?
Bring thee, a spirit undefiled,
At God's pure throne to bow?
The world is but a broken reed,
And life grows early dim—
Who shall be near thee in thy need,
To lead thee up to Him?
He, who Himself was “undefiled?”
With Him we trust thee, beautiful child!
Keep thee as thou art now?
Bring thee, a spirit undefiled,
At God's pure throne to bow?
The world is but a broken reed,
And life grows early dim—
Who shall be near thee in thy need,
To lead thee up to Him?
He, who Himself was “undefiled?”
With Him we trust thee, beautiful child!
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SONNET.
Storm had been on the hills. The day had wornAs if a sleep upon the hours had crept;
And the dark clouds that gather'd at the morn
In dull, impenetrable masses slept,
And the wet leaves hung droopingly, and all
Was like the mournful aspect of a pall.
Suddenly, on the horizon's edge, a blue
And delicate line, as of a pencil, lay,
And, as it wider and intenser grew,
The darkness removed silently away,
And, with the splendor of a God, broke through
The perfect glory of departing day:
So, when his stormy pilgrimage is o'er,
Will light upon the dying Christian pour.
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THE SOLDIER'S WIDOW.
Wo for mine vine-clad home!
That it should ever be so dark to me,
With its bright threshold, and its whispering tree!
That I should ever come,
Fearing the lonely echo of a tread
Beneath the roof-tree of my glorious dead!
That it should ever be so dark to me,
With its bright threshold, and its whispering tree!
That I should ever come,
Fearing the lonely echo of a tread
Beneath the roof-tree of my glorious dead!
Lead on, my orphan boy!
Thy home is not so desolate to thee—
And the low shiver in the linden tree
May bring to thee a joy;
But oh, how dark is the bright home before thee,
To her who with a joyous spirit bore thee!
Thy home is not so desolate to thee—
And the low shiver in the linden tree
May bring to thee a joy;
But oh, how dark is the bright home before thee,
To her who with a joyous spirit bore thee!
Lead on! for thou art now
My sole remaining helper. God hath spoken,
And the strong heart I lean'd upon is broken;
And I have seen his brow—
The forehead of my upright one, and just—
Trod by the hoof of battle in the dust.
My sole remaining helper. God hath spoken,
And the strong heart I lean'd upon is broken;
And I have seen his brow—
The forehead of my upright one, and just—
Trod by the hoof of battle in the dust.
He will not meet thee there
Who blest thee at the eventide, my son!
And when the shadows of the night steal on,
He will not call to prayer.
The lips that melted, giving thee to God,
Are in the icy keeping of the sod!
Who blest thee at the eventide, my son!
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He will not call to prayer.
The lips that melted, giving thee to God,
Are in the icy keeping of the sod!
Ay, my own boy! thy sire
Is with the sleepers of the valley cast,
And the proud glory of my life hath pass'd
With his high glance of fire.
Wo that the linden and the vine should bloom,
And a just man be gather'd to the tomb!
Is with the sleepers of the valley cast,
And the proud glory of my life hath pass'd
With his high glance of fire.
Wo that the linden and the vine should bloom,
And a just man be gather'd to the tomb!
Why—bear them proudly, boy!
It is the sword he girded to his thigh—
It is the helm he wore in victory—
And shall we have no joy?
For thy green vales, oh Switzerland, he died—
I will forget my sorrow in my pride!
It is the sword he girded to his thigh—
It is the helm he wore in victory—
And shall we have no joy?
For thy green vales, oh Switzerland, he died—
I will forget my sorrow in my pride!
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ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG GIRL.
'Tis difficult to feel that she is dead.Her presence, like the shadow of a wing
That is just lessening in the upper sky,
Lingers upon us. We can hear her voice,
And for her step we listen, and the eye
Looks for her wonted coming with a strange,
Forgetful earnestness. We cannot feel
That she will no more come—that from her cheek
The delicate flush has faded, and the light
Dead in her soft dark eye, and on her lip,
That was so exquisitely pure, the dew
Of the damp grave has fallen! Who so loved,
Is left among the living? Who has walk'd
The world with such a winning loveliness,
And on its bright brief journey gather'd up
Such treasures of affection? She was loved
Only as idols are. She was the pride
Of her familiar sphere—the daily joy
Of all who on her gracefulness might gaze,
And in the light and music of her way,
Have a companion's portion. Who could feel,
While looking upon beauty such as hers,
That it would ever perish? It is like
The melting of a star into the sky
While you are gazing on it, or a dream
In its most ravishing sweetness rudely broken.
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STARLIGHT.
The evening star will twinkle presently.The last small bird is silent, and the bee
Has gone into his hive, and the shut flowers
Are bending as if sleeping on the stem,
And all sweet living things are slumbering
In the deep hush of nature's resting time.
The faded West looks deep, as if its blue
Were searchable, and even as I look,
The twilight hath stole over it, and made
Its liquid eye apparent, and above
To the far-stretching zenith, and around,
As if they waited on her like a queen,
Have stole out the innumerable stars
To twinkle like intelligence in heaven.
Is it not beautiful, my fair Adel?
Fit for the young affections to come out
And bathe in like an element! How well
The night is made for tenderness—so still
That the low whisper, scarcely audible,
Is heard like music, and so deeply pure
That the fond thought is chasten'd as its springs
And on the lip made holy. I have won
Thy heart, my gentle girl! but it hath been
When that soft eye was on me, and the love
I told beneath the evening influence
Shall be as constant as its gentle star.
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ACROSTIC-SONNET.
Elegance floats about thee like a dress,Melting the airy motion of thy form
Into one swaying grace; and lovliness,
Like a rich tint that makes a picture warm,
Is lurking in the chestnut of thy tress,
Enriching it, as moonlight after storm
Mingles dark shadows into gentleness.
A beauty that bewilders like a spell
Reigns in thine eye's clear hazel, and thy brow,
So pure in vein'd transparency, doth tell
How spiritually beautiful art thou—
A temple where angelic love might dwell.
Life in thy presence were a thing to keep,
Like a gay dreamer clinging to his sleep.
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MAY.
Oh, the merry May has pleasant hours,
And dreamily they glide,
As if the floated like the leaves
Upon a silver tide.
The trees are full of crimson buds,
And the woods are full of birds,
And the waters flow to music,
Like a tune with pleasant words.
And dreamily they glide,
As if the floated like the leaves
Upon a silver tide.
The trees are full of crimson buds,
And the woods are full of birds,
And the waters flow to music,
Like a tune with pleasant words.
The verdure of the meadow-land
Is creeping to the hills,
The sweet, blue-bosom'd violets
Are blowing by the rills;
The lilach has a load of balm
For every wind that stirs,
And the larch stands green and beautiful
Amid the sombre firs.
Is creeping to the hills,
The sweet, blue-bosom'd violets
Are blowing by the rills;
The lilach has a load of balm
For every wind that stirs,
And the larch stands green and beautiful
Amid the sombre firs.
There's perfume upon every wind—
Music in every tree—
Dews for the moisture-loving flowers—
Sweets for the sucking bee;
The sick come forth for the healing South,
The young are gathering flowers;
And life is a tale of poetry,
That is told by golden hours.
Music in every tree—
Dews for the moisture-loving flowers—
Sweets for the sucking bee;
The sick come forth for the healing South,
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And life is a tale of poetry,
That is told by golden hours.
If 'tis not a true philosophy,
That the spirit when set free
Still lingers about its olden home,
In the flower and the tree,
It is very strange that our pulses thrill
At the sight of a voiceless thing,
And our hearts yearn so with tenderness
In the beautiful time of Spring.
That the spirit when set free
Still lingers about its olden home,
In the flower and the tree,
It is very strange that our pulses thrill
At the sight of a voiceless thing,
And our hearts yearn so with tenderness
In the beautiful time of Spring.
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ROARING BROOK.
It was a mountain stream that with the leapOf its impatient waters had worn out
A channel in the rock, and wash'd away
The earth that had upheld the tall old trees,
Till it was darken'd with the shadowy arch
Of the o'er-leaning branches. Here and there
It loiter'd in a broad and limpid pool
That circled round demurely, and anon
Sprung violently over where the rock
Fell suddenly, and bore its bubbles on,
Till they were broken by the hanging moss,
As anger with a gentle word grows calm.
In spring-time, when the snows were coming down,
And in the flooding of the autumn rains,
No foot might enter there—but in the hot
And thirsty summer, when the fountains slept
You could go up its channel in the shade,
To the far sources, with a brow as cool
As in the grotto of the anchorite.
Here when an idle student have I come,
And in a hollow of the rock lain down
And mused until the eventide, or read
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A haunt of faery, or the busy flow
Of water to my spell-bewilder'd ear
Seem'd like the din of some gay tournament.
Pleasant have been such hours, and though the wise
Have said that I was indolent, and they
Who taught me have reproved me that I play'd
The truant in the leafy month of June,
I deem it true philosophy in him
Whose path is in the rude and busy world,
To loiter with these wayside comforters.
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THE SOLITARY.
Alone! alone! How drear it is
Always to be alone!
In such a depth of wilderness,
The only thinking one!
The waters in their path rejoice,
The trees together sleep—
But I have not one silver voice
Upon my ear to creep!
Always to be alone!
In such a depth of wilderness,
The only thinking one!
The waters in their path rejoice,
The trees together sleep—
But I have not one silver voice
Upon my ear to creep!
The sun upon the silent hills
His mesh of beauty weaves,
There's music in the laughing rills
And in the whispering leaves.
The red deer like the breezes fly
The meet the bounding roe,
But I have not a human sigh
To cheer me as I go.
His mesh of beauty weaves,
There's music in the laughing rills
And in the whispering leaves.
The red deer like the breezes fly
The meet the bounding roe,
But I have not a human sigh
To cheer me as I go.
I've hated men—I hate them now—
But, since they are not here,
I thirst for the familiar brow—
Thirst for the stealing tear.
And I should love to see the one,
And feel the other creep,
And then again I'd be alone
Amid the forest deep.
But, since they are not here,
I thirst for the familiar brow—
Thirst for the stealing tear.
And I should love to see the one,
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And then again I'd be alone
Amid the forest deep.
I thought that I should love my hound—
Hear my resounding gun,
Till I forgot the thrilling sound
Of voices—one by one.
I thought that in the leafy hush
Of nature they would die;
But, as the hinder'd waters rush,
Resisted feelings fly.
Hear my resounding gun,
Till I forgot the thrilling sound
Of voices—one by one.
I thought that in the leafy hush
Of nature they would die;
But, as the hinder'd waters rush,
Resisted feelings fly.
I'm weary of my lonely hut
And of its blasted tree,
The very lake is like my lot,
So silent constantly.
I've lived amid the forest gloom
Until I almost fear—
When will the thrilling voices come
My spirit thirsts to hear?
And of its blasted tree,
The very lake is like my lot,
So silent constantly.
I've lived amid the forest gloom
Until I almost fear—
When will the thrilling voices come
My spirit thirsts to hear?
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AN APOLOGY
For avoiding, after long separation, a woman once loved.
See me no more on earth, I pray;
Thy picture, in my memory now,
Is fair as morn, and fresh as May!
Few were as beautiful as thou!
And still I see that willowy form—
And still that cheek like roses dyed—
And still that dark eye, deep and warm—
Thy look of love—thy step of pride!—
Thy memory is a star to me,
More bright as day-beams fade and flee.
Thy picture, in my memory now,
Is fair as morn, and fresh as May!
Few were as beautiful as thou!
And still I see that willowy form—
And still that cheek like roses dyed—
And still that dark eye, deep and warm—
Thy look of love—thy step of pride!—
Thy memory is a star to me,
More bright as day-beams fade and flee.
But thou, indeed!—Ah! years have fled,
And thou, like others, changed the while—
For joy upon the lip lies dead
If pain but cloud the sunny smile!
And care will make the roses pale,
And tears will soil the lily's whiteness,
And ere life's lamp begins to fail
The eye forgets its trick of brightness!
Look for the rose of dawn at noon,
And weep for beauty lost as soon!
And thou, like others, changed the while—
For joy upon the lip lies dead
If pain but cloud the sunny smile!
And care will make the roses pale,
And tears will soil the lily's whiteness,
And ere life's lamp begins to fail
The eye forgets its trick of brightness!
Look for the rose of dawn at noon,
And weep for beauty lost as soon!
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Cold words that hide the envious thought!
I could not bear thy face to see—
But oh, 'tis not that time has wrought
A change in features dear to me!
No! had it been my lot to share
The fragrance of the flower decay'd—
If I had borne but half the care
That on thy brow its burden laid—
If in my love thou'dst burn'd away,
The ashes still had warm'd the heart so cold to-day!
I could not bear thy face to see—
But oh, 'tis not that time has wrought
A change in features dear to me!
No! had it been my lot to share
The fragrance of the flower decay'd—
If I had borne but half the care
That on thy brow its burden laid—
If in my love thou'dst burn'd away,
The ashes still had warm'd the heart so cold to-day!
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TO HELEN IN A HUFF.
Nay, lady, one frown is enough
In a life as soon over as this—
And though minutes seem long in a huff,
They're minutes 'tis pity to miss!
The smiles you imprison so lightly
Are reckon'd, like days in eclipse;
And though you may smile again brightly,
You've lost so much light from your lips!
Pray, lady, smile!
In a life as soon over as this—
And though minutes seem long in a huff,
They're minutes 'tis pity to miss!
The smiles you imprison so lightly
Are reckon'd, like days in eclipse;
And though you may smile again brightly,
You've lost so much light from your lips!
Pray, lady, smile!
The cup that is longest untasted
May be with our bliss running o'er,
And, love when we will, we have wasted
An age in not loving before!
Perchance Cupid's forging a fetter
To tie us together some day,
And, just for the chance, we had better
Be laying up love, I should say!
Nay, lady, smile!
May be with our bliss running o'er,
And, love when we will, we have wasted
An age in not loving before!
Perchance Cupid's forging a fetter
To tie us together some day,
And, just for the chance, we had better
Be laying up love, I should say!
Nay, lady, smile!
350
ON THE DEATH OF EDWARD PAYSON, D. D.
A servant of the living God is dead!
His errand hath been well and early done,
And early hath he gone to his reward.
He shall come no more forth, but to his sleep
Hath silently lain down, and so shall rest.
His errand hath been well and early done,
And early hath he gone to his reward.
He shall come no more forth, but to his sleep
Hath silently lain down, and so shall rest.
Would ye bewail our brother? He hath gone
To Abraham's bosom. He shall no more thirst,
Nor hunger, but forever in the eye
Holy and meek, of Jesus, he may look,
Unchided, and untempted, and unstain'd.
Would ye bewail our brother? He hath gone
To sit down with the prophets by the clear
And crystal waters; he hath gone to list
Isaiah's harp and David's, and to walk
With Enoch, and Elijah, and the host
Of the just men made perfect. He shall bow
At Gabriel's hallelujah, and unfold
The scroll of the Apocalypse with John,
And talk of Christ with Mary, and go back
To the last supper, and the garden prayer
With the beloved disciple. He shall hear
The story of the Incarnation told
By Simeon, and the Triune mystery
Burning upon the fervent lips of Paul.
He shall have wings of glory, and shall soar
To the remoter firmaments, and read
The order and the harmony of stars;
And, in the might of knowledge, he shall bow,
In the deep pauses of archangel harps,
And, humble as the Seraphim, shall cry—
Who, by his searching, finds thee out, oh God!
To Abraham's bosom. He shall no more thirst,
Nor hunger, but forever in the eye
Holy and meek, of Jesus, he may look,
Unchided, and untempted, and unstain'd.
Would ye bewail our brother? He hath gone
To sit down with the prophets by the clear
And crystal waters; he hath gone to list
Isaiah's harp and David's, and to walk
With Enoch, and Elijah, and the host
Of the just men made perfect. He shall bow
At Gabriel's hallelujah, and unfold
The scroll of the Apocalypse with John,
And talk of Christ with Mary, and go back
To the last supper, and the garden prayer
With the beloved disciple. He shall hear
The story of the Incarnation told
By Simeon, and the Triune mystery
351
He shall have wings of glory, and shall soar
To the remoter firmaments, and read
The order and the harmony of stars;
And, in the might of knowledge, he shall bow,
In the deep pauses of archangel harps,
And, humble as the Seraphim, shall cry—
Who, by his searching, finds thee out, oh God!
There shall he meet his children who have gone
Before him, and as other years roll on,
And his loved flock go up to him, his hand
Again shall lead them gently to the Lamb,
And bring them to the living waters there.
Before him, and as other years roll on,
And his loved flock go up to him, his hand
Again shall lead them gently to the Lamb,
And bring them to the living waters there.
Is it so good to die! and shall we mourn
That he is taken early to his rest?
Tell me! oh mourner for the man of God!
Shall we bewail our brother—that he died?
That he is taken early to his rest?
Tell me! oh mourner for the man of God!
Shall we bewail our brother—that he died?
352
IDLENESS.
“Idleness is sweet and sacred.”
Walter Savage Landor.
Walter Savage Landor.
“When you have found a day to be idle, be idle for a day.
When you have met with three cups to drink, drink your three cups.”
Chinese Poet.
When you have met with three cups to drink, drink your three cups.”
Chinese Poet.
The rain is playing its soft pleasant tune
Fitfully on the skylight, and the shade
Of the fast-flying clouds across my book
Passes with delicate change. My merry fire
Sings cheerfully to itself; my musing cat
Purrs as she wakes from her unquiet sleep,
And looks into my face as if she felt,
Like me, the gentle influence of the rain.
Here have I sat since morn, reading sometimes,
And sometimes listening to the faster fall
Of the large drops, or rising with the stir
Of an unbidden thought, have walk'd awhile,
With the slow steps of indolence, my room,
And then sat down composedly again
To my quaint book of olden poetry.
Fitfully on the skylight, and the shade
Of the fast-flying clouds across my book
Passes with delicate change. My merry fire
Sings cheerfully to itself; my musing cat
Purrs as she wakes from her unquiet sleep,
And looks into my face as if she felt,
Like me, the gentle influence of the rain.
Here have I sat since morn, reading sometimes,
And sometimes listening to the faster fall
Of the large drops, or rising with the stir
Of an unbidden thought, have walk'd awhile,
With the slow steps of indolence, my room,
And then sat down composedly again
To my quaint book of olden poetry.
It is a kind of idleness, I know;
And I am said to be an idle man—
And it is very true. I love to go
Out in the pleasant sun, and let my eye
Rest on the human faces that pass by,
Each with its gay or busy interest:
And then I muse upon their lot, and read
Many a lesson in their changeful cast,
And so grow kind of heart, as if the sight
Of human beings were humanity.
And I am better after it, and go
More gratefully to my rest, and feel a love
Stirring my heart to every living thing;
And my low prayer has more humility,
And I sink lightlier to my dreams—and this,
'Tis very true, is only idleness!
And I am said to be an idle man—
And it is very true. I love to go
Out in the pleasant sun, and let my eye
Rest on the human faces that pass by,
353
And then I muse upon their lot, and read
Many a lesson in their changeful cast,
And so grow kind of heart, as if the sight
Of human beings were humanity.
And I am better after it, and go
More gratefully to my rest, and feel a love
Stirring my heart to every living thing;
And my low prayer has more humility,
And I sink lightlier to my dreams—and this,
'Tis very true, is only idleness!
I love to go and mingle with the young
In the gay festal room—when every heart
Is beating faster than the merry tune,
And their blue eyes are restless, and the lips
Parted with eager joy, and their round cheeks
Flush'd with the beautiful motion of the dance.
And I can look upon such things, and go
Back to my solitude, and dream bright dreams
For their fast coming years, and speak of them
Earnestly in my prayer, till I am glad
With a benevolent joy—and this, I know,
To the world's eye is only idleness!
In the gay festal room—when every heart
Is beating faster than the merry tune,
And their blue eyes are restless, and the lips
Parted with eager joy, and their round cheeks
Flush'd with the beautiful motion of the dance.
And I can look upon such things, and go
Back to my solitude, and dream bright dreams
For their fast coming years, and speak of them
Earnestly in my prayer, till I am glad
With a benevolent joy—and this, I know,
To the world's eye is only idleness!
And when the clouds pass suddenly away,
And the blue sky is like a newer world,
And the sweet-growing things—forest and flower,
Humble and beautiful alike—are all
Breathing up odors to the very heaven—
Or when the frost has yielded to the sun
In the rich autumn, and the filmy mist
Lies like a silver lining on the sky,
And the clear air exhilarates, and life
Simply, is luxury—and when the hush
Of twilight, like a gentle sleep, steals on,
And the birds settle to their nests, and stars
Spring in the upper sky, and there is not
A sound that is not low and musical—
At all these pleasant seasons I go out
With my first impulse guiding me, and take
Wood-path or stream, or slope by hill or vale,
And in my recklessness of heart, stray on,
Glad with the birds, and silent with the leaves,
And happy with the fair and blessed world—
And this, 'tis true, is only idleness!
And the blue sky is like a newer world,
And the sweet-growing things—forest and flower,
Humble and beautiful alike—are all
Breathing up odors to the very heaven—
354
In the rich autumn, and the filmy mist
Lies like a silver lining on the sky,
And the clear air exhilarates, and life
Simply, is luxury—and when the hush
Of twilight, like a gentle sleep, steals on,
And the birds settle to their nests, and stars
Spring in the upper sky, and there is not
A sound that is not low and musical—
At all these pleasant seasons I go out
With my first impulse guiding me, and take
Wood-path or stream, or slope by hill or vale,
And in my recklessness of heart, stray on,
Glad with the birds, and silent with the leaves,
And happy with the fair and blessed world—
And this, 'tis true, is only idleness!
And I should love to go up to the sky,
And course the heavens, like stars, and float away
Upon the gliding clouds that have no stay
In their swift journey—and 'twould be a joy
To walk the chambers of the deep, and tread
The pearls of its untrodden floor, and know
The tribes of the unfathomable depths—
Dwellers beneath the pressure of a sea!
And I should love to issue with the wind
On a strong errand, and o'ersweep the earth
With its broad continents and islands green,
Like to the passing of a spirit on!—
And this, 'tis true, were only idleness!
And course the heavens, like stars, and float away
Upon the gliding clouds that have no stay
In their swift journey—and 'twould be a joy
To walk the chambers of the deep, and tread
The pearls of its untrodden floor, and know
The tribes of the unfathomable depths—
Dwellers beneath the pressure of a sea!
And I should love to issue with the wind
On a strong errand, and o'ersweep the earth
With its broad continents and islands green,
Like to the passing of a spirit on!—
And this, 'tis true, were only idleness!
355
JANUARY 1, 1828.
Fleetly hath pass'd the year. The seasons cameDuly as they are wont—the gentle Spring,
And the delicious Summer, and the cool,
Rich Autumn, with the nodding of the grain,
And Winter, like an old and hoary man,
Frosty and stiff—and so are chronicled.
We have read gladness in the new green leaf,
And in the first blown violets; we have drunk
Cool water from the rock, and in the shade
Sunk to the noon-tide slumber;—we have pluck'd
The mellow fruitage of the bending tree,
And girded to our pleasant wanderings
When the cool wind came freshly from the hills;
And when the tinting of the Autumn leaves
Had faded from its glory, we have sat
By the good fires of Winter, and rejoiced
Over the fulness of the gather'd sheaf.
“God hath been very good!” 'Tis He whose hand
Moulded the sunny hills, and hollow'd out
The shelter of the valleys, and doth keep
The fountains in their secret places cool;
And it is He who leadeth up the sun,
And ordereth the starry influences,
And tempereth the keenness of the frost—
And therefore, in the plenty of the feast,
And in the lifting of the cup, let Him
Have praise for the well-completed year.
356
ON A PICTURE OF A GIRL LEADING HER BLIND MOTHER THROUGH THE WOOD.
The green leaves as we pass
Lay their light fingers on thee unaware,
And by thy side the hazels cluster fair,
And the low forest-grass
Grows green and silken where the wood-paths wind—
Alas! for thee, sweet mother! thou art blind!
Lay their light fingers on thee unaware,
And by thy side the hazels cluster fair,
And the low forest-grass
Grows green and silken where the wood-paths wind—
Alas! for thee, sweet mother! thou art blind!
And nature is all bright;
And the faint gray and crimson of the dawn,
Like folded curtains from the day are drawn;
And evening's purple light
Quivers in tremulous softness on the sky—
Alas! sweet mother! for thy clouded eye!
And the faint gray and crimson of the dawn,
Like folded curtains from the day are drawn;
And evening's purple light
Quivers in tremulous softness on the sky—
Alas! sweet mother! for thy clouded eye!
The moon's new silver shell
Trembles above thee, and the stars float up,
In the blue air, and the rich tulip's cup
Is pencill'd passing well,
And the swift birds on glorious pinions flee—
Alas! sweet mother! that thou canst not see!
Trembles above thee, and the stars float up,
In the blue air, and the rich tulip's cup
Is pencill'd passing well,
And the swift birds on glorious pinions flee—
Alas! sweet mother! that thou canst not see!
And the kind looks of friends
Peruse the sad expression in thy face,
And the child stops amid his bounding race,
And the tall stripling bends
Low to thine ear with duty unforgot—
Alas! sweet mother! that thou seest them not!
Peruse the sad expression in thy face,
357
And the tall stripling bends
Low to thine ear with duty unforgot—
Alas! sweet mother! that thou seest them not!
But thou canst hear! and love
May richly on a human tone be pour'd,
And the least cadence of a whisper'd word
A daughter's love may prove—
And while I speak thou knowest if I smile,
Albeit thou canst not see my face the while!
May richly on a human tone be pour'd,
And the least cadence of a whisper'd word
A daughter's love may prove—
And while I speak thou knowest if I smile,
Albeit thou canst not see my face the while!
Yes, thou canst hear! and He
Who on thy sightless eye its darkness hung,
To the attentive ear, like harps, hath strung
Heaven and earth and sea!
And 'tis a lesson in our hearts to know—
With but one sense the soul may overflow.
Who on thy sightless eye its darkness hung,
To the attentive ear, like harps, hath strung
Heaven and earth and sea!
And 'tis a lesson in our hearts to know—
With but one sense the soul may overflow.
358
JANUARY 1, 1829.
Winter is come again. The sweet south-westIs a forgotten wind, and the strong earth
Has laid aside its mantle to be bound
By the frost fetter. There is not a sound,
Save of the skater's heel; and there is laid
An icy figure on the lip of streams,
And the clear icicle hangs cold and still,
And the snow-fall is noiseless as a thought.
Spring has a rushing sound, and Summer sends
Many sweet voices with its odors out,
And Autumn rustleth its decaying robe
With a complaining whisper. Winter's dumb!
God made his ministry a silent one,
And He has given him a foot of steel
And an unlovely aspect, and a breath
Sharp to the senses—and we know that He
Tempereth well, and hath a meaning hid
Under the shadow of His hand. Look up;
And it shall be interpreted—Your home
Hath a temptation now! There is no voice
Of waters with beguiling for your ear,
And the cool forest and the meadows green
Witch not your feet away; and in the dells
There are no violets, and upon the hills
359
You must go in, and by your cheerful fire
Wait for the offices of love, and hear
Accents of human tenderness, and feast
Your eye upon the beauty of the young.
It is a season for the quiet thought,
And the still reckoning with thyself. The year
Gives back the spirits of its dead, and time
Whispers the history of its vanish'd hours;
And the heart, calling its affections up,
Counteth its wasted ingots. Life stands still
And settles like a fountain, and the eye
Sees clearly through its depths, and noteth all
That stirr'd its troubled waters. It is well
That Winter with the dying year should come!
360
PSYCHE,
Before the Tribunal of Venus.
Lift up thine eyes, sweet Psyche! What is she,
That those soft fringes timidly should fall
Before her, and thy spiritual brow
Be dark, as if her presence were a cloud?
A loftier gift is thine than she can give—
That queen of beauty. She may mould the brow
To perfectness, and give unto the form
A beautiful proportion; she may stain
The eye with a celestial blue—the cheek
With carmine of the sunset; she may breathe
Grace into every motion, like the play
Of the least visible tissue of a cloud;
She may give all that is within her own
Bright cestus—and one silent look of thine,
Like stronger magic, will outcharm it all.
That those soft fringes timidly should fall
Before her, and thy spiritual brow
Be dark, as if her presence were a cloud?
A loftier gift is thine than she can give—
That queen of beauty. She may mould the brow
To perfectness, and give unto the form
A beautiful proportion; she may stain
The eye with a celestial blue—the cheek
With carmine of the sunset; she may breathe
Grace into every motion, like the play
Of the least visible tissue of a cloud;
She may give all that is within her own
Bright cestus—and one silent look of thine,
Like stronger magic, will outcharm it all.
Ay, for the soul is better than its frame,
The spirit than its temple. What's the brow,
Or the eye's lustre, or the step of air,
Or color, but the beautiful links that chain
The mind from its rare element? There lies
A talisman in intellect which yields
Celestial music, when the master hand
Touches it cunningly. It sleeps beneath
The outward semblance, and to common sight
Is an invisible and hidden thing;
But when the lip is faded, and the cheek
Robb'd of its daintiness, and when the form
Witches the sense no more, and human love
Falters in its idolatry, this spell
Will hold its strength unbroken, and go on
Stealing anew the affections.
The spirit than its temple. What's the brow,
Or the eye's lustre, or the step of air,
Or color, but the beautiful links that chain
The mind from its rare element? There lies
A talisman in intellect which yields
Celestial music, when the master hand
361
The outward semblance, and to common sight
Is an invisible and hidden thing;
But when the lip is faded, and the cheek
Robb'd of its daintiness, and when the form
Witches the sense no more, and human love
Falters in its idolatry, this spell
Will hold its strength unbroken, and go on
Stealing anew the affections.
Marvel not
That Love leans sadly on his bended bow.
He hath found out the loveliness of mind,
And he is spoilt for beauty. So 'twill be
Ever—the glory of the human form
Is but a perishing thing, and Love will droop
When its brief grace hath faded; but the mind
Perished not, and when the outward charm
Hath had its brief existence, it awakes,
And is the lovelier that it slept so long—
Like wells that by the wasting of their flow
Have had their deeper fountains broken up.
That Love leans sadly on his bended bow.
He hath found out the loveliness of mind,
And he is spoilt for beauty. So 'twill be
Ever—the glory of the human form
Is but a perishing thing, and Love will droop
When its brief grace hath faded; but the mind
Perished not, and when the outward charm
Hath had its brief existence, it awakes,
And is the lovelier that it slept so long—
Like wells that by the wasting of their flow
Have had their deeper fountains broken up.
362
ON SEEING A BEAUTIFUL BOY AT PLAY.
Down the green slope he bounded. Raven curls
From his white shoulders by the winds were swept,
And the clear color of his sunny cheek
Was bright with motion. Through his open lips
Shone visibly a delicate line of pearl,
Like a white vein within a rosy shell,
And his dark eye's clear brilliance, as it lay
Beneath his lashes, like a drop of dew
Hid in the moss, stole out as covertly
As starlight from the edging of a cloud.
I never saw a boy so beautiful.
His step was like the stooping of a bird,
And his limbs melted into grace like things
Shaped by the wind of summer. He was like
A painter's conception—such an one
As he would have of Ganymede, and weep
Upon his pallet that he could not win
The vision to his easel. Who could paint
The young and shadowless spirit? Who could chain
The visible gladness of a heart that lives,
Like a glad fountain, in the eye of light,
With an unbreathing pencil? Nature's gift
Has nothing that is like it. Sun and stream,
And the new leaves of June, and the young lark
That flees away into the depths of heaven,
Lost in his own wild music, and the breath
Of springtime, and the summer eve, and noon
In the cool autumn, are like fingers swept
Over sweet-toned affections—but the joy
That enters to the spirit of a child
Is deep as his young heart: his very breath,
The simple sense of being, is enough
To ravish him, and like a thrilling touch
He feels each moment of his life go by.
From his white shoulders by the winds were swept,
And the clear color of his sunny cheek
Was bright with motion. Through his open lips
Shone visibly a delicate line of pearl,
Like a white vein within a rosy shell,
And his dark eye's clear brilliance, as it lay
Beneath his lashes, like a drop of dew
Hid in the moss, stole out as covertly
As starlight from the edging of a cloud.
I never saw a boy so beautiful.
His step was like the stooping of a bird,
And his limbs melted into grace like things
Shaped by the wind of summer. He was like
A painter's conception—such an one
As he would have of Ganymede, and weep
Upon his pallet that he could not win
The vision to his easel. Who could paint
The young and shadowless spirit? Who could chain
The visible gladness of a heart that lives,
Like a glad fountain, in the eye of light,
With an unbreathing pencil? Nature's gift
Has nothing that is like it. Sun and stream,
And the new leaves of June, and the young lark
363
Lost in his own wild music, and the breath
Of springtime, and the summer eve, and noon
In the cool autumn, are like fingers swept
Over sweet-toned affections—but the joy
That enters to the spirit of a child
Is deep as his young heart: his very breath,
The simple sense of being, is enough
To ravish him, and like a thrilling touch
He feels each moment of his life go by.
Beautiful, beautiful childhood! with a joy
That like a robe is palpable, and flung
Out by your every motion! delicate bud
Of the immortal flower that will unfold
And come to its maturity in heaven!
I weep your earthly glory. 'Tis a light
Lent to the new-born spirit, that goes out
With the first idle wind. It is the leaf
Fresh flung upon the river, that will dance
Upon the wave that stealeth out its life,
Then sink of its own heaviness. The face
Of the delightful earth will to your eye
Grow dim; the fragrance of the many flowers
Be noticed not, and the beguiling voice
Of nature in her gentleness will be
To manhood's senseless ear inaudible.
I sigh to look upon thy face, young boy!
That like a robe is palpable, and flung
Out by your every motion! delicate bud
Of the immortal flower that will unfold
And come to its maturity in heaven!
I weep your earthly glory. 'Tis a light
Lent to the new-born spirit, that goes out
With the first idle wind. It is the leaf
Fresh flung upon the river, that will dance
Upon the wave that stealeth out its life,
Then sink of its own heaviness. The face
Of the delightful earth will to your eye
Grow dim; the fragrance of the many flowers
Be noticed not, and the beguiling voice
Of nature in her gentleness will be
To manhood's senseless ear inaudible.
I sigh to look upon thy face, young boy!
364
HERO.
Claudio. Know you any, Hero?
Hero. None, my lord!
As You Like It.
Hero. None, my lord!
As You Like It.
Gentle and modest Hero! I can see
Her delicate figure, and her soft blue eye,
Like a warm vision—lovely as she stood,
Veil'd in the presence of Claudio.
Modesty bows her head, and that young heart
That would endure all suffering for the love
It hideth, is as tremulous as the leaf
Forsaken of the Summer. She hath flung
Her all upon the venture of her vow,
And in her trust leans meekly, like a flower
By the still river tempted from its stem,
And on its bosom floating.
Her delicate figure, and her soft blue eye,
Like a warm vision—lovely as she stood,
Veil'd in the presence of Claudio.
Modesty bows her head, and that young heart
That would endure all suffering for the love
It hideth, is as tremulous as the leaf
Forsaken of the Summer. She hath flung
Her all upon the venture of her vow,
And in her trust leans meekly, like a flower
By the still river tempted from its stem,
And on its bosom floating.
Once again
I see her, and she standeth in her pride,
With her soft eye enkindled, and her lip
Curled with its sweet resentment, like a line
Of lifeless coral. She hath heard the voice
That was her music utter it, and still
To her affection faithful, she hath turn'd
And question'd, in her innocent unbelief,
“Is my lord well, that he should speak so wide?”
How did they look upon that open brow,
And not read purity? Alas for truth!
It hath so many counterfeits. The words,
That to a child were written legibly,
Are by the wise mistaken, and when light
Hath made the brow transparent, and the face
Is like an angel's—virtue is so fair—
They read it like an over-blotted leaf,
And break the heart that wrote it.
I see her, and she standeth in her pride,
With her soft eye enkindled, and her lip
Curled with its sweet resentment, like a line
Of lifeless coral. She hath heard the voice
That was her music utter it, and still
To her affection faithful, she hath turn'd
365
“Is my lord well, that he should speak so wide?”
How did they look upon that open brow,
And not read purity? Alas for truth!
It hath so many counterfeits. The words,
That to a child were written legibly,
Are by the wise mistaken, and when light
Hath made the brow transparent, and the face
Is like an angel's—virtue is so fair—
They read it like an over-blotted leaf,
And break the heart that wrote it.
366
SPIRIT-WHISPERS.
(Spirit-whisper in the poet's ear—MORNING.)
Wake! poet, wake!—the morn has burst
Through gates of stars and dew,
And, wing'd by prayer since evening nursed,
Has fled to kiss the steeples first,
And now stoops low to you!
Oh, poet of the loving eye,
For you is dress'd this morning sky!
Through gates of stars and dew,
And, wing'd by prayer since evening nursed,
Has fled to kiss the steeples first,
And now stoops low to you!
Oh, poet of the loving eye,
For you is dress'd this morning sky!
(Second whisper—NOON.)
Oh, poet of the pen enchanted!
A lady sits beneath a tree!
At last the flood for which she panted—
The wild words for her anguish wanted,
Have gush'd in song from thee!
Her dark curls sweep her knees to pray:—
“God bless the poet far away!”
A lady sits beneath a tree!
At last the flood for which she panted—
The wild words for her anguish wanted,
Have gush'd in song from thee!
Her dark curls sweep her knees to pray:—
“God bless the poet far away!”
(Third whisper—MIDNIGHT.)
King of the heart's deep mysteries!
Your words have wings like lightening wove!
This hour, o'er hills and distant seas,
They fly like flower-seeds on the breeze,
And sow the world with love!
King of a realm without a throne,
Ruled by resistless tears alone!
Your words have wings like lightening wove!
This hour, o'er hills and distant seas,
They fly like flower-seeds on the breeze,
And sow the world with love!
King of a realm without a throne,
Ruled by resistless tears alone!
367
POEM
Delivered at Brown University, Sept. 6, 1831.
If, in the eyes that rest upon me now,
I see the light of an immortal fire—
If in the awe of concentrated thought,
The solemn presence of a multitude
Breathing together, the instinctive mind
Acknowledges aright a type of God—
Then in the ruling spirit of this hour
Compell'd from Heaven; and if the soaring minds
Usher'd this day upon an untried flight
Stoop not their courses, we are met to cheer
Spirits of light sprung freshly on their way.
I see the light of an immortal fire—
If in the awe of concentrated thought,
The solemn presence of a multitude
Breathing together, the instinctive mind
Acknowledges aright a type of God—
Then in the ruling spirit of this hour
Compell'd from Heaven; and if the soaring minds
Usher'd this day upon an untried flight
Stoop not their courses, we are met to cheer
Spirits of light sprung freshly on their way.
But, what a mystery—this erring mind?
It wakes within a frame of various powers
A stranger in a new and wonderous world.
It brings an instinct from some other sphere,
For its fine senses are familiar all,
And, with the unconscious habit of a dream,
It calls, and they obey. The priceless sight
Springs to its curious organ, and the ear
Learns strangely to detect th' articulate air
In its unseen divisions, and the tongue
Gets its miraculous lesson with the rest,
And in the midst of an obedient throng
Of well-trained ministers, the mind goes forth
To search the secrets of a new-found home.
It wakes within a frame of various powers
A stranger in a new and wonderous world.
It brings an instinct from some other sphere,
For its fine senses are familiar all,
And, with the unconscious habit of a dream,
It calls, and they obey. The priceless sight
Springs to its curious organ, and the ear
Learns strangely to detect th' articulate air
In its unseen divisions, and the tongue
368
And in the midst of an obedient throng
Of well-trained ministers, the mind goes forth
To search the secrets of a new-found home.
Its infancy is full of hope and joy.
Knowledge is sweet, and Nature is a nurse
Gentle and holy; and the light and air
And all things common, warm it like the sun,
And ripen the eternal seed within.
And so its youth glides on; and still it seems
A heavenward spirit, straying oftentimes,
But never widely; and if death might come
And ravish it from earth, as it is now,
We could almost believe that it would mount,
Spotless and radiant, from the very grave.
But manhood comes, and in its bosom sits
Another spirit. Stranger as it seems,
It is familiar there, for it has grown
In the unsearch'd recesses all unseen,—
Or if its shadow darken'd the bright doors,
'Twas smiled upon and gently driven in;
And as the spider and the honey-bee
Feed on the same bright flowers, this mocking soul
Fed with its purer brother, and grew strong,
Till now, in semblance of the soul itself,
With its own mien and sceptre, and a voice
Sweet as an angel's and as full of power,
It sits, a bold usurper on the throne.
What is its nature? 'Tis a child of clay,
And born of human passions. In its train
Follow all things unholy—Love of Gold,
Ambition, Pleasure, Pride of place or name,
All that we worship for itself alone,
All that we may not carry through the grave.
We have made idols of these perishing things
Till they have grown time-honor'd on their shrines,
And all men bow to them. Yet what are they?
What is Ambition? 'Tis a glorious cheat!
Angels of light walk not so dazzlingly
The sapphire walls of Heaven. The unsearch'd mine
Hath not such gems. Earth's constellated thrones
Have not such pomp of purple and of gold.
It hath no features. In its face is set
A mirror, and the gazer sees his own.
It looks a God, but it is like himself!
It hath a mien majestical, and smiles
Bewilderingly sweet—but how like him!
It follows not with fortune. It is seen
Rarely or never in the rich man's hall.
It seeks the chamber of a gifted boy,
And lifts his humble window, and comes in.
The narrow walls expand, and spread away
Into a kingly palace, and the roof
Lifts to the sky, and unseen fingers work
The ceilings with rich blazonry, and write
His name in burning letters over all.
And ever, as he shuts his 'wilder'd eyes,
The phantom comes and lays upon his lids
A spell that murders sleep, and in his ear
Whispers a deathless word, and on his brain
Breathes a fierce thirst no water will allay.
He is its slave henchforth! His days are spent
In chaining down his heart, and watching where
To rise by human weaknesses. His nights
Bring him no rest in all their blessed hours.
His kindred are forgotten or estranged.
Unhealthful fires burn constant in his eye.
His lip grows restless, and its smile is curl'd
Half into scorn—till the bright, fiery boy,
That was a daily blessing but to see,
His spirit was so bird-like and so pure,
Is frozen, in the very flush of youth,
Into a cold, care-fretted, heartless man!
Knowledge is sweet, and Nature is a nurse
Gentle and holy; and the light and air
And all things common, warm it like the sun,
And ripen the eternal seed within.
And so its youth glides on; and still it seems
A heavenward spirit, straying oftentimes,
But never widely; and if death might come
And ravish it from earth, as it is now,
We could almost believe that it would mount,
Spotless and radiant, from the very grave.
But manhood comes, and in its bosom sits
Another spirit. Stranger as it seems,
It is familiar there, for it has grown
In the unsearch'd recesses all unseen,—
Or if its shadow darken'd the bright doors,
'Twas smiled upon and gently driven in;
And as the spider and the honey-bee
Feed on the same bright flowers, this mocking soul
Fed with its purer brother, and grew strong,
Till now, in semblance of the soul itself,
With its own mien and sceptre, and a voice
Sweet as an angel's and as full of power,
It sits, a bold usurper on the throne.
What is its nature? 'Tis a child of clay,
369
Follow all things unholy—Love of Gold,
Ambition, Pleasure, Pride of place or name,
All that we worship for itself alone,
All that we may not carry through the grave.
We have made idols of these perishing things
Till they have grown time-honor'd on their shrines,
And all men bow to them. Yet what are they?
What is Ambition? 'Tis a glorious cheat!
Angels of light walk not so dazzlingly
The sapphire walls of Heaven. The unsearch'd mine
Hath not such gems. Earth's constellated thrones
Have not such pomp of purple and of gold.
It hath no features. In its face is set
A mirror, and the gazer sees his own.
It looks a God, but it is like himself!
It hath a mien majestical, and smiles
Bewilderingly sweet—but how like him!
It follows not with fortune. It is seen
Rarely or never in the rich man's hall.
It seeks the chamber of a gifted boy,
And lifts his humble window, and comes in.
The narrow walls expand, and spread away
Into a kingly palace, and the roof
Lifts to the sky, and unseen fingers work
The ceilings with rich blazonry, and write
His name in burning letters over all.
And ever, as he shuts his 'wilder'd eyes,
The phantom comes and lays upon his lids
A spell that murders sleep, and in his ear
370
Breathes a fierce thirst no water will allay.
He is its slave henchforth! His days are spent
In chaining down his heart, and watching where
To rise by human weaknesses. His nights
Bring him no rest in all their blessed hours.
His kindred are forgotten or estranged.
Unhealthful fires burn constant in his eye.
His lip grows restless, and its smile is curl'd
Half into scorn—till the bright, fiery boy,
That was a daily blessing but to see,
His spirit was so bird-like and so pure,
Is frozen, in the very flush of youth,
Into a cold, care-fretted, heartless man!
And what is its reward? At best, a name!
Praise—when the ear has grown too dull to hear,
Gold—when the senses it should please are dead;
Wreaths—when the hair they cover has grown gray;
Fame—when the heart it should have thrill'd is numb,
All things but love—when love is all we want;
And close behind comes Death, and ere we know
That ev'n these unavailing gifts are ours.
He sends us, stripp'd and naked, to the grave.
Praise—when the ear has grown too dull to hear,
Gold—when the senses it should please are dead;
Wreaths—when the hair they cover has grown gray;
Fame—when the heart it should have thrill'd is numb,
All things but love—when love is all we want;
And close behind comes Death, and ere we know
That ev'n these unavailing gifts are ours.
He sends us, stripp'd and naked, to the grave.
Is it its own reward? Reply to it,
Every aspiring heart within these walls'
Summon the shadows of those bitter hours
Wasted in brooding or neglect! Recall
The burning tears wrung from a throbbing brain
By a proud effort foil'd; and after all
These agonies are number'd, rack your heart
Back to its own self-nurtured wretchedness.
And when the pangs are crowded into one
Of all life's scorpion-stings, and Death itself
Is sent or stay'd, as it would bless or curse,
Tell me if self-misgiving torture not
Unutterably more!
Every aspiring heart within these walls'
Summon the shadows of those bitter hours
Wasted in brooding or neglect! Recall
The burning tears wrung from a throbbing brain
371
These agonies are number'd, rack your heart
Back to its own self-nurtured wretchedness.
And when the pangs are crowded into one
Of all life's scorpion-stings, and Death itself
Is sent or stay'd, as it would bless or curse,
Tell me if self-misgiving torture not
Unutterably more!
Yet this is all!
The world has no such glorious phantom else.
The spirit that could slave itself to Gold
Hath never drunk of knowledge at the well.
And Pleasure, if the senses would expand
And multiply with using, might delude
The flesh-imprison'd fancy—but not long.
And earthly Love—if measured, is too tame—
And if it drink, as in proud hearts it will,
At the deep springs of life, is but a cloud
Brooding with nameless sorrow on the soul—
A sadness—a sick-heartedness—a tear!
The world has no such glorious phantom else.
The spirit that could slave itself to Gold
Hath never drunk of knowledge at the well.
And Pleasure, if the senses would expand
And multiply with using, might delude
The flesh-imprison'd fancy—but not long.
And earthly Love—if measured, is too tame—
And if it drink, as in proud hearts it will,
At the deep springs of life, is but a cloud
Brooding with nameless sorrow on the soul—
A sadness—a sick-heartedness—a tear!
And these are the high idols of this world!
Retreating shadows caught but at the grave—
Mocking delusions, changing at the touch—
Of one false spirit the false children all.
And yet, what godlike gifts neglected lie
Wasting and marr'd in the forgotten soul!
The finest workmanship of God is there.
'Tis fleeter than the wings of light and wind;
'Tis subtler than the rarest shape of air;
Fire and wind and water do its will;
Earth hath no secret from its delicate eye;
The air no alchymy it solveth not;
The star-writ heavens are read and understood,
And every sparry mineral hath a name,
And truth is recognised, and beauty felt,
And God's own image stamp'd upon its brow.
Retreating shadows caught but at the grave—
Mocking delusions, changing at the touch—
Of one false spirit the false children all.
And yet, what godlike gifts neglected lie
Wasting and marr'd in the forgotten soul!
The finest workmanship of God is there.
'Tis fleeter than the wings of light and wind;
372
Fire and wind and water do its will;
Earth hath no secret from its delicate eye;
The air no alchymy it solveth not;
The star-writ heavens are read and understood,
And every sparry mineral hath a name,
And truth is recognised, and beauty felt,
And God's own image stamp'd upon its brow.
How is it so forgotten? Will it live
When the great firmament is roll'd away?
Hath it a voice forever audible,
“I am eternal!” Can it overcome
This mocking passion-fiend, and even here
Live like a seraph upon truth and light?
When the great firmament is roll'd away?
Hath it a voice forever audible,
“I am eternal!” Can it overcome
This mocking passion-fiend, and even here
Live like a seraph upon truth and light?
How can we ever be the slaves we are,
With a sweet angel sitting on our breasts!
How can we creep so lowly, when our wings
Tremble and plead for freedom! Look at him
Who reads aright the image on his soul,
And gives it nurture like a child of light.
His life is calm and blessed, for his peace,
Like a rich pearl beyond the diver's ken,
Lies deep in his own bosom. He is pure,
For the soul's errands are not done with men.
His senses are subdued and serve the soul.
He feels no void, for every faculty
Is used, and the fine balance of desire
Is perfect, and strains evenly, and on.
Content dwells with him, for his mind is fed,
And Temperance has driven out unrest.
He heaps no gold. It cannot buy him more
Of anything he needs. The air of heaven
Visits no freshlier the rich man's brow;
He has his portion of each silver star
Sent to his eye so freely, and the light
Of the blest sun pours on his book so clear
As on the golden missal of a king.
The spicy flowers are free to him; the sward,
And tender moss, and matted forest leaves
Are as elastic to his weary feet;
The pictures in the fountains, and beneath
The spreading trees, fine pencillings of light,
Stay while he gazes on them; the bright birds
Know not that he is poor; and as he comes
From his low roof at morn, up goes the lark
Mounting and singing to the gate of Heaven,
And merrily away the little brook
Trips with its feet of silver, and a voice,
Almost articulate, of perfect joy.
Air to his forehead, water to his lips,
Heat to his blood, come just as faithfully,
And his own faculties as freely play.
Love fills his voice with music, and the tear
Springs at as light a bidding to his eye;
And his free limbs obey him, and his sight
Flies on its wonderous errands everywhere.
With a sweet angel sitting on our breasts!
How can we creep so lowly, when our wings
Tremble and plead for freedom! Look at him
Who reads aright the image on his soul,
And gives it nurture like a child of light.
His life is calm and blessed, for his peace,
Like a rich pearl beyond the diver's ken,
Lies deep in his own bosom. He is pure,
For the soul's errands are not done with men.
His senses are subdued and serve the soul.
He feels no void, for every faculty
Is used, and the fine balance of desire
Is perfect, and strains evenly, and on.
373
And Temperance has driven out unrest.
He heaps no gold. It cannot buy him more
Of anything he needs. The air of heaven
Visits no freshlier the rich man's brow;
He has his portion of each silver star
Sent to his eye so freely, and the light
Of the blest sun pours on his book so clear
As on the golden missal of a king.
The spicy flowers are free to him; the sward,
And tender moss, and matted forest leaves
Are as elastic to his weary feet;
The pictures in the fountains, and beneath
The spreading trees, fine pencillings of light,
Stay while he gazes on them; the bright birds
Know not that he is poor; and as he comes
From his low roof at morn, up goes the lark
Mounting and singing to the gate of Heaven,
And merrily away the little brook
Trips with its feet of silver, and a voice,
Almost articulate, of perfect joy.
Air to his forehead, water to his lips,
Heat to his blood, come just as faithfully,
And his own faculties as freely play.
Love fills his voice with music, and the tear
Springs at as light a bidding to his eye;
And his free limbs obey him, and his sight
Flies on its wonderous errands everywhere.
What does he need? Next to the works of God
His friends are the rapt sages of old time;
And they impart their wisdom to his soul
In lavish fulness, when and where he will.
He sits in his mean dwelling and communes
With Socrates and Plato, and the shades
Of all great men and holy, and the words
Written in fire by Milton, and the King
Of Israel, and the troop of glorious bards,
Ravish and steal his soul up to the sky—
And what is it to him, if these come in
And visit him, that at his humble door
There are no pillars with rich capitals
And walls of curious workmanship within?
374
And they impart their wisdom to his soul
In lavish fulness, when and where he will.
He sits in his mean dwelling and communes
With Socrates and Plato, and the shades
Of all great men and holy, and the words
Written in fire by Milton, and the King
Of Israel, and the troop of glorious bards,
Ravish and steal his soul up to the sky—
And what is it to him, if these come in
And visit him, that at his humble door
There are no pillars with rich capitals
And walls of curious workmanship within?
I stand here in Wisdom's sacred stole.
My lips have not been touch'd with holy fire.
An humbler office than a counsellor
Of human duties, and an humbler place,
Would better grace my knowledge and my years.
I would not seem presuming. Yet have I
Mingled a little in this earnest world,
And staked upon its chances, and have learn'd
Truths that I never gather'd from my books.
And though the lessons they have taught me seem
Things of the wayside to the practised man,
It is a wisdom by much wandering learn'd;
And if but one young spirit bend its wing
More in the eye of Heaven, because it knew
The erring courses that bewilder'd mine,
I have not suffer'd nor shall teach in vain.
My lips have not been touch'd with holy fire.
An humbler office than a counsellor
Of human duties, and an humbler place,
Would better grace my knowledge and my years.
I would not seem presuming. Yet have I
Mingled a little in this earnest world,
And staked upon its chances, and have learn'd
Truths that I never gather'd from my books.
And though the lessons they have taught me seem
Things of the wayside to the practised man,
It is a wisdom by much wandering learn'd;
And if but one young spirit bend its wing
More in the eye of Heaven, because it knew
The erring courses that bewilder'd mine,
I have not suffer'd nor shall teach in vain.
375
It is a lesson oftener learn'd than loved—
All knowledge is not nourishment. The mind
May pine upon its food. In reckless thirst
The scholar sometimes kneels beside the stream
Polluted by the lepers of the mind.
The skeptic, with his doubts of all things good
And faith in all things evil, has been there;
And, as the stream was mingled, he has strown
The shore with all bright flowers to tempt the eye,
And sloped the banks down gently for the feet;
And Genius, like a fallen child of light,
Has fill'd the place with magic, and compell'd
Most beautiful creations into forms
And images of license, and they come
And tempt you with bewildering grace to kneel
And drink of the wild waters; and behind
Stand the strong Passions, pleading to go in;
And the approving world looks silent on;
Till the pleased mind conspires against itself,
And finds a subtle reason why 'tis good.
We are deceived, though, even as we drink,
We taste the evil. In his sweetest tone
The lying Tempter whispers in our ear,
“Though it may stain, 'twill strengthen your proud wings
And in the wild ambition of the soul
We drink anew, and dream like Lucifer
To mount upon our daring draught to Heaven.
All knowledge is not nourishment. The mind
May pine upon its food. In reckless thirst
The scholar sometimes kneels beside the stream
Polluted by the lepers of the mind.
The skeptic, with his doubts of all things good
And faith in all things evil, has been there;
And, as the stream was mingled, he has strown
The shore with all bright flowers to tempt the eye,
And sloped the banks down gently for the feet;
And Genius, like a fallen child of light,
Has fill'd the place with magic, and compell'd
Most beautiful creations into forms
And images of license, and they come
And tempt you with bewildering grace to kneel
And drink of the wild waters; and behind
Stand the strong Passions, pleading to go in;
And the approving world looks silent on;
Till the pleased mind conspires against itself,
And finds a subtle reason why 'tis good.
We are deceived, though, even as we drink,
We taste the evil. In his sweetest tone
The lying Tempter whispers in our ear,
“Though it may stain, 'twill strengthen your proud wings
And in the wild ambition of the soul
We drink anew, and dream like Lucifer
To mount upon our daring draught to Heaven.
I need not follow the similitude.
Truth is vitality, and if the mind
Be fed on poison, it must lose its power.
The vision that forever strains to err,
Soon finds its task a habit; and the taste
That will own nothing true or beautiful
Soon finds the world distorted as itself;
And the loose mind, that feeds an appetite
For the enticements of licentious thought,
Contracts a leprosy that oversteals
Its senses, like a palsy, chill, and fast.
Truth is vitality, and if the mind
376
The vision that forever strains to err,
Soon finds its task a habit; and the taste
That will own nothing true or beautiful
Soon finds the world distorted as itself;
And the loose mind, that feeds an appetite
For the enticements of licentious thought,
Contracts a leprosy that oversteals
Its senses, like a palsy, chill, and fast.
Another lesson with my manhood came.
I have unlearn'd contempt. It is the sin
That is engender'd earliest in the soul,
And doth beset it like a poison-worm,
Feeding on all its beauty. As it steals
Into the bosom, you may see the light
Of the clear, heavenly eye grew cold and dim,
And the fine, upright glory of the brow
Cloud with mistrust, and the unfetter'd lip,
That was as free and changeful as the wind—
Even in sadness redolent of love—
Curl'd with the iciness of a constant scorn.
It eats into the mind till it pollutes
All its pure fountains. Feeling, reason, taste,
Breathe of its chill corruption. Every sense
That could convey a pleasure is benumb'd,
And the bright human being, that was made
Full of all warm affections, and with power
To look through all things lovely up to God,
Is changed into a cold and doubting fiend,
With but one use for reason—to despise!
I have unlearn'd contempt. It is the sin
That is engender'd earliest in the soul,
And doth beset it like a poison-worm,
Feeding on all its beauty. As it steals
Into the bosom, you may see the light
Of the clear, heavenly eye grew cold and dim,
And the fine, upright glory of the brow
Cloud with mistrust, and the unfetter'd lip,
That was as free and changeful as the wind—
Even in sadness redolent of love—
Curl'd with the iciness of a constant scorn.
It eats into the mind till it pollutes
All its pure fountains. Feeling, reason, taste,
Breathe of its chill corruption. Every sense
That could convey a pleasure is benumb'd,
And the bright human being, that was made
Full of all warm affections, and with power
To look through all things lovely up to God,
Is changed into a cold and doubting fiend,
377
Oh, if there is one law above the rest
Written in reason—if there is a word
That I could trace as with a pen of fire
Upon the unsunn'd temper of a child—
If there is any thing that keeps the mind
Open to angel visits, and repels
The ministry of ill—'tis human love!
God has made nothing worthy of contempt.
The smallest pebble in the well of truth
Has its peculiar meaning, and will stand
When men's best monuments have pass'd away.
The law of heaven is love; and though its name
Has been usurped by passion, and profaned
To its unholy uses through all time,
Still, the eternal principle is pure;
And in these deep affections that we feel
Omnipotent within us, we but see
The lavish measure in which love is given;
And in the yearning tenderness of a child
For every bird that sings above his head,
And every creature feeding on the hills,
And every tree, and flower, and running brook,
We see how every thing was made to love.
And how they err, who, in a world like this,
Find anything to hate but human pride!
Written in reason—if there is a word
That I could trace as with a pen of fire
Upon the unsunn'd temper of a child—
If there is any thing that keeps the mind
Open to angel visits, and repels
The ministry of ill—'tis human love!
God has made nothing worthy of contempt.
The smallest pebble in the well of truth
Has its peculiar meaning, and will stand
When men's best monuments have pass'd away.
The law of heaven is love; and though its name
Has been usurped by passion, and profaned
To its unholy uses through all time,
Still, the eternal principle is pure;
And in these deep affections that we feel
Omnipotent within us, we but see
The lavish measure in which love is given;
And in the yearning tenderness of a child
For every bird that sings above his head,
And every creature feeding on the hills,
And every tree, and flower, and running brook,
We see how every thing was made to love.
And how they err, who, in a world like this,
Find anything to hate but human pride!
Oh, if we are not bitterly deceived—
If this familiar spirit that communes
With yours this hour—that has the power to search
All things but its own compass—is a spark
Struck from the burning essence of its God—
If, as we dream, in every radiant star
We see a shining gate through which the soul,
In its degrees of being, will ascend—
If, when these weary organs drop away,
We shall forget their uses, and commune
With angels and each other, as the stars
Mingle their light, in silence and in love—
What is this fleshly fetter of a day
That we should bind it with immortal flowers!
How do we ever gaze upon the sky,
And watch the lark soar up till he is lost.
And turn to our poor perishing dreams away,
Without one tear from our imprison'd wings!
If this familiar spirit that communes
378
All things but its own compass—is a spark
Struck from the burning essence of its God—
If, as we dream, in every radiant star
We see a shining gate through which the soul,
In its degrees of being, will ascend—
If, when these weary organs drop away,
We shall forget their uses, and commune
With angels and each other, as the stars
Mingle their light, in silence and in love—
What is this fleshly fetter of a day
That we should bind it with immortal flowers!
How do we ever gaze upon the sky,
And watch the lark soar up till he is lost.
And turn to our poor perishing dreams away,
Without one tear from our imprison'd wings!
379
UPON THE PORTRAIT OF THE HON. MRS. STANHOPE.
What dost thou hear?
Has the hymn of a fairy reach'd thine ear?
Dost thou list the praise of thy beauty, sung
By the amorous leaves thou art lost among?
Is the cluster of buds and roses there,
Of the presence of lips more bright, aware?
And have they a voice, as minstrels say,
For all things dewy and fair as they?
Has the hymn of a fairy reach'd thine ear?
Dost thou list the praise of thy beauty, sung
By the amorous leaves thou art lost among?
Is the cluster of buds and roses there,
Of the presence of lips more bright, aware?
And have they a voice, as minstrels say,
For all things dewy and fair as they?
What dost thou see?
Has a sky-bound angel stooped to thee?
Doth some loving zephyr, with wings of light,
Hover revealed in thy mortal sight?
Has a ray of a star, that should sleep by day,
Stole back with the sun, in thine eyes to play?
Do light and air, as the minstrel sings,
Yearn to the fairest of mortal things?
Has a sky-bound angel stooped to thee?
Doth some loving zephyr, with wings of light,
Hover revealed in thy mortal sight?
Has a ray of a star, that should sleep by day,
Stole back with the sun, in thine eyes to play?
Do light and air, as the minstrel sings,
Yearn to the fairest of mortal things?
Ay—gaze and listen!
On thy Phidian brow the bright gems glisten,
But the gnomes that wrought these diamonds fine,
Knew not their bed in the Indian mine,
As the spirits of love in earth and air
Know every charm in a form so fair.
Thou wast never alone, oh lovely one!
By dewy morn or by setting sun.
On thy Phidian brow the bright gems glisten,
But the gnomes that wrought these diamonds fine,
Knew not their bed in the Indian mine,
380
Know every charm in a form so fair.
Thou wast never alone, oh lovely one!
By dewy morn or by setting sun.
Thou hast felt a thrill, thou know'st not why,
From the summer mind, from the golden sky—
The slightest leaf, the meanest flower,
Has touched thy heart in some lonely hour—
Though the fondest friend had farthest flown,
Thou hadst not been in that hour alone!
From the summer mind, from the golden sky—
The slightest leaf, the meanest flower,
Has touched thy heart in some lonely hour—
Though the fondest friend had farthest flown,
Thou hadst not been in that hour alone!
Oh, the life that stirs in the panting rose—
The vital breath in each breeze that blows—
The far sent ray of the arrowy light—
Perfume and Music, by day and night—
I have sometimes thought they come and go,
With a spirit's power to see and know,
And tremble with love in their vainless sphere,
And whisper low,
When forms of the beauty of heaven are near.
The vital breath in each breeze that blows—
The far sent ray of the arrowy light—
Perfume and Music, by day and night—
I have sometimes thought they come and go,
With a spirit's power to see and know,
And tremble with love in their vainless sphere,
And whisper low,
When forms of the beauty of heaven are near.
| Poems of Nathaniel Parker Willis . | |