 | Poems by Sarah Helen Whitman |  |
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POEMS.
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“It cannot be unbound, my autumn sheaf:—
Then let it stand, a relic of the past,
Its mystery all its own, and it will last.”
Then let it stand, a relic of the past,
Its mystery all its own, and it will last.”
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A STILL DAY IN AUTUMN.
I love to wander through the woodlands hoary,
In the soft gloom of an autumnal day,
When Summer gathers up her robes of glory,
And, like a dream of beauty, glides away.
In the soft gloom of an autumnal day,
When Summer gathers up her robes of glory,
And, like a dream of beauty, glides away.
How through each loved, familiar path she lingers,
Serenely smiling through the golden mist,
Tinting the wild grape with her dewy fingers,
Till the cool emerald turns to amethyst;
Serenely smiling through the golden mist,
Tinting the wild grape with her dewy fingers,
Till the cool emerald turns to amethyst;
Kindling the faint stars of the hazel, shining
To light the gloom of Autumn's mouldering halls;
With hoary plumes the clematis entwining,
Where, o'er the rock, her withered garland falls.
To light the gloom of Autumn's mouldering halls;
With hoary plumes the clematis entwining,
Where, o'er the rock, her withered garland falls.
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Warm lights are on the sleepy uplands waning
Beneath dark clouds along the horizon rolled,
Till the slant sunbeams, through their fringes raining,
Bathe all the hills in melancholy gold.
Beneath dark clouds along the horizon rolled,
Till the slant sunbeams, through their fringes raining,
Bathe all the hills in melancholy gold.
The moist winds breathe of crispèd leaves and flowers,
In the damp hollows of the woodland sown,
Mingling the freshness of autumnal showers
With spicy airs from cedarn alleys blown.
In the damp hollows of the woodland sown,
Mingling the freshness of autumnal showers
With spicy airs from cedarn alleys blown.
Beside the brook and on the umbered meadow,
Where yellow fern-tufts fleck the faded ground,
With folded lids beneath their palmy shadow,
The gentian nods, in dewy slumbers bound.
Where yellow fern-tufts fleck the faded ground,
With folded lids beneath their palmy shadow,
The gentian nods, in dewy slumbers bound.
Upon those soft, fringed lids the bee sits brooding,
Like a fond lover loath to say farewell;
Or, with shut wings, through silken folds intruding,
Creeps near her heart his drowsy tale to tell.
Like a fond lover loath to say farewell;
Or, with shut wings, through silken folds intruding,
Creeps near her heart his drowsy tale to tell.
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The little birds upon the hill-side lonely
Flit noiselessly along from spray to spray,
Silent as a sweet, wandering thought, that only
Shows its bright wings and softly glides away.
Flit noiselessly along from spray to spray,
Silent as a sweet, wandering thought, that only
Shows its bright wings and softly glides away.
The scentless flowers, in the warm sunlight dreaming,
Forget to breathe their fullness of delight;
And through the trancèd woods soft airs are streaming,
Still as the dew-fall of the summer night.
Forget to breathe their fullness of delight;
And through the trancèd woods soft airs are streaming,
Still as the dew-fall of the summer night.
So, in my heart, a sweet, unwonted feeling
Stirs, like the wind in ocean's hollow shell,
Through all its secret chambers sadly stealing,
Yet finds no words its mystic charm to tell.
Stirs, like the wind in ocean's hollow shell,
Through all its secret chambers sadly stealing,
Yet finds no words its mystic charm to tell.
1848.
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THE TRAILING ARBUTUS.
There's a flower that grows by the greenwood tree,
In its desolate beauty more dear to me
Than all that bask in the noontide beam
Through the long, bright summer by fount and stream.
Like a pure hope nursed beneath sorrow's wing,
Its timid buds from the cold moss spring;
Their delicate hues like the pink sea-shell,
Or the shaded blush of the hyacinth's bell;
Their breath more sweet than the faint perfume
That breathes from the bridal orange-bloom.
It is not found by the garden wall,
It wreathes no brow in the festal hall;
But it dwells in the depths of the shadowy wood,
And shines, like a star, in the solitude.
Never did numbers its name prolong,
Ne'er hath it floated on wings of song;
Bard and minstrel have passed it by,
And left it, in silence and shade, to die.
But with joy to its cradle the wild bees come,
And praise its beauty with drony hum;
And children love, in the season of spring,
To watch for its earliest blossoming.
In its desolate beauty more dear to me
Than all that bask in the noontide beam
Through the long, bright summer by fount and stream.
Like a pure hope nursed beneath sorrow's wing,
Its timid buds from the cold moss spring;
Their delicate hues like the pink sea-shell,
Or the shaded blush of the hyacinth's bell;
Their breath more sweet than the faint perfume
That breathes from the bridal orange-bloom.
It is not found by the garden wall,
It wreathes no brow in the festal hall;
But it dwells in the depths of the shadowy wood,
And shines, like a star, in the solitude.
Never did numbers its name prolong,
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Bard and minstrel have passed it by,
And left it, in silence and shade, to die.
But with joy to its cradle the wild bees come,
And praise its beauty with drony hum;
And children love, in the season of spring,
To watch for its earliest blossoming.
In the dewy morn of an April day,
When the traveler lingers along the way;
When the sod is sprinkled with tender green
Where rivulets water the earth, unseen;
When the floating fringe on the maple's crest
Rivals the tulip's crimson vest,
And the budding leaves of the birch-trees throw
A trembling shade on the turf below;
When my flower awakes from its dreamy rest,
And yields its lips to the sweet southwest,
Then, in those beautiful days of spring,
With hearts as light as the wild bird's wing,
Flinging their tasks and their toys aside,
Gay little groups through the wood-paths glide,
Peeping and peering among the trees
As they scent its breath on the passing breeze,
Hunting about, among lichens gray
And the tangled mosses beside the way,
Till they catch the glance of its quiet eye,
Like light that breaks through a cloudy sky.
When the traveler lingers along the way;
When the sod is sprinkled with tender green
Where rivulets water the earth, unseen;
When the floating fringe on the maple's crest
Rivals the tulip's crimson vest,
And the budding leaves of the birch-trees throw
A trembling shade on the turf below;
When my flower awakes from its dreamy rest,
And yields its lips to the sweet southwest,
Then, in those beautiful days of spring,
With hearts as light as the wild bird's wing,
Flinging their tasks and their toys aside,
Gay little groups through the wood-paths glide,
Peeping and peering among the trees
As they scent its breath on the passing breeze,
Hunting about, among lichens gray
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Till they catch the glance of its quiet eye,
Like light that breaks through a cloudy sky.
For me, sweet blossom, thy tendrils cling
Round my heart of hearts as in childhood's spring;
And thy breath, as it floats on the wandering air,
Wakes all the music of memory there.
Thou recallest the time when, a fearless child,
I roved all day through the wood-walks wild,
Seeking thy blossoms by bank and brae,
Wherever the snow-drifts had melted away.
Round my heart of hearts as in childhood's spring;
And thy breath, as it floats on the wandering air,
Wakes all the music of memory there.
Thou recallest the time when, a fearless child,
I roved all day through the wood-walks wild,
Seeking thy blossoms by bank and brae,
Wherever the snow-drifts had melted away.
Now as I linger, mid crowds alone,
Haunted by echoes of music flown;
When the shadows deepen around my way,
And the light of reason but leads astray;
When affections, nurtured with fondest care
In the trusting heart, become traitors there;
When, weary of all that the world bestows,
I turn to nature for calm repose,
How fain my spirit, in some far glen,
Would fold her wings mid thy flowers again!
Haunted by echoes of music flown;
When the shadows deepen around my way,
And the light of reason but leads astray;
When affections, nurtured with fondest care
In the trusting heart, become traitors there;
When, weary of all that the world bestows,
I turn to nature for calm repose,
How fain my spirit, in some far glen,
Would fold her wings mid thy flowers again!
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MOONRISE IN MAY.
Long lights gleam o'er the western wold,
Kindling the brown moss into gold;
The bright day fades into the blue
Of the far hollows, dim with dew;
The breeze comes laden with perfume
From many an orchard white with bloom,
And all the mellow air is fraught
With beauty beyond Fancy's thought.
Kindling the brown moss into gold;
The bright day fades into the blue
Of the far hollows, dim with dew;
The breeze comes laden with perfume
From many an orchard white with bloom,
And all the mellow air is fraught
With beauty beyond Fancy's thought.
Outspread beneath me, breathing balm
Into the evening's golden calm,
Lie trellised gardens, thickly sown
With nodding lilacs, newly blown;
Borders with hyacinthus plumed,
And beds with purple pansies gloomed;
Cold snow-drops, jonquils pale and prim,
And flamy tulips, burning dim
In the cool twilight, till they fold
In sleep their oriflammes of gold.
Into the evening's golden calm,
Lie trellised gardens, thickly sown
With nodding lilacs, newly blown;
Borders with hyacinthus plumed,
And beds with purple pansies gloomed;
Cold snow-drops, jonquils pale and prim,
And flamy tulips, burning dim
In the cool twilight, till they fold
In sleep their oriflammes of gold.
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With many a glimmering interchange
Of moss and flowers and terraced range,
The pleasant garden slopes away
Into the gloom of shadows gray,
Where, darkly green, the church-yard lies,
With all its silent memories:
There the first violets love to blow
About the head-stones, leaning low;
There, from the golden willows, swing
The first green garlands of the spring;
And the first bluebird builds her nest
By the old belfry's umbered crest.
Of moss and flowers and terraced range,
The pleasant garden slopes away
Into the gloom of shadows gray,
Where, darkly green, the church-yard lies,
With all its silent memories:
There the first violets love to blow
About the head-stones, leaning low;
There, from the golden willows, swing
The first green garlands of the spring;
And the first bluebird builds her nest
By the old belfry's umbered crest.
Beyond, where groups of stately trees,
Waiting their vernal draperies,
Stand outlined on the evening sky,
The golden lakes of sunset lie;
With many-colored isles of light,
Purple and pearl and chrysolite,
And realms of cloud-land, floating far
Beyond the horizon's dusky bar,—
Now fading from the lurid bloom
Of twilight to a silver gloom,
As the fair moon's ascending beam
Melts all things to a holy dream.
Waiting their vernal draperies,
Stand outlined on the evening sky,
The golden lakes of sunset lie;
With many-colored isles of light,
Purple and pearl and chrysolite,
And realms of cloud-land, floating far
Beyond the horizon's dusky bar,—
Now fading from the lurid bloom
Of twilight to a silver gloom,
As the fair moon's ascending beam
Melts all things to a holy dream.
So fade the cloud-wreaths from my soul
Beneath thy solemn, soft control,
Enchantress of the stormy seas,
Priestess of Night's high mysteries!
Thy ray can pale the north light's plume,
And, where the throbbing stars illume
With their far-palpitating light
The holy cloisters of the night,
Thy presence can entrance their beams,
And lull them to diviner dreams.
To thee belong the silent spheres
Of memory,—the enchanted years
Of the dead Past,—the shrouded woes
That sleep in sculptural repose.
Beneath thy solemn, soft control,
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Priestess of Night's high mysteries!
Thy ray can pale the north light's plume,
And, where the throbbing stars illume
With their far-palpitating light
The holy cloisters of the night,
Thy presence can entrance their beams,
And lull them to diviner dreams.
To thee belong the silent spheres
Of memory,—the enchanted years
Of the dead Past,—the shrouded woes
That sleep in sculptural repose.
Thy solemn light doth interfuse
The magic world wherein I muse
With something too divinely fair
For earthly hope to harbor there;
A faith that reconciles the will
Life's mystic sorrow to fulfill;
A benison of love that falls
From the serene and silent halls
Of night, till through the lonely room
A heavenly odor seems to bloom,
And lilies of eternal peace
Glow through the moonlight's golden fleece.
The magic world wherein I muse
With something too divinely fair
For earthly hope to harbor there;
A faith that reconciles the will
Life's mystic sorrow to fulfill;
A benison of love that falls
From the serene and silent halls
Of night, till through the lonely room
A heavenly odor seems to bloom,
And lilies of eternal peace
Glow through the moonlight's golden fleece.
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THE MORNING-GLORY.
When the peach ripens to a rosy bloom,
When purple grapes glow through the leafy gloom
Of trellised vines, bright wonder, thou dost come,
Cool as a star dropt from night's azure dome,
To light the early morning, that doth break
More softly beautiful for thy sweet sake.
When purple grapes glow through the leafy gloom
Of trellised vines, bright wonder, thou dost come,
Cool as a star dropt from night's azure dome,
To light the early morning, that doth break
More softly beautiful for thy sweet sake.
Thy fleeting glory to my fancy seems
Like the strange flowers we gather in our dreams;
Hovering so lightly o'er the slender stem,
Wearing so meekly the proud diadem
Of penciled rays, that gave the name you bear
Unblamed amid the flowers, from year to year.
The tawny lily, flecked with jetty studs,
Pard-like, and dropping through long, pendent buds,
Her purple anthers; nor the poppy, bowed
In languid sleep, enfolding in a cloud
Of drowsy odors her too fervid heart,
Pierced by the day-god's barbed and burning dart;
Nor the swart sunflower, her dark brows enrolled
With their broad carcanets of living gold,—
A captive princess, following the car
Of her proud conqueror; nor that sweet star,
The evening primrose, pallid with strange dreams
Born of the wan moon's melancholy beams;
Nor any flower that doth its tendrils twine
Around my memory, hath a charm like thine.
Child of the morning, passionless and fair
As some ethereal creature of the air,
Waiting not for the bright lord of the hours
To weary of thy bloom in sultry bowers;
Nor like the summer rose, that one by one,
Yields her fair, fragrant petals to the sun,
Faint with the envenomed sweetness of his smile,
That doth to lingering death her race beguile;
But, as some spirit of the air doth fade
Into the light from its own essence rayed,
So, Glory of the morning, fair and cold,
Soon in thy circling halo dost thou fold
Thy virgin bloom, and from our vision hide
That form too fair, on earth, unsullied to abide.
Like the strange flowers we gather in our dreams;
Hovering so lightly o'er the slender stem,
Wearing so meekly the proud diadem
Of penciled rays, that gave the name you bear
Unblamed amid the flowers, from year to year.
The tawny lily, flecked with jetty studs,
Pard-like, and dropping through long, pendent buds,
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In languid sleep, enfolding in a cloud
Of drowsy odors her too fervid heart,
Pierced by the day-god's barbed and burning dart;
Nor the swart sunflower, her dark brows enrolled
With their broad carcanets of living gold,—
A captive princess, following the car
Of her proud conqueror; nor that sweet star,
The evening primrose, pallid with strange dreams
Born of the wan moon's melancholy beams;
Nor any flower that doth its tendrils twine
Around my memory, hath a charm like thine.
Child of the morning, passionless and fair
As some ethereal creature of the air,
Waiting not for the bright lord of the hours
To weary of thy bloom in sultry bowers;
Nor like the summer rose, that one by one,
Yields her fair, fragrant petals to the sun,
Faint with the envenomed sweetness of his smile,
That doth to lingering death her race beguile;
But, as some spirit of the air doth fade
Into the light from its own essence rayed,
So, Glory of the morning, fair and cold,
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Thy virgin bloom, and from our vision hide
That form too fair, on earth, unsullied to abide.
1849.
“The disk of the Convolvulus, after remaining expanded for a few hours, gathers itself up within the five star-like rays that intersect the corolla until it is entirely concealed from sight.”—
St. Pierre.15
WOOD-WALKS IN SPRING.
“Pleasure sits in the flower cups, and breathes itself out in fragrance.”
Rahel.
Rahel.
As the fabled stone into music woke
When the morning sun o'er the marble broke,
So wakes the heart from its stern repose,
As, o'er brow and bosom, the spring wind blows;
So it stirs and trembles, as each low sigh
Of the breezy south comes murmuring by,—
Murmuring by, like a voice of love,
Wooing us forth amid flowers to rove;
Breathing of meadow-paths, thickly sown
With pearls, from the blossoming fruit-trees blown,
And of banks that slope to the southern sky,
Where languid violets love to lie.
No foliage droops o'er the wood-path now,
No dark vines, swinging from bough to bough;
But a trembling shadow of silvery green
Falls through the young leaf's tender screen,
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Or lines the lid of an Indian shell;
And a fairy light, like the firefly's glow,
Flickers and fades on the grass below.
There the pale anemone lifts her eye,
To look at the clouds as they wander by;
Or lurks in the shade of a palmy fern,
To gather fresh dews in her waxen urn.
Where the moss lies thick on the brown earth's breast,
The shy little may-flower weaves her nest;
But the south wind blows o'er the fragrant loam,
And betrays the path to her woodland home.
Already the green-budding, birchen spray
Winnows the balm from the breath of May;
And the aspen thrills to a low, sweet tone
From the reedy bugle of Faunus blown.
In the tangled coppice, the dwarf-oak weaves
Her fringe-like blossoms and crimson leaves;
The sallows their delicate buds unfold
Into downy feathers bedropped with gold;
While, thick as stars in the midnight sky,
In the dark, wet meadows the cowslips lie.
A love-tint flushes the wind-flower's cheek,
Rich melodies gush from the violet's beak;
On the rifts of the rock the wild columbines grow,
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As a heart which vague, sweet thoughts oppress
Droops with its burden of happiness.
There the waters drip from their moss-rimmed wells,
With a sound like the tinkling of silver bells,
Or fall, with a mellow and flute-like flow,
Through the channeled clefts of the rock below.
Soft music gushes in every tone,
And perfume in every breeze is blown;
The flower in fragrance, the bird in song,
The glittering wave as it glides along,—
All breathe the incense of boundless bliss,
The eloquent music of happiness.
Yet sad would the spring-time of Nature seem
To the soul that wanders 'mid life's dark dream,
Its glory a meteor that sweeps the sky,
A blossom that floats on the storm-wind by,
If it woke no thought of that starry clime
Beyond the desolate seas of Time;
If it nurtured no delicate flower, to blow
On the hills where the palm and the amaranth grow.
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ON A STATUE OF DAVID.
Ay, this is he! the bold and gentle boy—
That in lone pastures by the mountain's side
Guarded his fold, and through the midnight sky
Saw on the blast the God of battles ride;
Beheld his bannered armies on the height,
And heard their clarion sound through all the stormy night.
That in lone pastures by the mountain's side
Guarded his fold, and through the midnight sky
Saw on the blast the God of battles ride;
Beheld his bannered armies on the height,
And heard their clarion sound through all the stormy night.
Though his fair locks lie all unshorn, and bare
To the bold toying of the mountain wind,
A conscious glory haunts the o'ershadowing air,
And waits, with glittering coil, his brows to bind,
While his proud temples bend superbly down,
As if they bore, e'en now, the burden of a crown.
To the bold toying of the mountain wind,
A conscious glory haunts the o'ershadowing air,
And waits, with glittering coil, his brows to bind,
While his proud temples bend superbly down,
As if they bore, e'en now, the burden of a crown.
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Though a stern sorrow slumbers in his eyes,
As if his prophet glance foresaw the day
When the dark waters o'er his soul should rise,
And friends and lovers wander far away,
Yet the graced impress of that floral mouth
Breathes of love's golden dream and the voluptuous south.
As if his prophet glance foresaw the day
When the dark waters o'er his soul should rise,
And friends and lovers wander far away,
Yet the graced impress of that floral mouth
Breathes of love's golden dream and the voluptuous south.
Peerless in beauty as the prophet star,
That in the dewy trances of the dawn,
Floats o'er the solitary hills afar,
And brings sweet tidings of the lingering morn;
Or, weary at the day-god's loitering wain,
Strikes on the harp of light a soft, prelusive strain.
That in the dewy trances of the dawn,
Floats o'er the solitary hills afar,
And brings sweet tidings of the lingering morn;
Or, weary at the day-god's loitering wain,
Strikes on the harp of light a soft, prelusive strain.
So his wild harp, with psaltery and shawm,
Awoke the nations in thick darkness furled,
While mystic winds from Gilead's groves of balm
Wafted its sweet hosannas through the world;
So, when the day-spring from on high, he sang,
With joy the ancient hills and lonely valleys rang.
Awoke the nations in thick darkness furled,
While mystic winds from Gilead's groves of balm
Wafted its sweet hosannas through the world;
So, when the day-spring from on high, he sang,
With joy the ancient hills and lonely valleys rang.
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Ay, this is he!—the minstrel, prophet, king,
Before whose arm princes and warriors sank;
Who dwelt beneath Jehovah's mighty wing,
And from the “river of his pleasures” drank;
Or, through the rent pavilions of the storm,
Beheld the cloud of fire that veiled his awful form.
Before whose arm princes and warriors sank;
Who dwelt beneath Jehovah's mighty wing,
And from the “river of his pleasures” drank;
Or, through the rent pavilions of the storm,
Beheld the cloud of fire that veiled his awful form.
And now he stands as when in Elah's vale,
Where warriors set the battle in array,
He met the Titan in his ponderous mail,
Whose haughty challenge many a summer's day
Rang through the border hills, while all the host
Of faithless Israel heard, and trembled at his boast;
Where warriors set the battle in array,
He met the Titan in his ponderous mail,
Whose haughty challenge many a summer's day
Rang through the border hills, while all the host
Of faithless Israel heard, and trembled at his boast;
Till the slight stripling from the mountain fold
Stood, all unarmed, amid their sounding shields,
And in his youth's first bloom, devoutly bold,
Dared the grim champion of a thousand fields;
So stands he now, as in Jehovah's might
Glorying, he met the foe and won the immortal fight.—
Stood, all unarmed, amid their sounding shields,
And in his youth's first bloom, devoutly bold,
Dared the grim champion of a thousand fields;
So stands he now, as in Jehovah's might
Glorying, he met the foe and won the immortal fight.—
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A NIGHT IN AUGUST.
“And thenceforth all that once was fair
Grew fairer.”
Grew fairer.”
How softly comes the summer wind
At evening o'er the hill,
Forever murmuring of thee
When busy crowds are still;
The way-side flowers seem to guess
And whisper of my happiness.
At evening o'er the hill,
Forever murmuring of thee
When busy crowds are still;
The way-side flowers seem to guess
And whisper of my happiness.
The jasmine twines her snowy stars
Into a fairer wreath;
The lily lifts her proud tiárs
More royally beneath;
The snow-drop with her fairy bells,
In silver time, the story tells.
Into a fairer wreath;
The lily lifts her proud tiárs
More royally beneath;
The snow-drop with her fairy bells,
In silver time, the story tells.
Through all the dusk and dewy hours,
The banded stars above
Are singing, in their airy towers,
The melodies of love;
And clouds of shadowy silver fly
All night, like doves, athwart the sky.
The banded stars above
Are singing, in their airy towers,
The melodies of love;
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All night, like doves, athwart the sky.
Fair Dian lulls the throbbing stars
Into Elysian dreams;
And, rippling through my lattice bars,
Her brooding glory streams
Around me, like the golden shower
That rained through Danäe's guarded tower.
Into Elysian dreams;
And, rippling through my lattice bars,
Her brooding glory streams
Around me, like the golden shower
That rained through Danäe's guarded tower.
And when the waning moon doth glide
Into the valleys gray;
When, like the music of a dream,
The night-wind dies away;
When all the way-side flowers have furled
Their wings, with morning dews impearled,
Into the valleys gray;
When, like the music of a dream,
The night-wind dies away;
When all the way-side flowers have furled
Their wings, with morning dews impearled,
A low, bewildering melody
Seems murmuring in my ear,—
Tones such as in the twilight wood
The aspen thrills to hear,
When Faunus slumbers on the hill,
And all the entrancèd boughs are still.
Seems murmuring in my ear,—
Tones such as in the twilight wood
The aspen thrills to hear,
When Faunus slumbers on the hill,
And all the entrancèd boughs are still.
August, 1848.
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To ---.
Eva, thy beauty comes to me
To solace and to save;
A marvel and a mystery,
A beacon o'er the wave,—
A star above the jasper sea,
A hope beyond the grave.
To solace and to save;
A marvel and a mystery,
A beacon o'er the wave,—
A star above the jasper sea,
A hope beyond the grave.
Oft, when thy harp-tones wild and sweet
The waves of passion move,
Methinks pale Sappho's songs I hear
Murmuring of Phaon's love,—
Pale Sappho's passion songs I hear
Lamenting her lost love.
The waves of passion move,
Methinks pale Sappho's songs I hear
Murmuring of Phaon's love,—
Pale Sappho's passion songs I hear
Lamenting her lost love.
But in those tender, thoughtful eyes,
That look so far away,
A pleading Pysche bids me rise
To realms of purer day,—
A Psyche soaring to the skies,
To realms of perfect day.
That look so far away,
A pleading Pysche bids me rise
To realms of purer day,—
A Psyche soaring to the skies,
To realms of perfect day.
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FLORALIE.
All the star-flowers on the hill
Nod their sweet heads wearily;
Through the sad September day,
To my lonely heart they say,
Floralie is far away.
Nod their sweet heads wearily;
Through the sad September day,
To my lonely heart they say,
Floralie is far away.
All the little birds that sang
In the copse so cheerily,
Fluttering from spray to spray,
Seem in mournful notes to say,
Floralie is far away—far away.
In the copse so cheerily,
Fluttering from spray to spray,
Seem in mournful notes to say,
Floralie is far away—far away.
All the morning-stars that look
Through the dawn so drearily,
Turning from the joyless day,
By their sadness seem to say,
Floralie is far away,—
Far away—far, far away.
Through the dawn so drearily,
Turning from the joyless day,
By their sadness seem to say,
Floralie is far away,—
Far away—far, far away.
25
STANZAS WITH A BRIDAL RING.
The young moon hides her virgin heart
Within a ring of gold;
So doth this little cycle all
My bosom's love enfold,
And tell the tale that from my lips
Seems ever half untold;
Like the rich legend of the East,
That weaves and interweaves
Its linkèd sweetness, or the rose
That hath a hundred leaves.
Within a ring of gold;
So doth this little cycle all
My bosom's love enfold,
And tell the tale that from my lips
Seems ever half untold;
Like the rich legend of the East,
That weaves and interweaves
Its linkèd sweetness, or the rose
That hath a hundred leaves.
This little fairy talisman
Shall love's serene Elysium span;
No hope shall pass its mystic round,
And all within be holy ground:
And here, as in the elfin ring
Where fairies dance by night,
The green oases of the heart
Shall keep their verdure bright,
And hope, within this magic round,
Still blossom in delight.
Shall love's serene Elysium span;
No hope shall pass its mystic round,
And all within be holy ground:
And here, as in the elfin ring
Where fairies dance by night,
The green oases of the heart
Shall keep their verdure bright,
And hope, within this magic round,
Still blossom in delight.
26
THE GOLDEN BALL.
A TALE OF FAERIE.
“In olden dayes
All was the land fulfilled of Faerie—
The Elf Queen, with her jollie companie,
Danced full oft in many a grassy mede.
This was the old opinion, as I rede.—
I speak of many hundred years ago—
But now can no man see the Elvès mo.”
Chaucer.
All was the land fulfilled of Faerie—
The Elf Queen, with her jollie companie,
Danced full oft in many a grassy mede.
This was the old opinion, as I rede.—
I speak of many hundred years ago—
But now can no man see the Elvès mo.”
Chaucer.
In the hushed and silken chamber
Of my childhood, Eleanore,
When the daylight's dying amber
Faded on the dusky floor;
Of my childhood, Eleanore,
When the daylight's dying amber
Faded on the dusky floor;
When the village bells were ringing
At the hour of evening prayer,
And the little birds were winging
Homeward through the dewy air,
At the hour of evening prayer,
And the little birds were winging
Homeward through the dewy air,
Wooing me to twilight slumbers,
In that soft and balmy clime,
Often have I heard the numbers
Of the ancient fairy-rhyme,—
In that soft and balmy clime,
Often have I heard the numbers
Of the ancient fairy-rhyme,—
27
Listened to the mythic stories
Taught when fancy's charmed sway
Filled with visionary glories
All my childhood's golden day.
Taught when fancy's charmed sway
Filled with visionary glories
All my childhood's golden day.
In the dull and drear December,
Sitting by the hearth-light's gleam,
Often do I still remember
Tales that haunt me like a dream,
Sitting by the hearth-light's gleam,
Often do I still remember
Tales that haunt me like a dream,
Often I recall the story
Of the outcast child forlorn,
Doomed to roam in forest hoary,
From the step-dame's cruel scorn.
Of the outcast child forlorn,
Doomed to roam in forest hoary,
From the step-dame's cruel scorn.
Long she wandered sad and lonely,
Till the daylight's dying bloom
Left one silver planet only
Trembling through the twilight gloom.
Till the daylight's dying bloom
Left one silver planet only
Trembling through the twilight gloom.
Orphaned in this world of sorrow,
Chased by savage beasts of prey;
Doomed, from frantic fears, to borrow
Strength to bear her on her way.
Chased by savage beasts of prey;
Doomed, from frantic fears, to borrow
Strength to bear her on her way.
Still she wandered, faint and weary,
Through the forest wild and wide,
Till her thoughts grew dark and dreary,
And her heart with terror died.
Through the forest wild and wide,
28
And her heart with terror died.
When a gracious fairy, wandering
Forth to greet the evening star,
Found her near a torrent, pondering
How to pass its watery bar.
Forth to greet the evening star,
Found her near a torrent, pondering
How to pass its watery bar.
Tenderly the gentle stranger
Led her to the foaming fall;
There, to guide her feet from danger,
Down she flung a Golden Ball.
Led her to the foaming fall;
There, to guide her feet from danger,
Down she flung a Golden Ball.
Shrined within its charmed hollow
Many a mystic virtue lay;
Safely might her footsteps follow
Wheresoe'er it led the way.
Many a mystic virtue lay;
Safely might her footsteps follow
Wheresoe'er it led the way.
Throbbed her heart with fear and wonder,
As the magic globe of gold
Onward through the rushing thunder
Of the stormy torrent rolled:
As the magic globe of gold
Onward through the rushing thunder
Of the stormy torrent rolled:
On where boundless forests, burning,
Scorched the air and scathed the sight,
From earth's livid features turning
Back the solemn pall of night:
Scorched the air and scathed the sight,
From earth's livid features turning
Back the solemn pall of night:
29
Still on golden axis rolling,
Onward, onward, still it sped,—
Still the maid, her fears controlling,
Fleetly following as it fled:
Onward, onward, still it sped,—
Still the maid, her fears controlling,
Fleetly following as it fled:
While the raging waters bore her
Safely o'er their hollow way,
And the flame-lights flashing o'er her
Paled like stars at break of day,—
Safely o'er their hollow way,
And the flame-lights flashing o'er her
Paled like stars at break of day,—
Paled before her virgin honor,
Paled before her love and truth;
Savage natures, gazing on her,
Turned to pity and to ruth.
Paled before her love and truth;
Savage natures, gazing on her,
Turned to pity and to ruth.
So she passed through flood and forest,—
Passed the ogre's yawning gate;
And when danger threatened sorest
Calmly trod the path of fate.
Passed the ogre's yawning gate;
And when danger threatened sorest
Calmly trod the path of fate.
Till the night that seemed so dreary
Grew more beautiful than day;
And her little feet, so weary,
Glided gently on their way,—
Grew more beautiful than day;
And her little feet, so weary,
Glided gently on their way,—
Glided o'er the grassy meadows
Steeped in perfume, starred with dew,
Glided 'neath the forest shadows
Till the moonlight, slanting through,
Steeped in perfume, starred with dew,
30
Till the moonlight, slanting through,
Gleamed athwart a fountain sleeping
Calmly in its hollow cells,
Where were little fishes leaping
All about the lily-bells.
Calmly in its hollow cells,
Where were little fishes leaping
All about the lily-bells.
Soon the lilies seemed to shiver,
And a tremor shook the air—
Curdled all the sleeping river—
Woke the thunder in its lair!
And a tremor shook the air—
Curdled all the sleeping river—
Woke the thunder in its lair!
Lo! a fish from out the water
Rising oped its rosy gills;
'T was the gracious fairy's daughter,
And the air with music thrills,
Rising oped its rosy gills;
'T was the gracious fairy's daughter,
And the air with music thrills,
As a sudden glory, bending
O'er the fountain's mystic gleam,
Changed her to a form transcending
Fantasy's divinest dream.
O'er the fountain's mystic gleam,
Changed her to a form transcending
Fantasy's divinest dream.
Water blooms, with olive twining,
Crowned a brow serenely sweet;
Robes, like woven lilies shining,
Flowed in folds about her feet.
Crowned a brow serenely sweet;
Robes, like woven lilies shining,
Flowed in folds about her feet.
31
With a look of soft imploring,
Thus she spoke, in rippling tones,
Sweet as summer waters pouring
Over reeds and pebble-stones:
Thus she spoke, in rippling tones,
Sweet as summer waters pouring
Over reeds and pebble-stones:
“Thou hast conquered, little stranger!
All thy bitter trials past,
Safe, through sorrow and through danger,
Thou hast won the goal at last.
All thy bitter trials past,
Safe, through sorrow and through danger,
Thou hast won the goal at last.
“Lift me from the silent water,
Let me on thy bosom lie;
For I am a fairy's daughter
Thralled by cruel sorcery.
Let me on thy bosom lie;
For I am a fairy's daughter
Thralled by cruel sorcery.
“Doomed beneath the wave forever,
Like the virgin Truth, to dwell,
Till a mortal hand shall sever,
Link by link, the charmèd spell;
Like the virgin Truth, to dwell,
Till a mortal hand shall sever,
Link by link, the charmèd spell;
“Till a faithful heart shall fold me
To its home of truth and love,—
So the ancient Fates have told me,
And the answering stars approve.
To its home of truth and love,—
So the ancient Fates have told me,
And the answering stars approve.
“Lift me, then, from out the river,
Now my charmèd life doth cease;
Henceforth I am thine forever;
Guard me, for my name is Peace.”
Now my charmèd life doth cease;
32
Guard me, for my name is Peace.”
Thus, dear child, the mythic story
Chimes to truth's unerring strain,
As the moon, in softened glory,
Sings the day-star's sweet refrain.
Chimes to truth's unerring strain,
As the moon, in softened glory,
Sings the day-star's sweet refrain.
Thus, though step-dame Nature chide thee,
And the snares of passion thrall,
Unto heavenly Peace shall guide thee
Faith's unerring Golden Ball.
And the snares of passion thrall,
Unto heavenly Peace shall guide thee
Faith's unerring Golden Ball.
33
ON FANNIE'S CHARM LAMP.
Within this little fairy urn
No earthly naphthas blaze and burn;
But spells of necromantic power
Lurk in the little silver flower:
It is the very lamp, I ween,
The wondrous lamp of Aladeen.
No earthly naphthas blaze and burn;
But spells of necromantic power
Lurk in the little silver flower:
It is the very lamp, I ween,
The wondrous lamp of Aladeen.
And he who did the gift impart
To the fair regent of his heart,
Through life his folly shall deplore,
Slave of the lamp for evermore;
Slave to the lady and the queen
Who holds the lamp of Aladeen.
To the fair regent of his heart,
Through life his folly shall deplore,
Slave of the lamp for evermore;
Slave to the lady and the queen
Who holds the lamp of Aladeen.
34
IN APRIL'S DIM AND SHOWERY NIGHTS.
In April's dim and showery nights,
When music melts along the air,
And Memory wakens at the kiss
Of wandering perfumes, faint and rare;
When music melts along the air,
And Memory wakens at the kiss
Of wandering perfumes, faint and rare;
Sweet, spring-time perfumes, such as won
Prosèrpina from realms of gloom.
To bathe her bright locks in the sun,
Or bind them with the pansy's bloom;
Prosèrpina from realms of gloom.
To bathe her bright locks in the sun,
Or bind them with the pansy's bloom;
When light winds rift the fragrant bowers
Where orchards shed their floral wreath,
Strewing the turf with starry flowers,
And dropping pearls at every breath;
Where orchards shed their floral wreath,
Strewing the turf with starry flowers,
And dropping pearls at every breath;
When, all night long, the boughs are stirred
With fitful warblings from the nest,
And the heart flutters, like a bird,
With its sweet, passionless unrest;
With fitful warblings from the nest,
And the heart flutters, like a bird,
With its sweet, passionless unrest;
35
Oh! then, beloved, I think on thee,
And on that life, so strangely fair,
Ere yet one cloud of memory
Had gathered in hope's golden air.
And on that life, so strangely fair,
Ere yet one cloud of memory
Had gathered in hope's golden air.
I think on thee and thy lone grave
On the green hill-side, far away;
I see the wilding flowers that wave
Around thee, as the night winds sway.
On the green hill-side, far away;
I see the wilding flowers that wave
Around thee, as the night winds sway.
And still, though only clouds remain
On life's horizon, cold and drear,
The dream of youth returns again
With the sweet promise of the year.
On life's horizon, cold and drear,
The dream of youth returns again
With the sweet promise of the year.
April, 1848.
36
ON A MAGDALEN BY CARLO DOLCE.
Though every line of that sweet, thoughtful face
Seems touched by sorrow to a softer grace;
Though o'er thy cheek's young bloom a blight hath passed,
And dimmed its pensive beauty,—from thine eye,
With the soft gloom of gathering tears o'er-cast,
Doth love shine forth, o'er all, triumphantly;
A light which shame nor sorrow could impair,
Unquenched, undimmed, through years of lone despair.
Seems touched by sorrow to a softer grace;
Though o'er thy cheek's young bloom a blight hath passed,
And dimmed its pensive beauty,—from thine eye,
With the soft gloom of gathering tears o'er-cast,
Doth love shine forth, o'er all, triumphantly;
A light which shame nor sorrow could impair,
Unquenched, undimmed, through years of lone despair.
O love, immortal love! not all in vain
The young heart wastes beneath life's weary chain,
Filled with thy bright ideal,—whose excess
Of beauty mocks our utter loneliness.
The weary bark, long tossing on the shore,
Shall find its haven when the storm is o'er;
The wandering bee its hive, the bird its nest,
And the lone heart of love in heaven its home of rest.
The young heart wastes beneath life's weary chain,
Filled with thy bright ideal,—whose excess
Of beauty mocks our utter loneliness.
37
Shall find its haven when the storm is o'er;
The wandering bee its hive, the bird its nest,
And the lone heart of love in heaven its home of rest.
38
SUMMER'S CALL TO THE LITTLE ORPHAN.
“Viens j'ai des fruits d'or, j'ai des roses;
J'en remplirai tes petits bras.”
Victor Hugo.
J'en remplirai tes petits bras.”
Victor Hugo.
The summer skies are darkly blue,
The days are still and bright,
And Evening trails her robes of gold
Through the dim halls of Night.
The days are still and bright,
And Evening trails her robes of gold
Through the dim halls of Night.
Then, when the little orphan wakes,
A low voice whispers, “Come,
And all day wander at thy will
Beneath my azure dome.
A low voice whispers, “Come,
And all day wander at thy will
Beneath my azure dome.
“Beneath my vaulted, azure dome,
Through all my flowery lands,
No higher than the lowly thatch
The royal palace stands.
Through all my flowery lands,
No higher than the lowly thatch
The royal palace stands.
“I'll fill thy little longing arms
With fruits and wilding flowers;
I'll tell thee tales of fairy-land
In the long twilight hours.”
With fruits and wilding flowers;
39
In the long twilight hours.”
The orphan hears that wooing voice;
Awhile he softly broods,—
Then hastens down the sunny slopes,
Into the twilight woods.
Awhile he softly broods,—
Then hastens down the sunny slopes,
Into the twilight woods.
The waving branches murmur
Strange secrets in his ear,
But the nodding flowers welcome him,
And whisper, “Never fear.”
Strange secrets in his ear,
But the nodding flowers welcome him,
And whisper, “Never fear.”
He sees the squirrel peeping
From the coverts cool and dim,
And the water-lilies sleeping
Along the fountain's brim.
From the coverts cool and dim,
And the water-lilies sleeping
Along the fountain's brim.
He hears the wild bee humming
In the roses by the rill;
He nestles in the hollow tree,
He clambers up the hill.
In the roses by the rill;
He nestles in the hollow tree,
He clambers up the hill.
He weaves a little basket
From the willow as he goes,
And he heaps it up with blackberries,
And blueberries, and sloes.
From the willow as he goes,
And he heaps it up with blackberries,
And blueberries, and sloes.
40
The brook stays him, at the crossing,
In its waters cool and sweet,
And the pebbles leap around him,
And frolic at his feet.
In its waters cool and sweet,
And the pebbles leap around him,
And frolic at his feet.
Half fearfully, half joyfully,
He treads the forest dim,
Till he hears the wood-birds chaunting
Their holy, sylvan hymn.
He treads the forest dim,
Till he hears the wood-birds chaunting
Their holy, sylvan hymn.
Then, in the cool of eventide,
The Father's voice he hears,
As men heard it in the Eden
Of Earth's paradisal years.
The Father's voice he hears,
As men heard it in the Eden
Of Earth's paradisal years.
The redbird furls her shining wing,
The squirrel seeks his lair;
The flowers, folding up their leaves,
Incline their heads in prayer.
The squirrel seeks his lair;
The flowers, folding up their leaves,
Incline their heads in prayer.
The orphan feels a brooding calm
O'er all his senses creep;
And, by the little ground-bird's nest,
He lays him down to sleep.
O'er all his senses creep;
And, by the little ground-bird's nest,
He lays him down to sleep.
The Moon comes gliding through the trees,
And softly stoops to spread
Her dainty silver kirtle
Upon his grassy bed.
And softly stoops to spread
41
Upon his grassy bed.
The drowsy Night-wind murmuring
Its quaint old tunes the while;
Till Morning wakes him with a song,
And greets him with a smile.
Its quaint old tunes the while;
Till Morning wakes him with a song,
And greets him with a smile.
42
LINES WRITTEN IN NOVEMBER.
Farewell the forest shade, the twilight grove,
The turfy path with fern and flowers inwove,
Where through long summer days I wandered far,
Till warned of Evening by her folding star.
No more I linger by the fountain's play,
Where arching boughs shut out the sultry ray,
Making at noontide hours a dewy gloom
O'er the moist marge, where weeds and wild flowers bloom;
Till, from the western sun, a glancing flood
Of arrowy radiance filled the twilight wood,
Glinting athwart each leafy, verdant fold,
And flecking all the turf with drops of gold.
The turfy path with fern and flowers inwove,
Where through long summer days I wandered far,
Till warned of Evening by her folding star.
No more I linger by the fountain's play,
Where arching boughs shut out the sultry ray,
Making at noontide hours a dewy gloom
O'er the moist marge, where weeds and wild flowers bloom;
Till, from the western sun, a glancing flood
Of arrowy radiance filled the twilight wood,
Glinting athwart each leafy, verdant fold,
And flecking all the turf with drops of gold.
Sweet sang the wild bird on the waving bough
Where cold November winds are wailing now;
The chirp of insects on the sunny lea,
And the low, drowsy bugle of the bee,
Are silent all; closed is their vesper lay,
Borne by the breeze of Autumn far away.
Yet still the withered heath I love to rove,
The bare, brown meadow, and the leafless grove;
Still love to tread the bleak hill's rocky side,
Where nodding asters wave in purple pride,
Or, from its summit, listen to the flow
Of the dark waters, booming far below.
Still through the tangling, pathless copse I stray,
Where sere and rustling leaves obstruct the way,
To find the last, pale blossom of the year,
That strangely blooms when all is dark and drear;
The wild witch-hazel, fraught with mystic power
To ban or bless, as sorcery rules the hour.
Then, homeward wending, through the dusky vale,
Where winding rills their evening damps exhale,
Pause by the dark pool, in whose sleeping wave
Pale Dian loves her golden locks to lave;
As when she stole upon Endymion's rest,
And his young dreams with heavenly beauty blest.
And thou, “stern ruler of the inverted year,”
Cold, cheerless Winter, hath thy wild career
No sweet, peculiar pleasures for the heart,
That can ideal worth to rudest forms impart?
When, through thy long, dark nights, cold sleet and rain
Patter and plash against the frosty pane,
Warm curtained from the storm, I love to lie,
Wakeful, and listening to the lullaby
Of fitful winds, that as they rise and fall
Send hollow murmurs through the echoing hall.
Oft, by the blazing hearth at even-tide,
I love to see the fitful shadows glide,
In flickering motion, o'er the illumined wall,
Till slumber's honey-dew my senses thrall;
Then, while in dreamy consciousness, I lie
'Twixt sleep and waking, fairy fantasy
Culls, from the golden past, a treasured store,
And weaves a dream so sweet, hope could not ask for more.
In the cold splendor of a frosty night,
When blazing stars burn with intenser light
Through the blue vault of heaven; when the keen air
Sculptures in bolder lines the uplands bare;
When sleeps the shrouded earth, in solemn trance,
Beneath the wan moon's melancholy glance;
I love to mark earth's sister planets rise,
And in pale beauty tread the midnight skies;
Where, like lone pilgrims, constant as the night,
They fill their dark urns from the fount of light.
I love the Borealis flames that fly,
Fitful and wild, athwart the northern sky;
The storied constellations, like a page
Fraught with the wonders of a former age,
Where monsters grim, gorgons, and hydras rise,
And “gods and heroes blaze along the skies.”
Thus Nature's music, various as the hour,
Solemn or sweet, hath ever mystic power
Still to preserve the unperverted heart
Awake to love and beauty; to impart
Treasures of thought and feeling, pure and deep,
That aid the doubting soul its heavenward course to keep.
Where cold November winds are wailing now;
The chirp of insects on the sunny lea,
And the low, drowsy bugle of the bee,
43
Borne by the breeze of Autumn far away.
Yet still the withered heath I love to rove,
The bare, brown meadow, and the leafless grove;
Still love to tread the bleak hill's rocky side,
Where nodding asters wave in purple pride,
Or, from its summit, listen to the flow
Of the dark waters, booming far below.
Still through the tangling, pathless copse I stray,
Where sere and rustling leaves obstruct the way,
To find the last, pale blossom of the year,
That strangely blooms when all is dark and drear;
The wild witch-hazel, fraught with mystic power
To ban or bless, as sorcery rules the hour.
Then, homeward wending, through the dusky vale,
Where winding rills their evening damps exhale,
Pause by the dark pool, in whose sleeping wave
Pale Dian loves her golden locks to lave;
As when she stole upon Endymion's rest,
And his young dreams with heavenly beauty blest.
44
Cold, cheerless Winter, hath thy wild career
No sweet, peculiar pleasures for the heart,
That can ideal worth to rudest forms impart?
When, through thy long, dark nights, cold sleet and rain
Patter and plash against the frosty pane,
Warm curtained from the storm, I love to lie,
Wakeful, and listening to the lullaby
Of fitful winds, that as they rise and fall
Send hollow murmurs through the echoing hall.
Oft, by the blazing hearth at even-tide,
I love to see the fitful shadows glide,
In flickering motion, o'er the illumined wall,
Till slumber's honey-dew my senses thrall;
Then, while in dreamy consciousness, I lie
'Twixt sleep and waking, fairy fantasy
Culls, from the golden past, a treasured store,
And weaves a dream so sweet, hope could not ask for more.
In the cold splendor of a frosty night,
When blazing stars burn with intenser light
Through the blue vault of heaven; when the keen air
Sculptures in bolder lines the uplands bare;
When sleeps the shrouded earth, in solemn trance,
45
I love to mark earth's sister planets rise,
And in pale beauty tread the midnight skies;
Where, like lone pilgrims, constant as the night,
They fill their dark urns from the fount of light.
I love the Borealis flames that fly,
Fitful and wild, athwart the northern sky;
The storied constellations, like a page
Fraught with the wonders of a former age,
Where monsters grim, gorgons, and hydras rise,
And “gods and heroes blaze along the skies.”
Thus Nature's music, various as the hour,
Solemn or sweet, hath ever mystic power
Still to preserve the unperverted heart
Awake to love and beauty; to impart
Treasures of thought and feeling, pure and deep,
That aid the doubting soul its heavenward course to keep.
46
EVENING ON THE BANKS OF THE MOSHASSUCK.
“Now to the sessions of sweet, silent thought,
I summon up remembrance of things past.”
Shakespeare's Sonnets.
I summon up remembrance of things past.”
Shakespeare's Sonnets.
Again September's golden day,
Serenely still, intensely bright,
Fades on the umbered hills away,
And melts into the coming night.
Again Moshassuck's silver tide
Reflects each green herb on its side,
Each tasseled wreath and tangling vine,
Whose tendrils o'er its margin twine.
Serenely still, intensely bright,
Fades on the umbered hills away,
And melts into the coming night.
Again Moshassuck's silver tide
Reflects each green herb on its side,
Each tasseled wreath and tangling vine,
Whose tendrils o'er its margin twine.
And standing on its velvet shore,
Where yester-night, with thee, I stood,
I trace its devious course once more,
Far winding on, through vale and wood:
Now glimmering through yon golden mist,
By the last, glinting sunbeams kissed;
Now lost, where lengthening shadows fall
From hazel copse and moss-fringed wall.
Where yester-night, with thee, I stood,
I trace its devious course once more,
Far winding on, through vale and wood:
Now glimmering through yon golden mist,
By the last, glinting sunbeams kissed;
Now lost, where lengthening shadows fall
From hazel copse and moss-fringed wall.
47
Near where yon rocks the stream inurn,
The lonely gentian blossoms still;
Still wave the star-flower and the fern
O'er the soft outline of the hill;
While, far aloft, where pine-trees throw
Their shade athwart the sunset glow,
Thin vapors cloud the illumined air,
And parting daylight lingers there.
The lonely gentian blossoms still;
Still wave the star-flower and the fern
O'er the soft outline of the hill;
While, far aloft, where pine-trees throw
Their shade athwart the sunset glow,
Thin vapors cloud the illumined air,
And parting daylight lingers there.
But ah, no longer thou art near,
This varied loveliness to see;
And I, though fondly lingering here,
To-night, can only think on thee.
The flowers thy gentle hand caressed
Still lie unwithered on my breast;
And still thy footsteps print the shore,
Where thou and I may rove no more.
This varied loveliness to see;
And I, though fondly lingering here,
To-night, can only think on thee.
The flowers thy gentle hand caressed
Still lie unwithered on my breast;
And still thy footsteps print the shore,
Where thou and I may rove no more.
Again I hear the murmuring fall
Of water from some distant dell;
The beetle's hum, the cricket's call,
And, far away, that evening bell.
Again, again, those sounds I hear;
But oh, how desolate and drear
They seem to-night! how like a knell
The music of that evening bell!
Of water from some distant dell;
The beetle's hum, the cricket's call,
And, far away, that evening bell.
Again, again, those sounds I hear;
But oh, how desolate and drear
They seem to-night! how like a knell
The music of that evening bell!
48
Again the new moon in the west,
Scarce seen upon yon golden sky,
Hangs o'er the mountain's purple crest,
With one pale planet trembling nigh;
And beautiful her pearly light
As when we blessed its beams last night;
But thou art on the far blue sea,
And I can only think on thee.
Scarce seen upon yon golden sky,
Hangs o'er the mountain's purple crest,
With one pale planet trembling nigh;
And beautiful her pearly light
As when we blessed its beams last night;
But thou art on the far blue sea,
And I can only think on thee.
September, 1839.
49
THE GARDEN SEPULCHRE.
WRITTEN FOR THE CONSECRATION OF THE CEMETERY AT SWAN POINT, R. I.
In the faith of Him who saw
The eternal morning rise,
Through the open gates of pearl,
On the hills of Paradise,—
The eternal morning rise,
Through the open gates of pearl,
On the hills of Paradise,—
Looking to the promised land,
Saw the verdant palms, that wave
In the calm and lustrous air,
Through the shadows of the grave;
Saw the verdant palms, that wave
In the calm and lustrous air,
Through the shadows of the grave;
In his name whose deathless love,
With a glory all divine,
Filled the garden sepulchre
Far away in Palestine;
With a glory all divine,
Filled the garden sepulchre
Far away in Palestine;
We would consecrate a place
Where our loved ones may repose,
When the storms of life are past,
And the weary eyelids close;
Where our loved ones may repose,
When the storms of life are past,
And the weary eyelids close;
50
Fairer than a festal hall
Wreath the chambers of their rest,
Sacred to the tears that fall
O'er the slumbers of the blest,—
Wreath the chambers of their rest,
Sacred to the tears that fall
O'er the slumbers of the blest,—
Sacred to the hopes that rise
Heavenward from this vale of tears,
Soaring, with unwearied wing,
Through the illimitable years.
Heavenward from this vale of tears,
Soaring, with unwearied wing,
Through the illimitable years.
Each sweet nursling of the spring
Here shall weep its fresh'ning dews;
Here its fragile censer swing,
And all its fragrant soul diffuse.
Here shall weep its fresh'ning dews;
Here its fragile censer swing,
And all its fragrant soul diffuse.
The lily, in her white symar,
Fondly o'er the turf shall wave;
Asphodels and violets star
All the greensward of the grave.
Fondly o'er the turf shall wave;
Asphodels and violets star
All the greensward of the grave.
Here the pale anemone
In the April breeze shall nod,
And the may-flower weave her blooms
Through and through the velvet sod.
In the April breeze shall nod,
And the may-flower weave her blooms
Through and through the velvet sod.
Bending by the storied urn,
Purple eglantine shall blow,
Till the pallid marble takes,
From her cheek, a tender glow.
Purple eglantine shall blow,
51
From her cheek, a tender glow.
Where the folding branches close
In a verdant coronal,
Through their dim and dreaming boughs
Faintly shall the sunbeams fall.
In a verdant coronal,
Through their dim and dreaming boughs
Faintly shall the sunbeams fall.
Memories, mournful, yet how sweet!
Here shall weave their mystic spell;
Angels tread, with silent feet,
Paths where love and sorrow dwell.
Here shall weave their mystic spell;
Angels tread, with silent feet,
Paths where love and sorrow dwell.
No rude sound of earth shall break
The dim quiet, evermore;
But the winds and waves shall chant
A requiem on the lonely shore.
The dim quiet, evermore;
But the winds and waves shall chant
A requiem on the lonely shore.
Flitting through the laurel's gloom,
The humming-bird shall wander by,
Winnowing the floral bloom
From cups of wreathèd ivory.
The humming-bird shall wander by,
Winnowing the floral bloom
From cups of wreathèd ivory.
The bee shall wind his fairy horn,
Faintly murmuring on the ear;
Sounds that seem of silence born
Soothe the soul of sadness here;
Faintly murmuring on the ear;
Sounds that seem of silence born
Soothe the soul of sadness here;
52
Many a low and mystic word,
From the realm of shadows sent,
In the busy throng unheard,
Make the silence eloquent:
From the realm of shadows sent,
In the busy throng unheard,
Make the silence eloquent:
Words of sweetest promise, spoken
Only where the dirge is sung;
Where the golden bowl is broken,
And the silver chord unstrung.
Only where the dirge is sung;
Where the golden bowl is broken,
And the silver chord unstrung.
Faith shall, with uplifted eye,
All the solitude illume;
Hope and Memory shall sit,
Shining seraphs, by the tomb.
All the solitude illume;
Hope and Memory shall sit,
Shining seraphs, by the tomb.
53
A DAY OF THE INDIAN SUMMER.
“Yet one more smile, departing distant sun,
Ere o'er the frozen earth the loud winds run,
And snows are sifted o'er the meadows bare.”—
Bryant.
Ere o'er the frozen earth the loud winds run,
And snows are sifted o'er the meadows bare.”—
Bryant.
A day of golden beauty! Through the night
The hoar-frost gathered, o'er each leaf and spray
Weaving its filmy net-work; thin and bright,
And shimmering like silver in the ray
Of the soft, sunny morning; turf and tree
Pranct in its delicate embroidery,
And every withered stump and mossy stone,
With gems incrusted and with seed-pearl sown;
While in the hedge the frosted berries glow,
The scarlet holly and the purple sloe,
And all is gorgeous, fairy-like, and frail
As the famed gardens of the Arabian tale.
The hoar-frost gathered, o'er each leaf and spray
Weaving its filmy net-work; thin and bright,
And shimmering like silver in the ray
Of the soft, sunny morning; turf and tree
Pranct in its delicate embroidery,
And every withered stump and mossy stone,
With gems incrusted and with seed-pearl sown;
While in the hedge the frosted berries glow,
The scarlet holly and the purple sloe,
And all is gorgeous, fairy-like, and frail
As the famed gardens of the Arabian tale.
How soft and still the autumnal landscape lies,
Calmly outspread beneath the smiling skies;
As if the earth, in prodigal array
Of gems and broidered robes, kept holiday,
Her harvest yielded and her work all done,
Basking in beauty 'neath the Autumn sun!
Calmly outspread beneath the smiling skies;
As if the earth, in prodigal array
Of gems and broidered robes, kept holiday,
54
Basking in beauty 'neath the Autumn sun!
Yet once more, through the soft and balmy day,
Up the brown hill-side, by the woodland way,
Far let us rove, through dreamy solitudes
Where “Autumn's smile beams through the yellow woods,”
Fondly retracing each sweet summer haunt
And sylvan pathway; where the sunbeams slant
Through yonder copse, kindling the yellow stars
Of the witch-hazel with their golden bars;
Or, lingering down this dim and shadowy lane,
Where still the damp sod wears an emerald stain,
Though ripe brown nuts hang clustering in the hedge,
And the rude barberry, o'er yon rocky ledge,
Droops with its pendant corals. When the showers
Of April clothed this winding path with flowers,
Here oft we sought the violet, as it lay
Buried in beds of moss and lichens gray;
And still the aster greets us, as we pass,
With her faint smile,—among the withered grass
Beside the way, lingering as loath of heart,
Like me, from these sweet solitudes to part.
Up the brown hill-side, by the woodland way,
Far let us rove, through dreamy solitudes
Where “Autumn's smile beams through the yellow woods,”
Fondly retracing each sweet summer haunt
And sylvan pathway; where the sunbeams slant
Through yonder copse, kindling the yellow stars
Of the witch-hazel with their golden bars;
Or, lingering down this dim and shadowy lane,
Where still the damp sod wears an emerald stain,
Though ripe brown nuts hang clustering in the hedge,
And the rude barberry, o'er yon rocky ledge,
Droops with its pendant corals. When the showers
Of April clothed this winding path with flowers,
Here oft we sought the violet, as it lay
Buried in beds of moss and lichens gray;
And still the aster greets us, as we pass,
With her faint smile,—among the withered grass
55
Like me, from these sweet solitudes to part.
Now seek we the dank borders of the stream,
Where the tall fern-tufts shed a tawny gleam
Over the water from their saffron plumes;
And, clustering near, the modest gentian blooms
Lonely around, hallowed by sweetest song,
The last and loveliest of the floral throng.
Yet here we may not linger, for behold
Where the stream widens, like a sea of gold
Outspreading far before us! All around
Steep, wooded heights and sloping uplands bound
The sheltered scene; along the distant shore,
Through colored woods, the glinting sunbeams pour,
Touching their foliage with a thousand shades
And hues of beauty, as the red light fades
Beneath the shadow of a fleecy shroud,
Or, through the rifted silver of the cloud,
Pours down a brighter gleam. Gray willows lave
Their pendant branches in the crystal wave,
And slender birch-trees o'er its banks incline,
Whose tall, slight stems across the water shine
Like shafts of silver; there the tawny elm,—
The fairest subject of the sylvan realm,—
The tufted pine-tree, and the cedar dark,
And the young chestnut, its smooth, polished bark
Gleaming like porphyry in the yellow light;
The dark brown oak and the rich maple, dight
In robes of scarlet,—all are standing there,
So still, so calm, in the soft, misty air,
That not a leaf is stirring; not a sound
Startles the deep repose that broods around,
Save when the robin's melancholy song
Is heard amid the coppice, and along
The sunny side of yonder moss-grown wall
That skirts our path the cricket's chirping call,
Or the fond murmur of the drowsy bee
O'er some lone floweret on the sunny lea,
And, heard at intervals, a pattering sound
Of ripened acorns rustling to the ground
Through the crisp, withered leaves. How lonely all,
How calmly beautiful! Long shadows fall
More darkly o'er the wave as day declines,
Yet from the west a deeper glory shines;
While every crested hill and rocky height
Each moment varies in the kindling light
To some new form of beauty, changing through
All shades and colors of the rainbow's hue,
The last still loveliest, till the gorgeous day
Melts in a flood of golden light away;
And all is o'er. Before to-morrow's sun
Cold winds may rise, and shrouding shadows dun
Obscure the scene; yet shall these fading hues
And fleeting forms their loveliness transfuse
Into the mind, and memory shall burn
The painting in on her enameled urn
In undecaying colors. When the blast
Hurtles around and snows are gathering fast,
When musing sadly by the twilight hearth,
Or lonely wandering through life's crowded path,
Its quiet beauty, rising through the gloom,
Shall soothe the languid spirits and illume
The drooping fancy,—winning back the soul
To cheerful thoughts through Nature's sweet control.
Where the tall fern-tufts shed a tawny gleam
Over the water from their saffron plumes;
And, clustering near, the modest gentian blooms
Lonely around, hallowed by sweetest song,
The last and loveliest of the floral throng.
Yet here we may not linger, for behold
Where the stream widens, like a sea of gold
Outspreading far before us! All around
Steep, wooded heights and sloping uplands bound
The sheltered scene; along the distant shore,
Through colored woods, the glinting sunbeams pour,
Touching their foliage with a thousand shades
And hues of beauty, as the red light fades
Beneath the shadow of a fleecy shroud,
Or, through the rifted silver of the cloud,
Pours down a brighter gleam. Gray willows lave
Their pendant branches in the crystal wave,
And slender birch-trees o'er its banks incline,
Whose tall, slight stems across the water shine
56
The fairest subject of the sylvan realm,—
The tufted pine-tree, and the cedar dark,
And the young chestnut, its smooth, polished bark
Gleaming like porphyry in the yellow light;
The dark brown oak and the rich maple, dight
In robes of scarlet,—all are standing there,
So still, so calm, in the soft, misty air,
That not a leaf is stirring; not a sound
Startles the deep repose that broods around,
Save when the robin's melancholy song
Is heard amid the coppice, and along
The sunny side of yonder moss-grown wall
That skirts our path the cricket's chirping call,
Or the fond murmur of the drowsy bee
O'er some lone floweret on the sunny lea,
And, heard at intervals, a pattering sound
Of ripened acorns rustling to the ground
Through the crisp, withered leaves. How lonely all,
How calmly beautiful! Long shadows fall
More darkly o'er the wave as day declines,
Yet from the west a deeper glory shines;
While every crested hill and rocky height
Each moment varies in the kindling light
57
All shades and colors of the rainbow's hue,
The last still loveliest, till the gorgeous day
Melts in a flood of golden light away;
And all is o'er. Before to-morrow's sun
Cold winds may rise, and shrouding shadows dun
Obscure the scene; yet shall these fading hues
And fleeting forms their loveliness transfuse
Into the mind, and memory shall burn
The painting in on her enameled urn
In undecaying colors. When the blast
Hurtles around and snows are gathering fast,
When musing sadly by the twilight hearth,
Or lonely wandering through life's crowded path,
Its quiet beauty, rising through the gloom,
Shall soothe the languid spirits and illume
The drooping fancy,—winning back the soul
To cheerful thoughts through Nature's sweet control.
58
A NOVEMBER LANDSCAPE.
How like a rich and gorgeous picture hungIn memory's storied hall seems that fair scene
O'er which long years their mellowing tints have flung!
The way-side flowers had faded one by one,
Hoar were the hills, the meadows drear and dun,
When homeward wending, 'neath the dusky screen
Of the autumnal woods, at close of day,
As o'er a pine-clad height my pathway lay,
Lo! at a sudden turn, the vale below
Lay far outspread, all flushed with purple light;
Gray rocks and umbered woods gave back the glow
Of the last day-beams, fading into night;
While down a glen where dark Moshassuck flows,
With all its kindling lamps the distant city rose.
59
A HOLLOW OF THE HILLS.
In the soft gloom of Summer's balmy eve,When from the lingering glances of the Sun
The sad Earth turns away her blushing cheek,
Mantling its glow in twilight's shadowy veil,
Oft 'mid the falling dews I love to stray
Onward and onward, through the pleasant fields,
Far up the lilied borders of the stream,
To this green, silent hollow of the hills,
Endeared by thronging memories of the past.
Oft have I lingered on this rustic bridge,
To view the limpid waters winding on
Under dim-vaulted woods, whose woven boughs
Of beech and maple and broad sycamore
Throw their soft, moving shadows o'er the wave;
While blossomed vines, dropped to the water's brim,
Hang idly swaying in the summer wind.
60
Are mirrored far beneath me; and young leaves
That tremble on the birch-tree's silver boughs,
In the cool wave reflected, gleam below,
Like twinkling stars athwart the verdant gloom.
A sound of rippling waters rises sweet
Amid the silence; and the western breeze,
Sighing through sedges and low meadow-blooms,
Comes wafting gentle thoughts from Memory's land,
And wakes the long-hushed music of the heart.
Oft dewy spring hath brimmed the brook with showers;
Oft hath the long, bright summer fringed its banks
With breathing blossoms; and the autumn sun
Shed mellow hues o'er all its wooded shores,
Since first I trod these paths, in youth's sweet prime,
With loved ones whom Time's desolating wave
Hath wafted now forever from my side.
61
Bereft and sorrow-taught, alone I stand,
Listening the hollow music of the wind.
Alone—alone: the stars are far away,
And wild clouds wander o'er the face of heaven;
But still the green earth wears her summer crown,
And whispers hope through all her breathing flowers.
Not all in vain the vision of our youth,
The apocalypse of beauty and of love,
The stag-like heart of hope. Life's mystic dream
The soul shall yet interpret; to our prayer
The Isis veil be lifted. Though we pine
E'en 'mid the ungathered roses of our youth,
Pierced with strange pangs and longings infinite,
As if earth's fairest flowers served but to wake
Sad, haunting memories of our Eden home;
Not all in vain. Meantime, in patient trust,
Rest we on Nature's bosom: from her eye,
Serene and still, drinking in faith and love;
To her calm pulse attempering the heart
That throbs too wildly for ideal bliss.
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Upon life's arid pathway; or apart,
On lonely mountain heights, oft hear a voice
Tempting my agony with perilous thoughts
Of death's calm, dreamless slumber; and my feet
On the dark mountains stumble. Near thy heart,
Close nestling, let me lie; and let thy breath,
Fragrant and cool, fall on my fever'd cheek,
As in those unworn ages ere pale thought
Forestalled life's patient harvest. Give me strength
To follow wheresoe'er o'er the world's waste
The cloudy pillar moveth; till at last
It guide to pleasant vales and pastures green
By the still waters of eternal life.
63
To ---
Thine is the hope that knows no fear,
The patient heart and true;
Whose wrongs but make the right more dear,
Whose love no loss may rue.
The patient heart and true;
Whose wrongs but make the right more dear,
Whose love no loss may rue.
Sometimes a soft and sad surprise,—
A pitying angel, passion free,—
Looks earthward, from thy tender eyes,
Upon our frail humanity.
A pitying angel, passion free,—
Looks earthward, from thy tender eyes,
Upon our frail humanity.
Thy calm brow speaks a nature true,
A marble constancy of soul,
A heart that can its dreams subdue
To wisdom's passionless control.
A marble constancy of soul,
A heart that can its dreams subdue
To wisdom's passionless control.
Thine eye hath the serenity
By Raphael to the Virgin given,
And from its blue benignity
Looks out the holy light of heaven.
By Raphael to the Virgin given,
And from its blue benignity
Looks out the holy light of heaven.
64
MORNING AFTER A STORM.
The wan and melancholy stars
Are fading with the fading gloom,
And, through the Orient's cloudy bars,
I see the rose of morning bloom.
Are fading with the fading gloom,
And, through the Orient's cloudy bars,
I see the rose of morning bloom.
All flushed, and fairer for the storm,
It opens on our vernal skies,
Divinely beautiful and warm,
As on the hills of Paradise.
It opens on our vernal skies,
Divinely beautiful and warm,
As on the hills of Paradise.
And on its breast a shining spark,
Like a bright drop of morning dew,
Lies glittering on the rosy dark,
Then melts and mingles with the blue.
Like a bright drop of morning dew,
Lies glittering on the rosy dark,
Then melts and mingles with the blue.
Sweet morning-star! thy silver beams,
Foretell a fairer life to come;
Arouse the sleeper from his dreams
And call the wandering spirit home.
Foretell a fairer life to come;
Arouse the sleeper from his dreams
And call the wandering spirit home.
65
My soul, ascending like a lark,
Would follow on thine airy flight;
And like yon little diamond spark,
Dissolve into the realms of light.
Would follow on thine airy flight;
And like yon little diamond spark,
Dissolve into the realms of light.
66
TO E. O. S.
“Eos, fair Goddess of the Morn! whose eyes
Drive back Night's wandering ghosts.”—
Horne's Orion.
Drive back Night's wandering ghosts.”—
Horne's Orion.
When issuing from the realms of “Shadow Land”
I see thee mid the Orient's kindling bloom,
With mystic lilies gleaming in thy hand,
Gathered by dream-light in the dusk gloom
Of bowers enchanted—I behold again
The fabled Goddess of the Morning veiled
In fleecy clouds. Thy cheek, so softly paled
With memories of the Night's mysterious reign,
And something of the star-light, burning still
In thy deep, dreamy eyes, do but fulfill
The vision more divinely to my thought:
While all the cheerful hopes enkindling round thee—
Warm hopes, wherewith thy prescient soul hath crowned thee—
Are with the breath of morning fragrance fraught.
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SHE BLOOMS NO MORE.
“Oh primavera, gioventu dell' anno,
Bella madre di fiori,
Tu torni ben, ma teco
Non tornani i sereni
E fortunati di delle mi gioge.”—
Guarini.
Bella madre di fiori,
Tu torni ben, ma teco
Non tornani i sereni
E fortunati di delle mi gioge.”—
Guarini.
I dread to see the summer sun
Come glowing up the sky,
And early pansies, one by one,
Opening the violet eye.
Come glowing up the sky,
And early pansies, one by one,
Opening the violet eye.
Again the fair azalea bows
Beneath her snowy crest;
In yonder hedge the hawthorn blows,
The robin builds her nest;
Beneath her snowy crest;
In yonder hedge the hawthorn blows,
The robin builds her nest;
The tulips lift their proud tiàs,
The lilac waves her plumes;
And, peeping through my lattice-bars,
The rose-acacia blooms.
The lilac waves her plumes;
And, peeping through my lattice-bars,
The rose-acacia blooms.
But she can bloom on earth no more,
Whose early doom I mourn;
Nor spring nor summer can restore
Our flower, untimely shorn.
Whose early doom I mourn;
68
Our flower, untimely shorn.
She was our morning-glory,
Our primrose, pure and pale,
Our little mountain daisy,
Our lily of the vale.
Our primrose, pure and pale,
Our little mountain daisy,
Our lily of the vale.
Now dim as folded violets,
Her eyes of dewy light;
And her rosy lips have mournfully
Breathed out their last good-night.
Her eyes of dewy light;
And her rosy lips have mournfully
Breathed out their last good-night.
'T is therefore that I dread to see
The glowing summer sun;
And the balmy blossoms on the tree,
Unfolding one by one.
The glowing summer sun;
And the balmy blossoms on the tree,
Unfolding one by one.
69
THE PAST.
“So fern, und doch so nah.”—
Goethe.
Goethe.
Thick darkness broodeth o'er the world:
The raven pinions of the Night,
Close on her silent bosom furled,
Reflect no gleam of Orient light.
E'en the wild Norland fires that mocked
The faint bloom of the eastern sky,
Now leave me, in close darkness locked,
To-night's weird realm of fantasy.
The raven pinions of the Night,
Close on her silent bosom furled,
Reflect no gleam of Orient light.
E'en the wild Norland fires that mocked
The faint bloom of the eastern sky,
Now leave me, in close darkness locked,
To-night's weird realm of fantasy.
Borne from pale shadow-lands remote,
A morphean music, wildly sweet,
Seems, on the starless gloom, to float,
Like the white-pinioned Paraclete.
Softly into my dream it flows,
Then faints into the silence drear;
While from the hollow dark outgrows
The phantom Past, pale gliding near.
A morphean music, wildly sweet,
Seems, on the starless gloom, to float,
Like the white-pinioned Paraclete.
Softly into my dream it flows,
Then faints into the silence drear;
While from the hollow dark outgrows
The phantom Past, pale gliding near.
The visioned Past; so strangely fair!
So veiled in shadowy, soft regrets.
So steeped in sadness, like the air
That lingers when the day-star sets!
Ah! could I fold it to my heart,
On its cold lip my kisses press,
This waste of aching life impart,
To win it back from nothingness!
So veiled in shadowy, soft regrets.
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That lingers when the day-star sets!
Ah! could I fold it to my heart,
On its cold lip my kisses press,
This waste of aching life impart,
To win it back from nothingness!
I loathe the purple light of day,
And shun the morning's golden star,
Beside that shadowy form to stray,
Forever near, yet oh how far!
Thin as a cloud of summer even,
All beauty from my gaze it bars;
Shuts out the silver cope of heaven,
And glooms athwart the dying stars.
And shun the morning's golden star,
Beside that shadowy form to stray,
Forever near, yet oh how far!
Thin as a cloud of summer even,
All beauty from my gaze it bars;
Shuts out the silver cope of heaven,
And glooms athwart the dying stars.
Cold, sad, and spectral, by my side,
It breathes of love's ethereal bloom,—
Of bridal memories, long affied
To the dread silence of the tomb:
Sweet, cloistered memories, that the heart
Shuts close within its chalice cold;
Faint perfumes, that no more dispart
From the bruised lily's floral fold.
It breathes of love's ethereal bloom,—
Of bridal memories, long affied
To the dread silence of the tomb:
Sweet, cloistered memories, that the heart
Shuts close within its chalice cold;
Faint perfumes, that no more dispart
From the bruised lily's floral fold.
“My soul is weary of her life;”
My heart sinks with a slow despair;
The solemn, star-lit hours are rife
With fantasy; the noontide glare,
And the cool morning, fancy free,
Are false with shadows; for the day
Brings no blithe sense of verity,
Nor wins from twilight thoughts away.
My heart sinks with a slow despair;
71
With fantasy; the noontide glare,
And the cool morning, fancy free,
Are false with shadows; for the day
Brings no blithe sense of verity,
Nor wins from twilight thoughts away.
Oh, bathe me in the Lethean stream,
And feed me on the lotus flowers;
Shut out this false, bewildering dream,
This memory of departed hours!
Sweet haunting dream! so strangely fair—
So veiled in shadowy, soft regrets—
So steeped in sadness, like the air
That lingers when the day-star sets!
And feed me on the lotus flowers;
Shut out this false, bewildering dream,
This memory of departed hours!
Sweet haunting dream! so strangely fair—
So veiled in shadowy, soft regrets—
So steeped in sadness, like the air
That lingers when the day-star sets!
The Future can no charm confer,
My heart's deep solitudes to break;
No angel's foot again shall stir
The waters of that silent lake.
I wander in pale dreams away,
And shun the morning's golden star,
To follow still that failing ray,
Forever near, yet oh how far!
My heart's deep solitudes to break;
No angel's foot again shall stir
The waters of that silent lake.
I wander in pale dreams away,
And shun the morning's golden star,
To follow still that failing ray,
Forever near, yet oh how far!
Feb. 1846.
72
“THE RAVEN.”
Raven, from the dim dominions
On the Night's Plutonian shore,
Oft I hear thy dusky pinions
Wave and flutter round my door—
See the shadow of thy pinions
Float along the moon-lit floor;
On the Night's Plutonian shore,
Oft I hear thy dusky pinions
Wave and flutter round my door—
See the shadow of thy pinions
Float along the moon-lit floor;
Often, from the oak-woods glooming
Round some dim ancestral tower,
In the lurid distance looming—
Some high solitary tower—
I can hear thy storm-cry booming
Through the lonely midnight hour.
Round some dim ancestral tower,
In the lurid distance looming—
Some high solitary tower—
I can hear thy storm-cry booming
Through the lonely midnight hour.
When the moon is at the zenith,
Thou dost haunt the moated hall,
Where the marish flower greeneth
O'er the waters, like a pall—
Where the House of Usher leaneth,
Darkly nodding to its fall:
Thou dost haunt the moated hall,
Where the marish flower greeneth
O'er the waters, like a pall—
Where the House of Usher leaneth,
Darkly nodding to its fall:
73
There I see thee, dimly gliding,—
See thy black plumes waving slow,—
In its hollow casements hiding,
When their shadow yawns below,
To the sullen tarn confiding
The dark secrets of their woe:—
See thy black plumes waving slow,—
In its hollow casements hiding,
When their shadow yawns below,
To the sullen tarn confiding
The dark secrets of their woe:—
See thee, when the stars are burning
In their cressets, silver clear,—
When Ligeia's spirit yearning
For the earth-life, wanders near,—
When Morella's soul returning,
Weirdly whispers “I am here.”
In their cressets, silver clear,—
When Ligeia's spirit yearning
For the earth-life, wanders near,—
When Morella's soul returning,
Weirdly whispers “I am here.”
Once, within a realm enchanted,
On a far isle of the seas,
By unearthly visions haunted,
By unearthly melodies,
Where the evening sunlight slanted
Golden through the garden trees,—
On a far isle of the seas,
By unearthly visions haunted,
By unearthly melodies,
Where the evening sunlight slanted
Golden through the garden trees,—
Where the dreamy moonlight dozes,
Where the early violets dwell,
Listening to the silver closes
Of a lyric loved too well,
Suddenly, among the roses,
Like a cloud, thy shadow fell.
Where the early violets dwell,
Listening to the silver closes
Of a lyric loved too well,
Suddenly, among the roses,
Like a cloud, thy shadow fell.
74
Once, where Ulalume lies sleeping,
Hard by Auber's haunted mere,
With the ghouls a vigil keeping,
On that night of all the year,
Came thy sounding pinions, sweeping
Through the leafless woods of Weir!
Hard by Auber's haunted mere,
With the ghouls a vigil keeping,
On that night of all the year,
Came thy sounding pinions, sweeping
Through the leafless woods of Weir!
Oft, with Proserpine I wander
On the Night's Plutonian shore,
Hoping, fearing, while I ponder
On thy loved and lost Lenore—
On the demon doubts that sunder
Soul from soul for evermore;
On the Night's Plutonian shore,
Hoping, fearing, while I ponder
On thy loved and lost Lenore—
On the demon doubts that sunder
Soul from soul for evermore;
Trusting, though with sorrow laden,
That when life's dark dream is o'er,
By whatever name the maiden
Lives within thy mystic lore,
Eiros, in that distant Aidenn,
Shall his Charmion meet once more.
That when life's dark dream is o'er,
By whatever name the maiden
Lives within thy mystic lore,
Eiros, in that distant Aidenn,
Shall his Charmion meet once more.
75
REMEMBERED MUSIC.
Oh, lonely heart! why do thy pulses beatTo the hushed music of a voice so dear,
That all sweet, mournful cadences repeat
Its low, bewildering accents to thine ear.
Why dost thou question the pale stars to know
If that rich music floats upon the air,
In those far realms where, else, their fires would glow
Forever beautiful to thy despair?
Trust thou in God; for, far within the veil,
Where glad hosannas through the empyrean roll,
And choral anthems of the angel's hail
With hallelujah's sweet the enfranchised soul,—
The voice that sang earth's sorrow through earth's night,
Shall with glad seraphs sing, in God's great light.
76
OUR ISLAND OF DREAMS.
“By the foam
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.”—
Keats.
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.”—
Keats.
Tell him I lingered alone on the shore,
Where we parted, in sorrow, to meet never more;
The night wind blew cold on my desolate heart,
But colder those wild words of doom, “Ye must part?”
Where we parted, in sorrow, to meet never more;
The night wind blew cold on my desolate heart,
But colder those wild words of doom, “Ye must part?”
O'er the dark, heaving waters, I sent forth a cry;
Save the wail of those waters there came no reply.
I longed, like a bird, o'er the billows to flee,
From our lone island home and the moan of the sea:
Save the wail of those waters there came no reply.
I longed, like a bird, o'er the billows to flee,
From our lone island home and the moan of the sea:
Away—far away—from the wild ocean shore,
Where the waves ever murmur, “No more, never more;”
Where I wake, in the wild noon of midnight, to hear
That lone song of the surges, so mournful and drear.
Where the waves ever murmur, “No more, never more;”
77
That lone song of the surges, so mournful and drear.
When the clouds that now veil from us heaven's fair light,
Their soft, silver lining turn forth on the night;
When time shall the vapors of falsehood dispel,
He shall know if I loved him; but never how well.
Their soft, silver lining turn forth on the night;
When time shall the vapors of falsehood dispel,
He shall know if I loved him; but never how well.
1849.
78
THE LAST FLOWERS.
“The undying voice of that dead time,
With its interminable chime,
Rings on my spirit like a knell.”
With its interminable chime,
Rings on my spirit like a knell.”
Dost thou remember that Autumnal day
When by the Seekonk's lonely wave we stood,
And marked the languor of repose that lay,
Softer than sleep, on valley, wave, and wood?
When by the Seekonk's lonely wave we stood,
And marked the languor of repose that lay,
Softer than sleep, on valley, wave, and wood?
A trance of holy sadness seemed to lull
The charmèd earth and circumambient air,
And the low murmur of the leaves seemed full
Of a resigned and passionless despair.
The charmèd earth and circumambient air,
And the low murmur of the leaves seemed full
Of a resigned and passionless despair.
Though the warm breath of summer lingered still
In the lone paths where late her footsteps passed,
The pallid star-flowers on the purple hill
Sighed dreamily, “We are the last! the last!”
In the lone paths where late her footsteps passed,
The pallid star-flowers on the purple hill
Sighed dreamily, “We are the last! the last!”
79
I stood beside thee, and a dream of heaven
Around me like a golden halo fell!
Then the bright veil of fantasy was riven,
And my lips murmured, “Fare thee well!—farewell!”
Around me like a golden halo fell!
Then the bright veil of fantasy was riven,
And my lips murmured, “Fare thee well!—farewell!”
I dared not listen to thy words, nor turn
To meet the mystic language of thine eyes,
I only felt their power, and in the urn
Of memory, treasured their sweet rhapsodies.
To meet the mystic language of thine eyes,
I only felt their power, and in the urn
Of memory, treasured their sweet rhapsodies.
We parted then, forever,—and the hours
Of that bright day were gathered to the past,—
But, through long wintry nights, I heard the flowers
Sigh dreamily, “We are the last!—the last!”
Of that bright day were gathered to the past,—
But, through long wintry nights, I heard the flowers
Sigh dreamily, “We are the last!—the last!”
September, 1849.
80
SONG.
I bade thee stay. Too well I know
The fault was mine,—mine only:
I dared not think upon the past,
All desolate and lonely.
The fault was mine,—mine only:
I dared not think upon the past,
All desolate and lonely.
I feared in memory's silent air
Too sadly to regret thee,—
Feared in the night of my despair
I could not all forget thee.
Too sadly to regret thee,—
Feared in the night of my despair
I could not all forget thee.
Yet go,—ah, go! those pleading eyes,
Those low, sweet tones, appealing
From heart to heart,—ah, dare I trust
That passionate revealing?
Those low, sweet tones, appealing
From heart to heart,—ah, dare I trust
That passionate revealing?
For ah, those dark and pleading eyes
Evoke too keen a sorrow,—
A pang that will not pass away,
With thy wild vows, to-morrow.
Evoke too keen a sorrow,—
A pang that will not pass away,
With thy wild vows, to-morrow.
81
A love immortal and divine
Within my heart is waking:
Its dream of anguish and despair
It owns not but in breaking.
Within my heart is waking:
Its dream of anguish and despair
It owns not but in breaking.
82
WITHERED FLOWERS.
Remembrancers of happiness! to meYe bring sweet thoughts of the year's purple prime,
Wild, mingling melodies of bird and bee,
That pour on summer winds their silvery chime
Of balmy incense, burdening all the air,
From flowers that by the sunny garden wall
Bloomed at your side, nursed into beauty there
By dews and silent showers: but these to all
Ye bring. Oh! sweeter far than these the spell
Shrined in those fairy urns for me alone;
For me a charm sleeps in each honeyed cell,
Whose power can call back hours of rapture flown,
To the sad heart sweet memories restore,
Tones, looks, and words of love that may return no more.
83
THE PHANTOM VOICE.
“It is a phantom voice:
Again!—again! how solemnly it falls
Into my heart of hearts!”
Scenes from Politian.
Again!—again! how solemnly it falls
Into my heart of hearts!”
Scenes from Politian.
Through the solemn hush of midnight,
How sadly on my ear
Falls the echo of a harp whose tones
I never more may hear!
How sadly on my ear
Falls the echo of a harp whose tones
I never more may hear!
A wild, unearthly melody,
Whose monotone doth move
The saddest, sweetest cadences
Of sorrow and of love:
Whose monotone doth move
The saddest, sweetest cadences
Of sorrow and of love:
Till the burden of remembrance weighs
Like lead upon my heart,
And the shadow, on my soul that sleeps,
Will never more depart.
Like lead upon my heart,
And the shadow, on my soul that sleeps,
Will never more depart.
The ghastly moonlight, gliding
Like a phantom through the gloom,
How it fills with solemn fantasies
My solitary room!
Like a phantom through the gloom,
84
My solitary room!
And the sighing winds of Autumn,
Ah! how sadly they repeat
That low, bewildering melody,
So mystically sweet!
Ah! how sadly they repeat
That low, bewildering melody,
So mystically sweet!
I hear it softly murmuring
At midnight o'er the hill,
Or across the wide savannas,
When all beside is still.
At midnight o'er the hill,
Or across the wide savannas,
When all beside is still.
I hear it in the moaning
Of the melancholy main;
In the rushing of the night-wind,
The rhythm of the rain.
Of the melancholy main;
In the rushing of the night-wind,
The rhythm of the rain.
E'en the wild-flowers of the forest,
Waving sadly to and fro,
But whisper to my boding heart
The burden of its woe.
Waving sadly to and fro,
But whisper to my boding heart
The burden of its woe.
And the spectral moon, now paling
And fading, seems to say,
“I leave thee to remembrances
That will not pass away.”
And fading, seems to say,
“I leave thee to remembrances
That will not pass away.”
85
Ah, through all the solemn midnight,
How mournful 't is to hark
To the voices of the silence,
The whisper of the dark!
How mournful 't is to hark
To the voices of the silence,
The whisper of the dark!
In vain I turn, some solace
From the distant stars to crave:
They are shining on thy sepulchre,
Are smiling on thy grave.
From the distant stars to crave:
They are shining on thy sepulchre,
Are smiling on thy grave.
How I weary of their splendor!
All night long they seem to say,
“We are lonely,—sad and lonely,—
Far away,—far, far away!”
All night long they seem to say,
“We are lonely,—sad and lonely,—
Far away,—far, far away!”
Thus, through all the solemn midnight,
That phantom voice I hear,
As it echoes through the silence,
When no earthly sound is near.
That phantom voice I hear,
As it echoes through the silence,
When no earthly sound is near.
And though dawn-light yields to noonlight,
And though darkness turns to day,
They but leave me to remembrances
That will not pass away.
And though darkness turns to day,
They but leave me to remembrances
That will not pass away.
November, 1849.
86
ARCTURUS.
WRITTEN IN OCTOBER.
“Our star looks through the storm.”
Star of resplendent front! thy glorious eye
Shines on me still from out yon clouded sky,—
Shines on me through the horrors of a night
More drear than ever fell o'er day so bright,—
Shines till the envious Serpent slinks away,
And pales and trembles at thy steadfast ray.
Shines on me still from out yon clouded sky,—
Shines on me through the horrors of a night
More drear than ever fell o'er day so bright,—
Shines till the envious Serpent slinks away,
And pales and trembles at thy steadfast ray.
Hast thou not stooped from heaven, fair star! to be
So near me in this hour of agony?—
So near,—so bright,—so glorious, that I seem
To lie entranced as in some wondrous dream,—
All earthly joys forgot,—all earthly fear,
Purged in the light of thy resplendent sphere:
Kindling within my soul a pure desire
To blend with thine its incandescent fire,—
To lose my very life in thine, and be
Soul of thy soul through all eternity.
So near me in this hour of agony?—
So near,—so bright,—so glorious, that I seem
To lie entranced as in some wondrous dream,—
All earthly joys forgot,—all earthly fear,
Purged in the light of thy resplendent sphere:
Kindling within my soul a pure desire
To blend with thine its incandescent fire,—
To lose my very life in thine, and be
Soul of thy soul through all eternity.
1849.
87
RESURGEMUS.
I mourn thee not: no words can tell
The solemn calm that tranced my breast
When first I knew thy soul had past
From earth to its eternal rest;
The solemn calm that tranced my breast
When first I knew thy soul had past
From earth to its eternal rest;
For doubt and darkness, o'er thy head,
Forever waved their Condor wings;
And in their murky shadows bred
Forms of unutterable things;
Forever waved their Condor wings;
And in their murky shadows bred
Forms of unutterable things;
And all around thy silent hearth,
The glory that once blushed and bloomed
Was but a dim-remembered dream
Of “the old time entombed.”
The glory that once blushed and bloomed
Was but a dim-remembered dream
Of “the old time entombed.”
Those melancholy eyes that seemed
To look beyond all time, or, turned
On eyes they loved, so softly beamed,—
How few their mystic language learned.
To look beyond all time, or, turned
On eyes they loved, so softly beamed,—
How few their mystic language learned.
88
How few could read their depths, or know
The proud, high heart that dwelt alone
In gorgeous palaces of woe,
Like Eblis on his burning throne.
The proud, high heart that dwelt alone
In gorgeous palaces of woe,
Like Eblis on his burning throne.
For ah! no human heart could brook
The darkness of thy doom to share,
And not a living eye could look
Unscathed upon thy dread despair.
The darkness of thy doom to share,
And not a living eye could look
Unscathed upon thy dread despair.
I mourn thee not: life had no lore
Thy soul in morphean dews to steep,
Love's lost nepenthe to restore,
Or bid the avenging sorrow sleep.
Thy soul in morphean dews to steep,
Love's lost nepenthe to restore,
Or bid the avenging sorrow sleep.
Yet, while the night of life shall last,
While the slow stars above me roll,
In the heart's solitudes I keep
A solemn vigil for thy soul.
While the slow stars above me roll,
In the heart's solitudes I keep
A solemn vigil for thy soul.
I tread dim cloistral aisles, where all
Beneath are solemn-sounding graves;
While o'er the oriel, like a pall,
A dark, funereal shadow waves.
Beneath are solemn-sounding graves;
While o'er the oriel, like a pall,
A dark, funereal shadow waves.
There, kneeling by a lampless shrine,
Alone amid a place of tombs,
My erring spirit pleads for thine
Till light along the Orient blooms.
Alone amid a place of tombs,
89
Till light along the Orient blooms.
Oh, when thy faults are all forgiven,
The vigil of my life outwrought,
In some calm altitude of heaven,—
The dream of thy prophetic thought,—
The vigil of my life outwrought,
In some calm altitude of heaven,—
The dream of thy prophetic thought,—
Forever near thee, soul in soul,
Near thee forever, yet how far,
May our lives reach love's perfect goal
In the high order of thy star!
Near thee forever, yet how far,
May our lives reach love's perfect goal
In the high order of thy star!
90
SONNETS.
I.
TO ---.
Vainly my heart had with thy sorceries striven:It had no refuge from thy love,—no Heaven
But in thy fatal presence;—from afar
It owned thy power and trembled like a star
O'erfraught with light and splendor. Could I deem
How dark a shadow should obscure its beam?—
Could I believe that pain could ever dwell
Where thy bright presence cast its blissful spell?
Thou wert my proud palladium;—could I fear
The avenging Destinies when thou wert near?—
Thou wert my Destiny;—thy song, thy fame,
The wild enchantments clustering round thy name,
Were my soul's heritage, its royal dower;
Its glory and its kingdom and its power!
91
[II. When first I looked into thy glorious eyes]
When first I looked into thy glorious eyes,And saw, with their unearthly beauty pained,
Heaven deepening within heaven, like the skies
Of autumn nights without a shadow stained,
I stood as one whom some strange dream enthralls;
For, far away, in some lost life divine,
Some land which every glorious dream recalls,
A spirit looked on me with eyes like thine.
E'en now, though death has veiled their starry light,
And closed their lids in his relentless night—
As some strange dream, remembered in a dream,
Again I see, in sleep, their tender beam;
Unfading hopes their cloudless azure fill,
Heaven deepening within heaven, serene and still.
92
[III. Oft since thine earthly eyes have closed on mine]
Oft since thine earthly eyes have closed on mine,Our souls, dim-wandering in the hall of dreams,
Hold mystic converse on the life divine,
By the still music of immortal streams;
And oft thy spirit tells how souls, affied
By sovran destinies, no more can part,—
How death and hell are powerless to divide
Souls whose deep lives lie folded heart in heart.
And if, at times, some lingering shadow lies
Heavy upon my path, some haunting dread,
Then do I point thee to the harmonies
Of those calm heights whereto our souls arise
Through suffering,—the faith that doth approve
In death the deathless power and divine life of love.
93
[IV. We met beneath September's gorgeous beams]
We met beneath September's gorgeous beams:Long in my house of life thy star had reigned;
Its mournful splendor trembled through my dreams,
Nor with the night's phantasmal glories waned.
We wandered thoughtfully o'er golden meads
To a lone woodland, lit by starry flowers,
Where a wild, solitary pathway leads
Through mouldering sepulchres and cypress bowers.
A dreamy sadness filled the autumnal air;—
By a low, nameless grave I stood beside thee,
My heart according to thy murmured prayer
The full, sweet answers that my lips denied thee.
O mournful faith, on that dread altar sealed—
Sad dawn of love in realms of death revealed!
94
[V. On our lone pathway bloomed no earthly hopes]
On our lone pathway bloomed no earthly hopes;—Sorrow and death were near us, as we stood
Where the dim forest, from the upland slopes,
Swept darkly to the sea. The enchanted wood
Thrilled, as by some foreboding terror stirred;
And as the waves broke on the lonely shore,
In their low monotone, methought I heard
A solemn voice that sighed, “Ye meet no more.”
There, while the level sunbeams seemed to burn
Through the long aisles of red, autumnal gloom,—
Where stately, storied cenotaphs inurn
Sweet human hopes, too fair on Earth to bloom,—
Was the bud reaped, whose petals, pure and cold,
Sleep on my heart till Heaven the flower unfold.
95
[VI. If thy sad heart, pining for human love]
If thy sad heart, pining for human love,In its earth solitude grew dark with fear,
Lest the high Sun of Heaven itself should prove
Powerless to save from that phantasmal sphere
Wherein thy spirit wandered—if the flowers
That pressed around thy feet, seemed but to bloom
In lone Gethsemanes, through starless hours,
When all, who loved, had left thee to thy doom:—
Oh, yet believe, that, in that hollow vale,
Where thy soul lingers, waiting to attain
So much of Heaven's sweet grace as shall avail
To lift its burden of remorseful pain,—
My soul shall meet thee and its Heaven forego
Till God's great love, on both, one hope, one Heaven bestow.
96
ARCTURUS.
WRITTEN IN APRIL.
“Nec morti esse locum, sed viva volare
Sideris in numerum atque alto succedere cœlo.”
Virgil, Geor., IV.
Sideris in numerum atque alto succedere cœlo.”
Virgil, Geor., IV.
Again, imperial star! thy mystic beams
Pour their wild splendors on my waking dreams,
Piercing the blue depths of the vernal night
With opal shafts and flames of ruby light;
Filling the air with melodies, that come
Mournful and sweet, from the dark, sapphire dome,—
Weird sounds, that make the cheek with wonder pale,
As their wild symphonies o'ersweep the gale.
For, in that gorgeous world, I fondly deem,
Dwells the freed soul of one whose earthly dream
Was full of beauty, majesty and wo;
One who, in that pure realm of thine, doth grow
Into a power serene,—a solemn joy,
Undimmed by earthly sorrow or alloy;
Sphered far above the dread, phantasmal gloom,—
The penal tortures of that living tomb
Wherein his earth-life languished;—who shall tell
The drear enchantments of that Dantean hell!
Pour their wild splendors on my waking dreams,
Piercing the blue depths of the vernal night
With opal shafts and flames of ruby light;
Filling the air with melodies, that come
Mournful and sweet, from the dark, sapphire dome,—
Weird sounds, that make the cheek with wonder pale,
As their wild symphonies o'ersweep the gale.
For, in that gorgeous world, I fondly deem,
Dwells the freed soul of one whose earthly dream
97
One who, in that pure realm of thine, doth grow
Into a power serene,—a solemn joy,
Undimmed by earthly sorrow or alloy;
Sphered far above the dread, phantasmal gloom,—
The penal tortures of that living tomb
Wherein his earth-life languished;—who shall tell
The drear enchantments of that Dantean hell!
“Was it not Fate, whose earthly name in Sorrow,”
That bade him, with prophetic soul, to borrow
From all the stars that fleck night's purple dome,
Thee, bright Arcturus! for his Eden home:—
Was it not Fate, whose name in Heaven above,
Is Truth and Goodness and unchanging Love,—
Was it not Fate, that bade him turn to thee
As the bright regent of his destiny?—
For when thine orb passed from the lengthening gloom
Of autumn nights, a morning-star to bloom
Beside Aurora's eastern gates of pearl,
He passed from earth, his weary wings to furl
In the cool vales of Heaven: thence, through yon sea
Of starry isles, to hold his course to thee.
That bade him, with prophetic soul, to borrow
From all the stars that fleck night's purple dome,
Thee, bright Arcturus! for his Eden home:—
Was it not Fate, whose name in Heaven above,
Is Truth and Goodness and unchanging Love,—
Was it not Fate, that bade him turn to thee
As the bright regent of his destiny?—
For when thine orb passed from the lengthening gloom
Of autumn nights, a morning-star to bloom
98
He passed from earth, his weary wings to furl
In the cool vales of Heaven: thence, through yon sea
Of starry isles, to hold his course to thee.
Now, when in April's cloudless nights, I turn
To where thy pharos mid the stars doth burn,—
A glorious cynosure,—I read in thee
The rune of Virgil's golden augury;
And deem that o'er thy seas of silver calm
Floats the far perfume of the Eden palm.
To where thy pharos mid the stars doth burn,—
A glorious cynosure,—I read in thee
The rune of Virgil's golden augury;
And deem that o'er thy seas of silver calm
Floats the far perfume of the Eden palm.
April, 1850.
For there is no place of annihilation: but alive they mount up each into his own order of star, and take their high seat in the heavens.—
Georgics, Book IV.99
TO THE MORNING-STAR.
“Fair crescent star, upborne on waves of light,—
Bud of the morning, that must fade so soon.”
Dalgoni.
Bud of the morning, that must fade so soon.”
Dalgoni.
Sweet Phosphor! star of Love and Hope,
Again I see thy silver horn
Rise o'er the dark and dewy slope
Of yonder hills that hide the morn.
Again I see thy silver horn
Rise o'er the dark and dewy slope
Of yonder hills that hide the morn.
All night the glooming shadows lay
So thick on valley, wave, and wold,
I scarce could deem the buried day
Would ever pierce their shrouding fold:
So thick on valley, wave, and wold,
I scarce could deem the buried day
Would ever pierce their shrouding fold:
Yet, even now, a line of light
Comes slowly surging o'er the dark;
And lo! thy crescent, floating bright
And buoyant as a fairy bark.
Comes slowly surging o'er the dark;
And lo! thy crescent, floating bright
And buoyant as a fairy bark.
But ah, the solemn stars of night,—
The distant stars that long have set,—
How can I, in thy nearer light
Of love and hope, their smile forget?—
The distant stars that long have set,—
100
Of love and hope, their smile forget?—
The stars that trembled through my dream,
That spoke in accents faint and far,
Can I forget their pensive beam,
For thine, my radiant morning-star?
That spoke in accents faint and far,
Can I forget their pensive beam,
For thine, my radiant morning-star?
No dawn-light in my soul can wake
One hope to make the world more fair;
No noon-tide ray illume the lake
Of dark remembrance, brooding there;
One hope to make the world more fair;
No noon-tide ray illume the lake
Of dark remembrance, brooding there;
But Night comes down the paling west,
With mystic glories on her brow:—
She lays her cold hand on my breast,
And bids, for me, the lotus blow:
With mystic glories on her brow:—
She lays her cold hand on my breast,
And bids, for me, the lotus blow:
She bears me on her Lethean tides
To lands by living waters fed:
She lifts the cloudy veil that hides
The dim campagnas of the dead.
To lands by living waters fed:
She lifts the cloudy veil that hides
The dim campagnas of the dead.
Down the long corridor of dreams,
She leads me silently away;
Till, through its shadowy portal, streams
The dawn of that diviner Day!
She leads me silently away;
Till, through its shadowy portal, streams
The dawn of that diviner Day!
1850.
| Poems by Sarah Helen Whitman | |