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 | Poems of home and travel |  |
TO GEORGE H. BOKER.
To you the homage of this book I bring.The earliest and the latest flowers I yield,
And though their hues betray a barren field,
I know you will not slight the offering.
You were the mate of my poetic spring;
To you its buds of little worth concealed
More than the summer years have since revealed,
Or doubtful autumn from the stem shall fling.
But here they are, the buds, the blossoms blown;
If rich or scant, the wreath is at your feet;
And though it were the freshest ever grown,
To you its incense could not be more sweet,
Since with it goes a love to match your own,
A heart, dear Friend, that never falsely beat.
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LOVE AND SOLITUDE.
I.
Earth knew no deeper life since Earth began,And scarce the Heaven above:
For us the world contains no ban;
In the profoundest measure given to Man,
We love, we love!
O, in that sound, completion lies
For all imperfect destinies.
It is a pulse of joy, that rings
The marriage-peal of Nature, brings
The lonely heart, the humblest and the least,
To share her royal feast;
No more an outcast on her sod,
Or at her board a stinted guest,
But now in purple raiment dressed,
And heir to all delight, that she receives of God!
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II.
A balmy breath is breathed upon the land,And through the spirit's inmost cells
It floats and swells,
Till at the touch of its persuading hand
The jealous bolts give way, and every door
Stands wide forevermore.
Not only there, dear love, not only there
Where Love's warm chambers front the morning air,
Thy soul may walk, and in the secret bower
Where burns the holiest fire that Heaven lets fall,
And with Ambition, in his blazoned hall,
Hope, in her airy tower!
The heart has other guests than these,
More secret halls, more solemn mysteries.
Dark crypts, beheld of none,
Throne darker powers, that flee the sun,
Chained far below, and heard at intervals
When all is still, and through the trembling walls
Some guilty whisper calls;
Or, when the storms have blown,
And the house rocks upon its basement stone,
They wring their chains with clamor that appals
The pale-cheeked lord. To thee
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Thou through the darkened hush mayst glide,
White and serene, with unaffrighted breath,
Past the blind Sins, that slumber leaden-eyed
In caves that lead to Death.
Nor I the less, where purer powers control
The perfect temple of thy soul,
And saintly harmonies to me
Breathe from its gates unceasingly,
Its bowery courts and chambers that infold
The chastened gleam of pearl and gold,
Free to the sun and blesséd air:
No deeper gloom than starry twilight there!
III.
What is the world of men to us? We love,And Love hath his own world. Love hath
Repose in storms and peace in wrath,
Far from the shocks of Time a quiet path,
Another Earth below, another Heaven above.
Men from their weakness and their sin create
The iron bonds of State,
Soldered with wrongs of olden date,—
The heartless frame, the chance-directed law
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And fills their darkness with its awe.
States have no soul. The World's tired brain
O'er many riddles broods with pain,
Not hopeless all, but hoping much in vain.
Those who have never loved may stay,
And in his files fight out the day;
But aliens we, who breathe a separate air
In regions far away!
Thou art my law, I thine: the links we wear,
If not of Freedom, dearer still,
And binding both in one harmonious will.
Why should we track the labyrinth of ill
Before us,—mingle with the fret
Of jangling natures, till our souls forget
Their crystal orbits of accordant sound?
Why should we walk the common ground,
Where gloom is born of gloom, and pain
From pain unfoldeth ever,
When to the blue air's limitless domain,
Made ours by right of love, we rise without endeavor?
IV.
Some voice of wind or seaMay reach the imbruted slave, and in his ear
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Through blindness and through passion came the clear
Calm voice of Love, thenceforth to be
The revelation of diviner truth
Than ever touched our sinless youth,—
A power to bid us face Eternity!
But the same whisper that reveals the glory
Of Freedom's brow, makes also known
The bitterness of bondage. We
Will leave this splendid misery,
This hollow joy, whose laugh but hides a groan,
And teach our lives to write a perfect story.
V.
O, somewhere, in the living realms that lieBetween the icy zones of desolation,
Covered by some remote, unconscious sky,
Where God's serene creation
Yet never glassed itself in human eye,
Must be a glorious Valley, hidden
In the safe bosom of the hills that part
The river-veins of some old Continent's heart,
To love like ours a shelter unforbidden!
Some Valley must there be,
Whereto wide wastes of desert sand have kept
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Across the explorer's pathway stepped,
Or mighty woods surrounded like a sea.
Love's voice, unto the chosen ones he calls,
Alike the compass to his freedom is,
And to that Vale, the lodestar of our bliss,
Our hearts shall guide us. Even now
I see the close defiles unfold
Upon a sloping mead that lies below
A mountain black with pines,
O'er which the barren ridges heave their lines,
And high beyond, the snowy ranges old!
Fed by the plenteous mountain rain,
Southward, a blue lake sparkles, whence outflows
A rivulet's silver vein,
Awhile meandering in fair repose,
Then caught by riven cliffs that guard our home,
And flung upon the outer world in foam!
The sky above that still retreat,
Through all the year serene and sweet,
Drops dew that finds the daisy's heart,
And keeps the violet's tender lids apart:
All winds that whistle drearily
Around the naked granite, die
With many a long, melodious sigh
Among the pines; and if a tempest seek
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He does but shift the snow from shining peak to peak
VI.
Or should this Valley seemToo deeply buried from the golden sun,
Still may a home be won
Whose breast lies open to his every beam.
Some Island, on the purple plain
Of Polynesian main,
Where never yet the adventurer's prore
Lay rocking near its coral shore:
A tropic mystery, which the enamoured Deep
Folds, as a beauty in a charmèd sleep.
There lofty palms, of some imperial line,
That never bled their nimble wine,
Crowd all the hills, and out the headlands go
To watch on distant reefs the lazy brine
Turning its fringe of snow.
There, when the sun stands high
Upon the burning summit of the sky,
All shadows wither: Light alone
Is in the world: and, pregnant grown
With teeming life, the trembling island-earth
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Which never come,—their love brings never forth
The Human Soul they lack alone!
VII.
We to that Island soul and voice will be,When (rapturous hour!) the baffling quest is over,
The boat is wrecked, the ship is blown to sea,
And underneath the palm-tree's cover
We bless our God that He hath left us free.
Then, wandering through the inland dells
Where sun and dew have built their gorgeous bowers,
The golden, blue, and crimson flowers
Will drain in joy their spicy wells,
The lily toll her alabaster bells,
And some fine influence, unknown and sweet,
Precede our happy feet
Around the Isle, till all the life that dwells
In leaf and stem shall feel it, and awake,
And even the pearly-bosomed shells,
Wet with the foamy kiss of lingering swells,
Shall rosier beauty at our coming take,
For Love's dear sake!
There when, like Aphrodite, Morn
From the ecstatic waves is born,
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Shall feel her glory gild his scaly greaves,
And lift his glittering leaves
Like arms outspread, to take her to his breast.
Then shall we watch her slowly bend, and fold
The Island in her arms of gold,
Breathing away the heavy balms which crept
All night around the bowers, and lifting up
Each flower's enamelled cup,
To drink the sweetness gathered while it slept.
Yet on our souls a joy more tender
Shall gently sink, when sunset makes the sky
One burning sheet of opalescent splendor,
And on the deep dissolving rainbows lie.
No whisper shall disturb
That alchemy superb,
Whereto our beings every sense surrender.
O, long and sweet, while sitting side by side,
Looking across the western sea,
That dream of Death, that morn of Heaven, shall be
And when the shadows hide
Each dying flush, upon the quiet tide,—
Quiet as is our love,—
We first shall see the stars come out above,
And after them, the slanting beams that run,
Based on the sea, far up the shining track
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A pyramid of light, above the buried sun!
VIII.
There shall our lives to such accordance growAs love alone can know;
Can never know but there:
Each within each involved, like Light and Air,
In endless marriage. Earth will fill
Her bounteous lap with all we ask of Earth,
Nor ever drought or dearth
Shrink the rich pulps of vale and hill.
Content at last the missing tone to hear
Through all her summer-chords,
Which makes their full-strung harmony complete
In her delighted ear,
She to our hearts that concord shall repeat.
Led by the strain, it may be ours to enter
The secret chamber where she works alone
With Color, Form, and Tone,
In human mood, or, sterner grown,
Takes hold on powers that shake her fiery centre.
Year after year the Island shall become
A fairer and serener home,
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The future parents of a race
Whose purer eyes shall face to face
Look on the Angels, fill our place,
And be the Presence and the Soul, when we have gone.
IX.
Forgive the dream. Love owns no human birth,And may not find fulfilment here
On this degenerate Earth.
Forgive the dream: here never yet was given
More than the promise and the hope of Heaven.
The dearest joy is dashed with fear,
Our darkest sorrow may be then most near.
Even with the will our passion lends
We cannot break the chain;
Against our vows, we must remain
With common men, and compass common ends.
We cannot shut our hearts from haunting fears;
We cannot purge our eyes from heavy tears;
We cannot shift the burden and the woe
Which all alike must know,
Which Love's Elected through the countless years
Have known, and, knowing, died: God wills it so.
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THE ODALISQUE.
In marble shells the fountain splashes;
Its falling spray is turned to stars,
When some light wind its pinion dashes
Against thy gilded lattice-bars.
Around the shafts, in breathing cluster,
The roses of Damascus run,
And through the summer's moons of lustre
The tulip's goblet drinks the sun.
Its falling spray is turned to stars,
When some light wind its pinion dashes
Against thy gilded lattice-bars.
Around the shafts, in breathing cluster,
The roses of Damascus run,
And through the summer's moons of lustre
The tulip's goblet drinks the sun.
The day, through shadowy arches fainting,
Reveals the garden's burst of bloom,
With lights of shifting iris painting
The jasper pavement of thy room:
Enroofed with palm and laurel bowers,
Thou seest, beyond, the cool kiosk,
And far away the pencilled towers
That shoot from many a stately mosque.
Reveals the garden's burst of bloom,
With lights of shifting iris painting
The jasper pavement of thy room:
Enroofed with palm and laurel bowers,
Thou seest, beyond, the cool kiosk,
And far away the pencilled towers
That shoot from many a stately mosque.
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Thou hast no world beyond the chamber
Whose inlaid marbles mock the flowers,
Where burns thy lord's chibouk of amber,
To charm the languid evening hours,
Where sounds the lute's impassioned yearning
Through all enchanted tales of old,
And spicy cressets, dimly burning,
Swing on their chains of Persian gold.
Whose inlaid marbles mock the flowers,
Where burns thy lord's chibouk of amber,
To charm the languid evening hours,
Where sounds the lute's impassioned yearning
Through all enchanted tales of old,
And spicy cressets, dimly burning,
Swing on their chains of Persian gold.
No more, in half-remembered vision,
Thy distant childhood comes to view;
That star-like world of shapes Elysian
Has faded from thy morning's blue:
The eastern winds that cross the Taurus
Have now no voice of home beyond,
Where light waves foam in endless chorus
Against the walls of Trebizond.
Thy distant childhood comes to view;
That star-like world of shapes Elysian
Has faded from thy morning's blue:
The eastern winds that cross the Taurus
Have now no voice of home beyond,
Where light waves foam in endless chorus
Against the walls of Trebizond.
For thee the Past may never reckon
Its hoard of saddening memories o'er,
Nor shapes from out the Future beckon
To joys that only live in store.
Thy life is in the gorgeous Present,
An Orient summer, warm and bright;
No gleam of beauty evanescent,
But one long time of deep delight.
Its hoard of saddening memories o'er,
Nor shapes from out the Future beckon
To joys that only live in store.
Thy life is in the gorgeous Present,
An Orient summer, warm and bright;
No gleam of beauty evanescent,
But one long time of deep delight.
93
SORROWFUL MUSIC.
Give me music, or I die;
Music, wherein Sorrow's cry
Is a sweet, aerial sigh,—
Where Despair is harmony.
Music, wherein Sorrow's cry
Is a sweet, aerial sigh,—
Where Despair is harmony.
Give me music, such as winds
To the ambushed grief, and finds
Clews of soft-enticing sound,
Notes that soothe and cannot wound,
Leading with a tender care
Outward into brighter air:
Music which, with welcome pain,
Melted from the master's brain,
When his sorrow, freed from smart,
Laid its head upon his heart,
And the measure, broken, slow,—
Shed with tears in mingled flow,—
All its mighty secret spake
And it slept: it will not wake.
To the ambushed grief, and finds
Clews of soft-enticing sound,
Notes that soothe and cannot wound,
Leading with a tender care
Outward into brighter air:
Music which, with welcome pain,
Melted from the master's brain,
When his sorrow, freed from smart,
Laid its head upon his heart,
And the measure, broken, slow,—
Shed with tears in mingled flow,—
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And it slept: it will not wake.
Give me music, sad and strong,
Drawn from deeper founts than Song;
More impassioned, full, and free
Than the Poet's numbers be:
Music which can master thee,
Stern enchantress, Memory!
Piercing through the gloomy stress
Of thy gathered bitterness,
As the summer lightnings play
Through a cloud's edge far away
Drawn from deeper founts than Song;
More impassioned, full, and free
Than the Poet's numbers be:
Music which can master thee,
Stern enchantress, Memory!
Piercing through the gloomy stress
Of thy gathered bitterness,
As the summer lightnings play
Through a cloud's edge far away
Give me music, I am dumb;
Choked with tears that never come
Give me music; sigh or word
Such a sorrow never stirred,—
Sorrow that with blinding pain
Lies like fire on heart and brain.
Earth and Heaven bring no relief
I am dumb; this weight of grief
Locks my lips; I cannot cry:
Give me music, or I die.
Choked with tears that never come
Give me music; sigh or word
Such a sorrow never stirred,—
Sorrow that with blinding pain
Lies like fire on heart and brain.
Earth and Heaven bring no relief
I am dumb; this weight of grief
Locks my lips; I cannot cry:
Give me music, or I die.
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THE TULIP-TREE.
Now my blood, with long-forgotten fleetness,
Bounds again to Boyhood's blithest tune,
While I drink a life of brimming sweetness
From the glory of the breezy June.
Far above, the fields of ether brighten;
Forest leaves are twinkling in their glee;
And the daisy's snows around me whiten,
Drifted down the sloping lea!
Bounds again to Boyhood's blithest tune,
While I drink a life of brimming sweetness
From the glory of the breezy June.
Far above, the fields of ether brighten;
Forest leaves are twinkling in their glee;
And the daisy's snows around me whiten,
Drifted down the sloping lea!
On the hills he standeth as a tower,
Shining in the morn,—the Tulip-Tree!
On his rounded turrets beats the shower,
While his emerald flags are flapping free:
But when Summer, 'mid her harvests standing,
Pours to him the sun's unmingled wine,
O'er his branches, all at once expanding,
How the starry blossoms shine!
Shining in the morn,—the Tulip-Tree!
On his rounded turrets beats the shower,
While his emerald flags are flapping free:
But when Summer, 'mid her harvests standing,
Pours to him the sun's unmingled wine,
O'er his branches, all at once expanding,
How the starry blossoms shine!
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Through the glossy leaves they burn, unfolded,
Like the fiery-breasted oriole,—
Filled with sweetness, as a thought new moulded
Into being by a poet's soul!
Violet hills, against the sunrise lying,
See them kindle when the stars grow pale,
And their lips, unclosed in balmy sighing,
Sweeten all the morning gale.
Like the fiery-breasted oriole,—
Filled with sweetness, as a thought new moulded
Into being by a poet's soul!
Violet hills, against the sunrise lying,
See them kindle when the stars grow pale,
And their lips, unclosed in balmy sighing,
Sweeten all the morning gale.
Then all day, in every opening chalice,
Drains their honey-drops the revelling bee,
Till the dove-winged Sleep makes thee her palace,
Filled with song-like murmurs, Tulip-Tree!
In thine arms are rocked the dreams enchanted
Which in Childhood's heart their dwelling made;
Dreams, whose glory to my brain is granted,
When I lie amid thy shade.
Drains their honey-drops the revelling bee,
Till the dove-winged Sleep makes thee her palace,
Filled with song-like murmurs, Tulip-Tree!
In thine arms are rocked the dreams enchanted
Which in Childhood's heart their dwelling made;
Dreams, whose glory to my brain is granted,
When I lie amid thy shade.
Now, while Earth's full heart is throbbing over
With its wealth of light and life and joy,
Who can feel how later years shall cover
With their blight the visions of the boy?
Who can see the shadows downward darken,
While the splendid morning bids aspire,
Or the turf upon his coffin hearken,
When his pulses leap with fire!
With its wealth of light and life and joy,
Who can feel how later years shall cover
With their blight the visions of the boy?
Who can see the shadows downward darken,
While the splendid morning bids aspire,
Or the turf upon his coffin hearken,
When his pulses leap with fire!
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Wind of June, that sweep'st the rolling meadow,
Thou shalt wail in branches rough and bare,
While the tree, o'erhung with storm and shadow,
Writhes and creaks amid the gusty air.
All his leaves, like shields of fairies scattered,
Then shall drop before the North-wind's spears,
And his limbs, by hail and tempest battered,
Feel the weight of wintry years.
Thou shalt wail in branches rough and bare,
While the tree, o'erhung with storm and shadow,
Writhes and creaks amid the gusty air.
All his leaves, like shields of fairies scattered,
Then shall drop before the North-wind's spears,
And his limbs, by hail and tempest battered,
Feel the weight of wintry years.
Yet, why cloud the rapture and the glory
Of the Beautiful, bequeathed us now?
Why relinquish all the Summer's story,
Calling up the bleak autumnal bough?
Let thy blossoms in the morning brighten,
Happy heart, as doth the Tulip-Tree,
While the daisy's snows around us whiten,
Drifted down the sloping lea!
Of the Beautiful, bequeathed us now?
Why relinquish all the Summer's story,
Calling up the bleak autumnal bough?
Let thy blossoms in the morning brighten,
Happy heart, as doth the Tulip-Tree,
While the daisy's snows around us whiten,
Drifted down the sloping lea!
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SUMMER'S BACCHANAL.
Fill the cup from some secretest fountain,
Under granite ledges, deep and low,
Where the crystal vintage of the mountain
Runs in foam from dazzling fields of snow.
Under granite ledges, deep and low,
Where the crystal vintage of the mountain
Runs in foam from dazzling fields of snow.
Some lost stream, that in a woodland hollow
Coils, to sleep its weariness away,
Shut from prying stars, that fain would follow,
In the emerald glooms of hemlock spray.
Coils, to sleep its weariness away,
Shut from prying stars, that fain would follow,
In the emerald glooms of hemlock spray.
Fill, dear friend, a goblet dool and sparkling
As the sunlight of October morns,—
Not for us the crimson wave, that darkling
Stains the lips of olden drinking-horns!
As the sunlight of October morns,—
Not for us the crimson wave, that darkling
Stains the lips of olden drinking-horns!
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We will quaff, beneath the noontide glowing,
Draughts of nectar, sweet as faery dew;
Couched on ferny banks, where light airs blowing,
Shake the leaves between us and the blue.
Draughts of nectar, sweet as faery dew;
Couched on ferny banks, where light airs blowing,
Shake the leaves between us and the blue.
We will pledge, in breathless, long libation,
All we have been, or have sworn to be,—
Fame, and Joy, and Love's dear adoration,—
Summer's lusty bacchanals are we!
All we have been, or have sworn to be,—
Fame, and Joy, and Love's dear adoration,—
Summer's lusty bacchanals are we!
Fill again, and let our goblets, clashing,
Stir the feathery ripples on the brim:
Let the light, within their bosoms flashing,
Leap like youth to every idle limb!
Stir the feathery ripples on the brim:
Let the light, within their bosoms flashing,
Leap like youth to every idle limb!
Round the white roots of the fragrant lily,
And the mossy hazels, purple-stained,
Once the music of these waters chilly
Gave return for all the sweetness drained.
And the mossy hazels, purple-stained,
Once the music of these waters chilly
Gave return for all the sweetness drained.
How that rare, delicious, woodland flavor
Mocked my palate in the fever hours,
When I pined for springs of coolest savor,
As the burning Earth for thunder-showers!
Mocked my palate in the fever hours,
When I pined for springs of coolest savor,
As the burning Earth for thunder-showers!
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In the wave, which through my maddened dreaming
Flowed to cheat me, fill the cups again!
Drink, dear friend, to life which is not seeming,—
Fresh as this to manhood's heart and brain!
Flowed to cheat me, fill the cups again!
Drink, dear friend, to life which is not seeming,—
Fresh as this to manhood's heart and brain!
Fill, fill high! and while our goblets, ringing,
Shine with vintage of the mountain-snow,
Youth shall bid his Fountain, blithely springing,
Brim our souls to endless overflow!
Shine with vintage of the mountain-snow,
Youth shall bid his Fountain, blithely springing,
Brim our souls to endless overflow!
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CRICKET SONG.
Welcome with thy clicking, cricket!
Clicking songs of sober mirth;
Autumn, stripping field and thicket,
Brings thee to my hearth,
Where thy clicking shrills and quickens,
While the mist of twilight thickens.
Clicking songs of sober mirth;
Autumn, stripping field and thicket,
Brings thee to my hearth,
Where thy clicking shrills and quickens,
While the mist of twilight thickens.
Lately, by the garden wicket,
Where the thick grass grew unclipt,
And the rill beside thee, cricket,
Silver-trickling slipt,
Thou, in midday's silent glitter,
Mocked the flickering linnet's twitter.
Where the thick grass grew unclipt,
And the rill beside thee, cricket,
Silver-trickling slipt,
Thou, in midday's silent glitter,
Mocked the flickering linnet's twitter.
Now thou art, my cheerful cricket,
Nimble quickener of my song;
Not a thought but thou shalt nick it
In thy lowly tongue,
And my clock, the moments ticking,
Is thy constant clicking, clicking.
Nimble quickener of my song;
Not a thought but thou shalt nick it
In thy lowly tongue,
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Is thy constant clicking, clicking.
No annoy, good-humored cricket,
With thy trills is ever blent;
Spleen of mine, how dost thou trick it
To a calm content!
So, by thicket, hearth, or wicket,
Click thy little lifetime, cricket!
With thy trills is ever blent;
Spleen of mine, how dost thou trick it
To a calm content!
So, by thicket, hearth, or wicket,
Click thy little lifetime, cricket!
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WORDSWORTH.
I saw thee not, what time mine eyes beheldFar-off Helvellyn skirt the misty sea,
When wild Manx waters foamed and tumbled free
Around my keel: I saw thee not, when swelled
Beyond Northumbrian moors the soft-blue line
Of mountain chains that look on Windermere;
Yet was it joy to know thy paths so near,
Thy voice on all those hills, O Bard divine!
But I shall see thee where thou sittest now,
Musing, uplift o'er deeps of diamond air,
And I shall feel the splendor of thy brow
Thrown on the scanty wreath that binds my hair,
As, looking down benignly on my place,
Thou read'st the reverence in my lifted face.
151
THE EAGLE HUNTER.
Storm and rain are on the mountains,
And the falling torrents thunder,
And the black and driving shadows
Make a night along the plain:
Now the herds are grouped for shelter,
And the herdsmen wind their lassos,
Towards the distant hacienda
Speeding homeward through the rain.
And the falling torrents thunder,
And the black and driving shadows
Make a night along the plain:
Now the herds are grouped for shelter,
And the herdsmen wind their lassos,
Towards the distant hacienda
Speeding homeward through the rain.
From the icy Cordilleras
Crashing leap the avalanches,
By the hands of mining waters
Loosened from their lofty hold;
And the mountain sheep are scattered
By the firs and larches falling,
And the wild wolves howling gather
In the caverns dark and cold.
Crashing leap the avalanches,
By the hands of mining waters
Loosened from their lofty hold;
And the mountain sheep are scattered
By the firs and larches falling,
And the wild wolves howling gather
In the caverns dark and cold.
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On the lofty summit, beaten
By the wintry sleet, I wander,
For I seek the monarch eagle
In his eyrie of the rock;
And I shout in exultation,
When his gray wing on the darkness
Of the cloud above me flashes,
Wheeling downward to the shock!
By the wintry sleet, I wander,
For I seek the monarch eagle
In his eyrie of the rock;
And I shout in exultation,
When his gray wing on the darkness
Of the cloud above me flashes,
Wheeling downward to the shock!
From his wing I rob the plumage,
And it crowns me like a chieftain;
At my belt his talons rattle,
Like the scales of olden mail:
Never win the the Yuma hunters
Such a trophy on their deserts,
Or the fiery-eyed Apache
In the Colorado's vale!
And it crowns me like a chieftain;
At my belt his talons rattle,
Like the scales of olden mail:
Never win the the Yuma hunters
Such a trophy on their deserts,
Or the fiery-eyed Apache
In the Colorado's vale!
I pursue a nobler quarry,
And my home is far above them,
Where the cradles of the rivers
Have been hollowed in the snow.
And I drink their crystal sources,
Where the Bravo and the Gila
To their thousand miles of travel
Plunging down the cañons go!
And my home is far above them,
Where the cradles of the rivers
Have been hollowed in the snow.
And I drink their crystal sources,
Where the Bravo and the Gila
To their thousand miles of travel
Plunging down the cañons go!
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In the meeting of the thunders,
When the solid crags are shivered,
Firm and fearless and rejoicing
On the lonely peaks I stand;
For my foot has learned the fleetness
Of the ibex on the ridges,
And my voice the stormy music
Of the mighty Mountain Land.
When the solid crags are shivered,
Firm and fearless and rejoicing
On the lonely peaks I stand;
For my foot has learned the fleetness
Of the ibex on the ridges,
And my voice the stormy music
Of the mighty Mountain Land.
169
THE TOMB OF CHARLEMAGNE.
I stood in that cathedral old, the work of kingly power,
That from the clustered roofs of Aix lifts up its mouldering tower,
And, like a legend strange and rude, speaks of an earlier day—
Of saint and knight, the tourney's pomp and the Minnesinger's lay!
That from the clustered roofs of Aix lifts up its mouldering tower,
And, like a legend strange and rude, speaks of an earlier day—
Of saint and knight, the tourney's pomp and the Minnesinger's lay!
Above me rose the pillared dome, with many a statue grim,
And through the chancel-oriel came a splendor soft and dim,
Till dusky shrine and painting old glowed in the lustre wan:
Below me was a marble slab—the Tomb of Charlemagne.
And through the chancel-oriel came a splendor soft and dim,
Till dusky shrine and painting old glowed in the lustre wan:
Below me was a marble slab—the Tomb of Charlemagne.
170
A burst of organ-music rang so grandly, sadly slow,
It seemed a requiem thundered o'er the dead who slept below;
And with the sound came thronging round the stern men of that time,
When best was he who bravest fought, and cowardice was crime.
It seemed a requiem thundered o'er the dead who slept below;
And with the sound came thronging round the stern men of that time,
When best was he who bravest fought, and cowardice was crime.
I thought upon the day when he, whose dust I stood upon,
Ruled with a monarch's boundless right the kingdoms he had won—
When rose the broad Alps in his realm, and roared the Baltic's wave;
And now—the lowest serf might stand, unheeded, on his grave.
Ruled with a monarch's boundless right the kingdoms he had won—
When rose the broad Alps in his realm, and roared the Baltic's wave;
And now—the lowest serf might stand, unheeded, on his grave.
And ruthless hands despoiled his dust, attired in regal pride,
The crown upon his crumbled brows, and Joyeuse by his side—
Whose rusted blade, at Ronçeval, flamed in the hero's hand
In answer to the silver horn of the Paladin, Rolànd.
The crown upon his crumbled brows, and Joyeuse by his side—
Whose rusted blade, at Ronçeval, flamed in the hero's hand
In answer to the silver horn of the Paladin, Rolànd.
171
I stood on that neglected stone, thrilled with the glorious sound,
While bowed at many a holier shrine the worshippers around—
And through the cloud of incense-smoke burned many a taper dim,
And priestly stoles went sweeping by—I could but think of him!
While bowed at many a holier shrine the worshippers around—
And through the cloud of incense-smoke burned many a taper dim,
And priestly stoles went sweeping by—I could but think of him!
I saw the boy with yellow locks, crowned at St. Deny's shrine;
The emperor in his purple cloak, the lord of all the Rhine;
The conqueror of a thousand foes, in battle stern and hard;
The widowed mourner at thy tomb, O fairest Hildegarde!
The emperor in his purple cloak, the lord of all the Rhine;
The conqueror of a thousand foes, in battle stern and hard;
The widowed mourner at thy tomb, O fairest Hildegarde!
Long pealed the music of the choir through chancelarch and nave,
As, lost in those old memories, I stood upon his grave;
And when the morning anthem ceased, and solemn mass began,
I left that minster gray and old—the Tomb of Charlemagne.
As, lost in those old memories, I stood upon his grave;
And when the morning anthem ceased, and solemn mass began,
I left that minster gray and old—the Tomb of Charlemagne.
Aix-la-Chapelle, 1844.
182
THE STATUE IN THE SNOW.
Numb and chill the Savoyard wandered
By the banks of frozen Seine,
Oft, to cheer his sinking spirit,
Singing low some mountain strain.
By the banks of frozen Seine,
Oft, to cheer his sinking spirit,
Singing low some mountain strain.
But, beside the wintry river,
Rose the songs of green Savoy
Sadder than on Alpine summits,
Sung by many a shepherd-boy.
Rose the songs of green Savoy
Sadder than on Alpine summits,
Sung by many a shepherd-boy.
From the bleak and distant Jura
Swept the snowy whirlwind down,
Flinging wide his shifting mantle
Over slope and meadow brown.
Swept the snowy whirlwind down,
Flinging wide his shifting mantle
Over slope and meadow brown.
183
Like a corpse the silent landscape
Lay all stark and icy there,
And a chill and ghostly terror
Seemed to load the leaden air.
Lay all stark and icy there,
And a chill and ghostly terror
Seemed to load the leaden air.
Still that shivering boy went forward,
Though his heart within him died,
When the dreary night was closing
Dull around the desert wide.
Though his heart within him died,
When the dreary night was closing
Dull around the desert wide.
Through the desolate northern twilight,
To his homesick pining, rose
Visions of the flashing glaciers,
Lifted in sublime repose.
To his homesick pining, rose
Visions of the flashing glaciers,
Lifted in sublime repose.
Horns of Alp-herds rang in welcome,
And his mother kissed her boy—
But away his heart was hurried
From the vales of dear Savoy!
And his mother kissed her boy—
But away his heart was hurried
From the vales of dear Savoy!
For, amid the sinking darkness,
Colder, chillier, blew the snows,
Till but faint and moaning whispers
From his stiffening lips arose.
Colder, chillier, blew the snows,
Till but faint and moaning whispers
From his stiffening lips arose.
184
Then, beside the pathway kneeling,
Folded he his freezing hands,
While the blinding snows were drifted
Like the desert's lifted sands
Folded he his freezing hands,
While the blinding snows were drifted
Like the desert's lifted sands
As in many an old cathedral,
Curtained round with solemn gloom,
One may see a marble cherub
Kneeling on a marble tomb.
Curtained round with solemn gloom,
One may see a marble cherub
Kneeling on a marble tomb.
With his face to Heaven upturning,
For the dead he seems to pray,
While the organ o'er him thunders,
And the incense curls away.
For the dead he seems to pray,
While the organ o'er him thunders,
And the incense curls away.
Thus the Savoyard, pale and lifeless,
Knelt in Night's cathedral vast,
When the stars at midnight sparkled
In the pauses of the blast.
Knelt in Night's cathedral vast,
When the stars at midnight sparkled
In the pauses of the blast.
Paris, 1846.
185
THE DEAREST IMAGE.
I.
I've wandered through the golden landsWhere Art and Beauty blended shine—
Where features limned by painters' hands
Beam from the canvas made divine,
And many a god in marble stands,
With soul in every breathing line;
And forms the world has treasured long
Within me touched the source of Song.
II.
Like madness o'er the spirit cameThe boundless rapture they inspired,
As with my feelings all on flame
I worshipped what the world admired,
186
The soul with mutual ardor fired,
Till Beauty's smile and Glory's star
Seemed to its grasp no more afar.
III.
Yet, brighter than those radiant dreamsWhich won renown that never dies—
Where more than mortal beauty beams
In sibyls' lips and angels' eyes—
One image, like the moonlight, seems
Between them and my heart to rise,
And in its brighter, dearer ray,
The stars of Genius fade away.
London, 1846
193
THE ANGEL OF THE SOUL.
Una stella, una notte, ed una croce.
—Bisazza.
—Bisazza.
Silence hath conquered thee, imperial Night!
Thou sitt'st alone within her void, cold halls,
Thy solemn brow uplifted, and thy soul
Paining the space with dumb and yearning thought.
The dreary winds are eddying round thy form,
Following the stealthy hours, that wake no stir
In the hushed velvet of thy mantle's fold.
Thy thoughts take being: down the dusky aisles
Glide shapes of good, enticing ghosts of guilt,
And dreams of maddening beauty—hopes, that shine
To darken, and in cloudy height sublime,
The spectral march of some approaching doom.
Nor these alone, O Mother of the world!
People thy chambers, echoless and vast:
Their dewy freshness like ambrosia cools
Life's fever-thirst, and to the fainting soul
Their porphyry walls are touched with light, and gleams
Of shining wonder dance along the void,
Like those processions which the traveller's torch
Wakes from the darkness of three thousand years,
In rock-hewn sepulchres of Theban kings.
Prophets, whose brows of pale, unearthly glow
Reflect the twilight of celestial dawns,
And bards, transfigured in immortal song,
Like eager children, kneeling at thy feet,
Unclasp the awful volume of thy lore.
Thou sitt'st alone within her void, cold halls,
Thy solemn brow uplifted, and thy soul
Paining the space with dumb and yearning thought.
The dreary winds are eddying round thy form,
Following the stealthy hours, that wake no stir
In the hushed velvet of thy mantle's fold.
Thy thoughts take being: down the dusky aisles
Glide shapes of good, enticing ghosts of guilt,
And dreams of maddening beauty—hopes, that shine
To darken, and in cloudy height sublime,
The spectral march of some approaching doom.
Nor these alone, O Mother of the world!
People thy chambers, echoless and vast:
194
Life's fever-thirst, and to the fainting soul
Their porphyry walls are touched with light, and gleams
Of shining wonder dance along the void,
Like those processions which the traveller's torch
Wakes from the darkness of three thousand years,
In rock-hewn sepulchres of Theban kings.
Prophets, whose brows of pale, unearthly glow
Reflect the twilight of celestial dawns,
And bards, transfigured in immortal song,
Like eager children, kneeling at thy feet,
Unclasp the awful volume of thy lore.
My soul explores thy far, mysterious realms,
Beyond this being's circumscribed domain,
Touches the threshold of supremer life,
And calls through all the spangled deeps of heaven
Its guardian angel, as an orphan calls
His only brother, that in childhood died:
Beyond this being's circumscribed domain,
Touches the threshold of supremer life,
And calls through all the spangled deeps of heaven
Its guardian angel, as an orphan calls
His only brother, that in childhood died:
Thy wings waved white across my cradled dreams,
Lost Angel of the Soul! Thy presence led
The babe's faint gropings through the glimmering dark
And into Being's conscious dawn. Thy hand
Held mine in childhood, and thy cherub's cheek
Caressed, like some familiar playmate's, mine.
Lost Angel of the Soul! Thy presence led
The babe's faint gropings through the glimmering dark
And into Being's conscious dawn. Thy hand
Held mine in childhood, and thy cherub's cheek
Caressed, like some familiar playmate's, mine.
195
Up to that boundary, whence the heart leaps forth
To life, like some young torrent, when the rains
Pour dark and full upon the cloudy hills,
Thy shining steps kept even pace with mine.
Be with me now! O, in the starry hush
Of holy night, restore to me again
The innocence whose loss was loss of thee!
Through the warm gush of unexpected tears
Let me behold thine eyes divine, as stars
Swim through the twilight vapors of the sea!
To life, like some young torrent, when the rains
Pour dark and full upon the cloudy hills,
Thy shining steps kept even pace with mine.
Be with me now! O, in the starry hush
Of holy night, restore to me again
The innocence whose loss was loss of thee!
Through the warm gush of unexpected tears
Let me behold thine eyes divine, as stars
Swim through the twilight vapors of the sea!
Not yet hast thou forsaken me. The prayer
Whose crowning fervor lifts my nature up
Midway to God, may still evoke thy form.
Thou hast returned, what time the midnight dew
Clung damp upon my brow, and the broad fields
Stretched far and dim beneath the ghostly moon;
When the dark, awful woods were silent near,
And with imploring hands towards the stars
Clasped in mute yearning, I have questioned Heaven
For the lost language of the book of Life.
In the last undulating, dying strains
Of tender music, I have heard thy voice;
And thou hast cried amid the stormy rush
Of grand orchestral triumph, calling me
Till every chord became a pang, and calling still
Till I could bear no more. I feel the light,
Which is thine atmosphere, around my soul,
When a great sorrow gulfs it from the world.
Whose crowning fervor lifts my nature up
Midway to God, may still evoke thy form.
Thou hast returned, what time the midnight dew
Clung damp upon my brow, and the broad fields
Stretched far and dim beneath the ghostly moon;
When the dark, awful woods were silent near,
And with imploring hands towards the stars
Clasped in mute yearning, I have questioned Heaven
For the lost language of the book of Life.
In the last undulating, dying strains
Of tender music, I have heard thy voice;
And thou hast cried amid the stormy rush
Of grand orchestral triumph, calling me
Till every chord became a pang, and calling still
196
Which is thine atmosphere, around my soul,
When a great sorrow gulfs it from the world.
Come back! come back! my heart grows faint, to know
How thy withdrawing radiance leaves more dim
The twilight borders of the night of Earth.
Now, when the bitter truth is learned; when all
That seemed so high and good, but mocks its seeming;
When the warm dreams of youth come shivering back,
In the cold chambers of the heart to die;
When, with the wrestling years, familiar grows
The merciless hand of Pain, desert me not!
Come with the true heart of the faithful Night,
When I have thrown aside the masking garb
Of the deceitful Day, and lie at rest
On her consoling bosom! From the founts
Of thine exhaustless light, make clear the road
Through toil and darkness, into God's repose!
How thy withdrawing radiance leaves more dim
The twilight borders of the night of Earth.
Now, when the bitter truth is learned; when all
That seemed so high and good, but mocks its seeming;
When the warm dreams of youth come shivering back,
In the cold chambers of the heart to die;
When, with the wrestling years, familiar grows
The merciless hand of Pain, desert me not!
Come with the true heart of the faithful Night,
When I have thrown aside the masking garb
Of the deceitful Day, and lie at rest
On her consoling bosom! From the founts
Of thine exhaustless light, make clear the road
Through toil and darkness, into God's repose!
197
AN HOUR.
I've left the keen, cold winds to blow
Around the summits bare;
My sunny pathway to the sea
Leads downward, green and fair,
Where leaves and blossoms toss and glow
Amid the southern air.
Around the summits bare;
My sunny pathway to the sea
Leads downward, green and fair,
Where leaves and blossoms toss and glow
Amid the southern air.
The fern its fragrant plumage droops
O'er mosses crisp and gray,
Where on the shaded crags I sit,
Beside the cataract's spray,
And watch the far-off, shining sails
Go down the gleaming bay.
O'er mosses crisp and gray,
Where on the shaded crags I sit,
Beside the cataract's spray,
And watch the far-off, shining sails
Go down the gleaming bay.
198
I've left the wintry winds of life
On barren hearts to blow—
The anguish and the gnawing care,
The torture and the woe!
I sail the sunny sea of dreams
Where'er its winds may blow.
On barren hearts to blow—
The anguish and the gnawing care,
The torture and the woe!
I sail the sunny sea of dreams
Where'er its winds may blow.
Away! away! I hear the horn
Among the hills of Spain:
The old, chivalric glory fires
Her warrior hearts again:
Ho! how their banners light the morn
Along Granada's plain!
Among the hills of Spain:
The old, chivalric glory fires
Her warrior hearts again:
Ho! how their banners light the morn
Along Granada's plain!
I hear the hymns of holy faith
The red Crusaders sang,
And the silver horn of Ronçeval,
That o'er the tecbir rang,
When prince and kaiser through the fray
To the dying paladin sprang.
The red Crusaders sang,
And the silver horn of Ronçeval,
That o'er the tecbir rang,
When prince and kaiser through the fray
To the dying paladin sprang.
A beam of burning light I hold,
My good Damascus brand,
And the jet-black charger that I ride
Was foaled in the Arab land,
And a hundred horsemen, mailed in steel,
Follow at my command!
My good Damascus brand,
199
Was foaled in the Arab land,
And a hundred horsemen, mailed in steel,
Follow at my command!
Through royal cities goes our march;
The minster-bells are rung;
The trumpets give a lordly peal,
The battle-flags are swung,
And lips of lovely ladies praise
The chieftain, brave and young.
The minster-bells are rung;
The trumpets give a lordly peal,
The battle-flags are swung,
And lips of lovely ladies praise
The chieftain, brave and young.
And now, in soft Provençal bowers,
A minstrel-knight am I:
A gentle bosom on my own
Throbs back its ecstasy;
A cheek, as fair as the almond flowers,
Thrills to my lip's reply.
A minstrel-knight am I:
A gentle bosom on my own
Throbs back its ecstasy;
A cheek, as fair as the almond flowers,
Thrills to my lip's reply.
I tread the fanes of wondrous Rome,
Crowned with immortal bay,
And myriads crowd the Capitol
To hear my lofty lay,
While, sounding o'er the Tiber's foam,
Their shoutings peal away.
Crowned with immortal bay,
And myriads crowd the Capitol
To hear my lofty lay,
While, sounding o'er the Tiber's foam,
Their shoutings peal away.
200
O, triumph such as this were worth
The Poet's doom of pain,
Whose hours are brazen on the earth,
But golden in the brain:
I close the starry Gate of Dreams,
And walk the dust again.
The Poet's doom of pain,
Whose hours are brazen on the earth,
But golden in the brain:
I close the starry Gate of Dreams,
And walk the dust again.
204
THE VOICE OF THE FIRE.
They sat by the hearth-stone, broad and bright,
Whose burning brands threw a cheerful light
On the frosty calm of the winter's night.
Whose burning brands threw a cheerful light
On the frosty calm of the winter's night.
Her tresses soft to his lips were pressed,
Her head was laid on his happy breast,
And a tender silence their love expressed:
Her head was laid on his happy breast,
And a tender silence their love expressed:
And ever a gentle murmur came
From the clear, bright heart of the wavering flame,
Like the first sweet call of the dearest name.
From the clear, bright heart of the wavering flame,
Like the first sweet call of the dearest name.
He kissed on the warm, white brow,
And told her in fonder words, the vow
He had whispered under the moonlit bough;
And told her in fonder words, the vow
He had whispered under the moonlit bough;
205
And o'er them a steady radiance came
From the shining heart of the mounting flame,
Like the love that burneth forever the same.
From the shining heart of the mounting flame,
Like the love that burneth forever the same.
The maiden smiled through her soft brown eyes,
As he led her forward to sunnier skies,
Whose cloudless light on the Future lies;
As he led her forward to sunnier skies,
Whose cloudless light on the Future lies;
And a moment paused the laughing flame,
And it listened a while, and then there came
A cheery burst from its sparkling frame.
And it listened a while, and then there came
A cheery burst from its sparkling frame.
In the home he pictured, the home so blest,
Their souls should sit in a calmer rest,
Like woodland birds in their shaded nest.
Their souls should sit in a calmer rest,
Like woodland birds in their shaded nest.
There slept, foreshadowed, the bliss to be,
When a tenderer life that home should see,
In the wingless cherub that climbed his knee.
When a tenderer life that home should see,
In the wingless cherub that climbed his knee.
And the flame went on with its flickering song,
And beckoned and laughed to the lovers long,
Who sat in its radiance, red and strong.
And beckoned and laughed to the lovers long,
Who sat in its radiance, red and strong.
206
And ever its burden seemed to be
The mingled voices of household glee,
Like the gush of winds in a mountain tree.
The mingled voices of household glee,
Like the gush of winds in a mountain tree.
Then broke and fell a glimmering brand
To the cold, dead ashes it fed and fanned,
And its last gleam waved like a warning hand.
To the cold, dead ashes it fed and fanned,
And its last gleam waved like a warning hand.
They did not speak, for there came a fear,
As a spirit of evil were wandering near,
A menace of danger to something dear.
As a spirit of evil were wandering near,
A menace of danger to something dear.
And, hovering over its smouldering bed,
A feebler pinion the flame outspread,
And a paler light through the chamber shed.
A feebler pinion the flame outspread,
And a paler light through the chamber shed.
He clasped the maid in a fonder thrall:
“We shall love each other, whatever befall,
And the Merciful Father is over all”
“We shall love each other, whatever befall,
And the Merciful Father is over all”
207
A REQUIEM IN THE NORTH.
Speed swifter, Night!—wild Northern Night,
Whose feet the Arctic islands know,
When stiffening breakers, sharp and white,
Gird the complaining shores of snow!
Send all thy winds to sweep the wold,
And howl in mountain passes far,
And hang thy banners, red and cold,
Against the shield of every star!
Whose feet the Arctic islands know,
When stiffening breakers, sharp and white,
Gird the complaining shores of snow!
Send all thy winds to sweep the wold,
And howl in mountain passes far,
And hang thy banners, red and cold,
Against the shield of every star!
For what have I to do with morn,
Or summer's glory in the vales—
With the blithe ring of forest-horn,
Or beckoning gleam of snowy sails?
Art thou not gone, in whose blue eye
The fleeting summer dawned to me?
Gone, like the echo of a sigh
Beside the loud, resounding sea!
Or summer's glory in the vales—
With the blithe ring of forest-horn,
Or beckoning gleam of snowy sails?
Art thou not gone, in whose blue eye
The fleeting summer dawned to me?
Gone, like the echo of a sigh
Beside the loud, resounding sea!
208
O, brief that time of song and flowers,
Which blessed, through thee, the Northern Land
I pine amid its leafless bowers,
And on the bleak and lonely strand.
The forest wails the starry bloom
Which yet shall light its dusky floor,
But down my spirit's paths of gloom
Thy love shall blossom nevermore.
Which blessed, through thee, the Northern Land
I pine amid its leafless bowers,
And on the bleak and lonely strand.
The forest wails the starry bloom
Which yet shall light its dusky floor,
But down my spirit's paths of gloom
Thy love shall blossom nevermore.
And nevermore shall battling pines
Their solemn triumph sound for me;
Nor morning gild the mountain lines,
Nor sunset flush the hoary sea;
But Night and Winter fill the sky,
And load with frost the shivering air,
Till every gust that hurries by
Repeats the tale of my despair.
Their solemn triumph sound for me;
Nor morning gild the mountain lines,
Nor sunset flush the hoary sea;
But Night and Winter fill the sky,
And load with frost the shivering air,
Till every gust that hurries by
Repeats the tale of my despair.
The leaden twilight, cold and long,
Is slowly settling o'er the wave;
No wandering blast awakes a song
In naked boughs, above thy grave.
The frozen air is still and dark;
The numb earth lies in icy rest;
And all is dead save this one spark
Of burning grief, within my breast.
Is slowly settling o'er the wave;
No wandering blast awakes a song
In naked boughs, above thy grave.
The frozen air is still and dark;
The numb earth lies in icy rest;
And all is dead save this one spark
Of burning grief, within my breast.
209
Life's darkened orb shall wheel no more
To Love's rejoicing summer back:
My spirit walks a wintry shore,
With not a star to cheer its track.
Speed swifter, Night! thy gloom and frost
Are free to spoil and ravage here;
This last wild requiem for the lost
I pour in thy unheeding ear!
To Love's rejoicing summer back:
My spirit walks a wintry shore,
With not a star to cheer its track.
Speed swifter, Night! thy gloom and frost
Are free to spoil and ravage here;
This last wild requiem for the lost
I pour in thy unheeding ear!
210
A VOICE FROM PIEDMONT.
Avenge, O Lord, Thy slaughtered saints, whose bones
Lie scattered on the Alpine Mountains cold.
Milton—Sonnet on the Massacres in Piedmont.
Lie scattered on the Alpine Mountains cold.
Milton—Sonnet on the Massacres in Piedmont.
I.
Bend from that Heaven, whose visioned glories gave,Thou blind old Bard, the splendor of thy song,
And teach the godlike words which mortals crave,
To speak, exulting, o'er the fallen Wrong!
For lo! the Avenger of that hour of blood
Has heard at last thy summons, stern and grand;
Has freed the children of the slaughtered brood,
In the cold Alpine land!
II.
O! at the tardy word, whose thunder brokeThe chains of ages from that suffering flock,
211
And thrilled beneath the eternal ribs of rock.
The ancient glaciers brightened in the sky;
Beneath them, shouting, burst the joyous rills,
And the white Alps of Piedmont made reply
Unto the Vaudois hills!
III.
And far below, in lonely pasture-vales,The Waldense shepherd knelt upon the sod,
While chapel-bells chimed on the mountain gales,
And every châlet gave its hymn to God.
Matron, and sire, and sweet-voiced peasant maid,
And the strong hunter from the steeps of snow,
Gave thanks to Him, whose help their fathers prayed,
Through years of blood and woe.
IV.
Build now the sepulchres of martyrs old:Gather the scattered bones from every glen,
Where the red waves of pitiless slaughter rolled,
When fell those brave and steadfast-hearted men!
212
Shall Freedom's sun upon her mountains shine;
While her glad children say, with grateful tears,
“The glory, Lord, be Thine!”
1848.
218
THE MOUNTAINS.
O deep, exulting freedom of the hills!O summits vast, that to the climbing view
In naked glory stand against the blue!
O cold and buoyant air, whose crystal fills
Heaven's amethystine bowl! O speeding streams,
That foam and thunder from the cliffs below!
O slippery brinks and solitudes of snow,
And granite bleakness, where the vulture screams!
O stormy pines, that wrestle with the breath
Of every tempest, sharp and icy horns,
And hoary glaciers, sparkling in the morns,
And broad, dim wonders of the world beneath!
I summon ye, and 'mid the glare which fills
The noisy mart, my spirit walks the hills.
219
LIFE.
O Life! O Life! art thou a mocking cheat,That, with thy flush and fervor in my blood,
Teachest my heart a high, heroic mood,
And passion-joy in all things fair and fleet?
I know the trumpet winds will join no more
With the high stars and billowed sea, to lift
My spirit to the bard's immortal gift—
That when a few warm summers shall be o'er,
And thy last vintage pours its scanty wine,
All these quick flames will die in ashes low,
The sluggish pulse forget its leaping flow,
And faded lie the flowers of Love divine:
When these, thy bounties, fail to warm my breath,
Leave me, false Life, and send thy brother, Death!
243
A FANTASY.
O Maiden of the Forest,
Why play so loud and long?
Now let thy horn be silent,
Thy voice take up the song!
Why play so loud and long?
Now let thy horn be silent,
Thy voice take up the song!
I cannot choose but listen,
I cannot choose but follow,
Where'er thy blue eyes glisten
Across the woodlands hollow.
I cannot choose but follow,
Where'er thy blue eyes glisten
Across the woodlands hollow.
My heart is filled with brightness
As the heavens are filled with morn,
To hear the sounds enchanted
Leap from thy silver horn.
As the heavens are filled with morn,
To hear the sounds enchanted
Leap from thy silver horn.
244
Let the echoes rest a moment,
And let thy lips declare
If thou be of earth or ocean,
Or the flying shapes of air.
And let thy lips declare
If thou be of earth or ocean,
Or the flying shapes of air.
Let my mouth be free to kiss thee,
Let my hands be free to hold,
For I cannot choose but love thee,
And love is ever bold.
Let my hands be free to hold,
For I cannot choose but love thee,
And love is ever bold.
Still she played, and playing, fleeted
Before me as I sought her,
And the horn rang out this answer
Across the shaded water:
Before me as I sought her,
And the horn rang out this answer
Across the shaded water:
I play the strains enchanted
You cannot choose but hear,
For your life is in the music,
And your heart sits at your ear.
You cannot choose but hear,
For your life is in the music,
And your heart sits at your ear.
I shall never cease my playing
For your love's impassioned prayer;
I shall never feel your kisses
Falling on my golden hair.
For your love's impassioned prayer;
I shall never feel your kisses
Falling on my golden hair.
245
For my touch would chill your pulses,
And my kiss make dim your eye,
And the horn will first be silent
In the hour that you shall die.
And my kiss make dim your eye,
And the horn will first be silent
In the hour that you shall die.
250
THE MARINERS.
They were born by the shore, by the shore,
When the surf was loud and the sea-gull cried;
They were rocked to the rhythm of its roar,
They were cradled in the arms of the tide.
When the surf was loud and the sea-gull cried;
They were rocked to the rhythm of its roar,
They were cradled in the arms of the tide.
Sporting on the fenceless sand,
Looking o'er the limitless blue,
Half on the water and half on the land,
Ruddily and lustily to manhood they grew.
Looking o'er the limitless blue,
Half on the water and half on the land,
Ruddily and lustily to manhood they grew.
How should they follow where the plough
Furrows at the heels of the lazy steers?
How should they stand with a sickly brow,
Pent behind a counter, wasting golden years!
Furrows at the heels of the lazy steers?
How should they stand with a sickly brow,
Pent behind a counter, wasting golden years!
251
They turned to the Earth, but she frowns on her child;
They turned to the Sea, and he smiled as of old;
Sweeter was the peril of the breakers white and wild,
Sweeter than the land with its bondage and gold!
They turned to the Sea, and he smiled as of old;
Sweeter was the peril of the breakers white and wild,
Sweeter than the land with its bondage and gold!
Now they walk on the rolling deck,
And they hang to the rocking shrouds,
When the lee-shore looms with a vision of wreck,
And the scud is flung to the stooping clouds.
And they hang to the rocking shrouds,
When the lee-shore looms with a vision of wreck,
And the scud is flung to the stooping clouds.
Shifting the changeless horizon ring,
Which the lands and islands in turn look o'er,
They traverse the zones with a veering wing,
From shore to sea, and from sea to shore.
Which the lands and islands in turn look o'er,
They traverse the zones with a veering wing,
From shore to sea, and from sea to shore.
They know the South and the North;
They know the East and the West;
Shuttles of fortune, flung back and forth
In the web of motion, the woof of rest.
They know the East and the West;
Shuttles of fortune, flung back and forth
In the web of motion, the woof of rest.
They do not act with a studied grace,
They do not speak in delicate phrase,
But the candor of heaven is on their face,
And the freedom of ocean in all their ways.
They do not speak in delicate phrase,
But the candor of heaven is on their face,
And the freedom of ocean in all their ways.
252
They cannot fathom the subtle cheats,
The lying arts which the landsmen learn:
Each looks in the eyes of the man he meets,
And whoso trusts him, he trusts in turn.
The lying arts which the landsmen learn:
Each looks in the eyes of the man he meets,
And whoso trusts him, he trusts in turn.
Say that they curse, if you will,
That the tavern and harlot possess their gains:
On the surface floats what they do of ill—
At the bottom the manhood remains.
That the tavern and harlot possess their gains:
On the surface floats what they do of ill—
At the bottom the manhood remains.
When they slide from the gangway-plank below,
Deep as the plummeted shroud may drag,
They hold it comfort enough, to know
The corpse is wrapped in their country's flag.
Deep as the plummeted shroud may drag,
They hold it comfort enough, to know
The corpse is wrapped in their country's flag.
But whether they die on the sea or shore,
And lie under water, or sand, or sod,
Christ give them the rest that he keeps in store,
And anchor their souls in the harbors of God!
And lie under water, or sand, or sod,
Christ give them the rest that he keeps in store,
And anchor their souls in the harbors of God!
| Poems of home and travel | |