 | Poems by Sarah Helen Whitman |  |
135
ADDITIONAL POEMS.
136
SONNETS TO ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.
[I. Fair Sibyl, sitting in thy House of Clouds]
“O perpetui fiori
Dell' eterna letizia!”
Il Paradiso.
Dell' eterna letizia!”
Il Paradiso.
Fair Sibyl, sitting in thy “House of Clouds,”
Shrined, like some solitary star, above
The dull, cold shadow that our earth enshrouds,
How oft my spirit looks to thee in love!
To thy “Lost Bower” how oft in dreams returning,
I see thee standing in the sylvan room,—
See the red sun-light in the rose-cups burning,
And the sweet blue-bells nodding through the gloom:
Again I hear thy grand and solemn dirges
To the dim “Gods of Hellas,” like the breeze
O'er lone savannas sighing, or the surges
That wash the sands of solitary seas;
Then, in calm waves of glory, swells the strain,
“Christ from the dead hath risen and shall reign!”
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[II. Sometimes I see thee, pale with scorn and sorrow]
“Ad una vista
D'un gran palazzo Michol ammirava
Si come donna dispettosa e trista.”
Il Purgatorio.
D'un gran palazzo Michol ammirava
Si come donna dispettosa e trista.”
Il Purgatorio.
Sometimes I see thee, pale with scorn and sorrow,
At a great palace window, looking forth,
To-day on plumèd Florentines,—to-morrow
Upon the hireling legions of the North:
Sometimes o'er little children bending lowly,
To hear their cry, in the dark factories drowned;
Ah, then thy pitying brow grows sweet and holy,
With a saint's aureole of sorrow crowned!
But most I love thee when that mystic glory—
Kindling at horrors that abhor the day—
Sheds a wild, stormy splendor o'er the story
Of the dark fugitive, who turned away
To death's cold threshold, calm in death's disdain,
From the “White Pilgrim's Rock,” beside the western main.
139
[III. Ay, most I love thee when thy starry song]
“Or discendiamo omai a maggior pieta.”
L'Inferno.
L'Inferno.
Ay, most I love thee when thy starry song
Stoops to the plague-spot that we dare not name,
And bares with burning breath the envenomed wrong—
Our country's dark inheritance of shame.
When our blaspheming synods look thereon,
Stifling God's law and Nature's noble ires
With the cold ashes of dead council-fires,
That Gorgon terror chills them into stone.
Yet while they cringe and palter, thy true heart,
Serene in love's own light and woman's ruth,
Loyal to God and to God's living truth,
Hath uttered words whose fulgent rays shall dart
Like sunbeams through our land's Tartarean gloom,
Till freedom's holy law its Stygian depths illume.
140
TO PERDITA.
What holds thy dreamy eyes in thrall?
A sombre picture on the wall;
A sombre picture, weird and cold,
That dims the daylight's morning gold.
A sombre picture on the wall;
A sombre picture, weird and cold,
That dims the daylight's morning gold.
A grass-grown rampart, lifting high
Its reedy fringe against the sky;
Half lost in its o'ershadowing gloom,
The semblance of a moldering tomb;
Upon the tablet, side by side,
In pomp of old heraldic pride,
Two sculptured figures lying stark
And dumb within the glimmering dark;
A raven on the moldering tomb;
An owlet flitting through the gloom;
A cold, white, wandering moon, that seems
The ghost of long-forgotten dreams;
In the high rampart an old door,
Where night winds enter: nothing more.
Why doth it hold thine eyes in thrall,
This sombre picture on the wall,
That dims the daylight's glad return,
And shrineth darkness like an urn?
Its reedy fringe against the sky;
Half lost in its o'ershadowing gloom,
The semblance of a moldering tomb;
Upon the tablet, side by side,
In pomp of old heraldic pride,
Two sculptured figures lying stark
And dumb within the glimmering dark;
A raven on the moldering tomb;
An owlet flitting through the gloom;
A cold, white, wandering moon, that seems
The ghost of long-forgotten dreams;
In the high rampart an old door,
Where night winds enter: nothing more.
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This sombre picture on the wall,
That dims the daylight's glad return,
And shrineth darkness like an urn?
Is there within thy heart a grave
O'er which the winds of memory wave,
Where, sepulchred in marble pride,
Thy dead hopes slumber, side by side,
Lost to the future's dawning light,
And shrined in immemorial night?
O'er which the winds of memory wave,
Where, sepulchred in marble pride,
Thy dead hopes slumber, side by side,
Lost to the future's dawning light,
And shrined in immemorial night?
Ah! never hope of thine shall sleep
Within oblivion's donjon-keep.
Thy dreams were born to soar afar
Beyond the morning's purple star;
Thy loyal heart shall re-create
From loss and wrong a loftier fate;
Thy own deep heart of love illume
Thy life with love's immortal bloom.
On thy white brow, absolved from blame,
A shining stone, with a new name,
Shall flood the dark with living flame;
Thy life, a perfume and a prayer,
With mystic fragrance fill the air,
And all thy buried hopes shall rise
Transfigured into destinies.
Within oblivion's donjon-keep.
Thy dreams were born to soar afar
Beyond the morning's purple star;
Thy loyal heart shall re-create
From loss and wrong a loftier fate;
Thy own deep heart of love illume
Thy life with love's immortal bloom.
On thy white brow, absolved from blame,
A shining stone, with a new name,
Shall flood the dark with living flame;
Thy life, a perfume and a prayer,
With mystic fragrance fill the air,
And all thy buried hopes shall rise
Transfigured into destinies.
1859.
142
A PANSY FROM THE GRAVE OF KEATS.
“That's for thoughts!”—
Shakespeare.
Shakespeare.
Three velvet petals darkly spread
In sumptuous sorrow for the dead,
Superbly sombre as a pall
Wrought for an elfin funeral;
Two, hued like wings of silver light
Unfurled for Psyche's heavenward flight;
And every petal, o'er and o'er,
All legended with faery lore,
A palimpsest of fables old
And mythic stories manifold.
In sumptuous sorrow for the dead,
Superbly sombre as a pall
Wrought for an elfin funeral;
Two, hued like wings of silver light
Unfurled for Psyche's heavenward flight;
And every petal, o'er and o'er,
All legended with faery lore,
A palimpsest of fables old
And mythic stories manifold.
Endymion in enchanted swoon
Tranced by the melancholy moon;
And, hovering near, the crescent-crowned
Diana, with her sylvan hound;—
The virgin huntress, proud and pale,
Betrayed to passion's blissful bale,
Till all her beautiful disdain
Is lost in love's imperial pain.
Sad, star-eyed Lamia's serpent spell,
And the wild dirge of Isabel.
Tranced by the melancholy moon;
And, hovering near, the crescent-crowned
Diana, with her sylvan hound;—
The virgin huntress, proud and pale,
Betrayed to passion's blissful bale,
Till all her beautiful disdain
Is lost in love's imperial pain.
143
And the wild dirge of Isabel.
Hyperion in his palace bright,
Bastioned with pyramids of light,
Kindling the dawn with fiery breath,
Battling with Darkness and with Death,—
The pregnant fable left half told,—
A fading blush of morning gold.
Bastioned with pyramids of light,
Kindling the dawn with fiery breath,
Battling with Darkness and with Death,—
The pregnant fable left half told,—
A fading blush of morning gold.
The story of St. Agnes' Eve,
The tale where legioned fairies weave.
Their spells within the moonlight gloom
Of Madeline's enchanted room.
The casement, triple-arched and high,
Enwrought with antique tracery,—
The tale where legioned fairies weave.
Their spells within the moonlight gloom
Of Madeline's enchanted room.
The casement, triple-arched and high,
Enwrought with antique tracery,—
The blazoned window's gorgeous panes
That blush with old heraldic stains;
The broidered kirtle on the floor,
The jeweled casket's gleaming store;
The chamber, silken, hushed and chill,
Where Madeline lies dreaming still,
Lost in the lap of legends old,
And curtained from the moonlight cold,
Till, lowly kneeling at her side,
The minstrel-lover woos his bride.
I hear afar the wassail roar
Surge through the distant corridor,
As through the ancient, bannered halls
The midnight music swells and falls;
The castle lamps are all aglow;
The silver-snarling trumpets blow.
'T was ages, ages long ago,
The vigil of St. Agnes' Night,
The ruse, the revel, and the flight;
But, till love's faery lore be past,
The charm of Agnes' Eve shall last.
That blush with old heraldic stains;
The broidered kirtle on the floor,
The jeweled casket's gleaming store;
The chamber, silken, hushed and chill,
Where Madeline lies dreaming still,
Lost in the lap of legends old,
And curtained from the moonlight cold,
Till, lowly kneeling at her side,
The minstrel-lover woos his bride.
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Surge through the distant corridor,
As through the ancient, bannered halls
The midnight music swells and falls;
The castle lamps are all aglow;
The silver-snarling trumpets blow.
'T was ages, ages long ago,
The vigil of St. Agnes' Night,
The ruse, the revel, and the flight;
But, till love's faery lore be past,
The charm of Agnes' Eve shall last.
The poet sleeps, and pansies bloom
Beside his far Italian tomb;
The turf is heaped above his bed;
The stone is moldering at his head;
But each fair creature of his dream,
Transferred to daylight's common beam,
Lives the charmed life that waneth never,
A Beauty and a Joy forever.
Beside his far Italian tomb;
The turf is heaped above his bed;
The stone is moldering at his head;
But each fair creature of his dream,
Transferred to daylight's common beam,
Lives the charmed life that waneth never,
A Beauty and a Joy forever.
1859.
145
APPLE-BLOOMS.
TO CARRIE, BY HER COUSIN.
You had been robbing apple-trees,—
Robbing rosy apple-trees,—
Stealing from the honey-bees
Robbing rosy apple-trees,—
Stealing from the honey-bees
Stores of sweetness, while I lay,
In the twilight's tender gray,
Dreaming of orchards far away,—
In the twilight's tender gray,
Dreaming of orchards far away,—
Pale orchard blooms that fell like rain
Upon a far-off phantom plain,—
Dear days that would not dawn again,
Upon a far-off phantom plain,—
Dear days that would not dawn again,
And May-moons that would rise no more:
When softly through the open door
A cloud of perfume seemed to pour,
When softly through the open door
A cloud of perfume seemed to pour,
And then I saw two faces loom
Through tufts of pearly apple-bloom,
Filling with rose-light all the room,—
Through tufts of pearly apple-bloom,
Filling with rose-light all the room,—
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Two fair young faces, smiling through
The pink-white blossoms, and I knew
The May-queen's messengers in you.
The pink-white blossoms, and I knew
The May-queen's messengers in you.
I knew the orchard slopes were fair,—
I knew the winds that lingered there
O'er-swept them with enchanted air!
I knew the winds that lingered there
O'er-swept them with enchanted air!
I saw the branches toss and swing,
Heard the bee's elfin bugle ring,
And owned the presence of the Spring.
Heard the bee's elfin bugle ring,
And owned the presence of the Spring.
May, 1860.
147
NIGHT WANES.
Night wanes: the nation's travail, throe by throe,
Brings on the hour that shall absolve her sin;
And the great, solemn bells, now swinging slow,
With tales of murder in their iron din,
Shall ring the years of peace and freedom in.
Brings on the hour that shall absolve her sin;
And the great, solemn bells, now swinging slow,
With tales of murder in their iron din,
Shall ring the years of peace and freedom in.
Be patient, O my heart; look through the gloom
Of the sad present, look through all the past,
And learn how, out of sin and death and doom,
And mournful tragedies, august and vast,
The world's great victories are achieved at last.
Of the sad present, look through all the past,
And learn how, out of sin and death and doom,
And mournful tragedies, august and vast,
The world's great victories are achieved at last.
148
Look far away; count all the triumphs bought
By martyred saints, found worthy to atone
For others' sin, see life from death outwrought,
And know each blast from War's wild bugle blown
Shall melt in music round the “Great White Throne.”
By martyred saints, found worthy to atone
For others' sin, see life from death outwrought,
And know each blast from War's wild bugle blown
Shall melt in music round the “Great White Throne.”
1861.
149
NIGHT AND STORM.
I saw the waning August moon
Rise o'er the rocky shore,
And on a sad and stormy sea
Its lurid crimson pour.
Rise o'er the rocky shore,
And on a sad and stormy sea
Its lurid crimson pour.
My window opened to the east,
And far and far away,
I saw the headlong billows breast
The breakers of the bay.
And far and far away,
I saw the headlong billows breast
The breakers of the bay.
The broad red sea seemed like a field
Where charging squadrons go:
I heard the clang of spear and shield,
I heard the clarions blow.
Where charging squadrons go:
I heard the clang of spear and shield,
I heard the clarions blow.
Near me the dancers' flying feet,
With sounds of harp and horn,
And wild waltz-music, madly sweet,
Were on the night-winds borne.
With sounds of harp and horn,
And wild waltz-music, madly sweet,
Were on the night-winds borne.
Rich voices lingered on the ear,
And laughter floated by,
And many a call of merry cheer,
And many a glad reply.
And laughter floated by,
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And many a glad reply.
I only watched the trampling feet
Of waves upon the shore;
I only heard their war-drums beat,
Their plunging batteries roar.
Of waves upon the shore;
I only heard their war-drums beat,
Their plunging batteries roar.
I thought on many a bannered plain,
On battles lost and won,
On homes bereft and heroes slain,
And armies marching on.
On battles lost and won,
On homes bereft and heroes slain,
And armies marching on.
The wild waltz-music died away,
The laughter and the glee,
But all night long a stormy song
Seemed sounding from the sea:
The laughter and the glee,
But all night long a stormy song
Seemed sounding from the sea:
A wail of trumpets in the air,
A dead march on the wave,
Wild tones of triumph or despair
O'er all our martyred brave.
A dead march on the wave,
Wild tones of triumph or despair
O'er all our martyred brave.
I hailed Jehovah's fiery sword
In battles lost and won;
I hailed the armies of the Lord
And heard them marching on.
In battles lost and won;
I hailed the armies of the Lord
And heard them marching on.
Ocean House, Cape Elizabeth, August, 1863.
151
DON ISLE.
[_]
Cromwell's siege of the sea-girt castle and fortress of Don Isle, which was heroically defended by a female descendant of Nicholas Le Poer, Baron of Don isle, is, as represented by Sir Bernard Burke in his Romance of Irish History, full of legendary interest.
Lonely beneath the silent stars
It stands, a gray and moldering pile,
Wreck'd in the wild Cromwellian wars,
The sea-girt castle of Don Isle.
The wild waves beat the castle wall,
And bathe the rock with ceaseless showers;
Dark heaving billows plunge and fall
In whitening foam beneath the towers.
It stands, a gray and moldering pile,
Wreck'd in the wild Cromwellian wars,
The sea-girt castle of Don Isle.
The wild waves beat the castle wall,
And bathe the rock with ceaseless showers;
Dark heaving billows plunge and fall
In whitening foam beneath the towers.
High beetling o'er the headland's brow
All seam'd and battle-scarr'd it stands,
And rents and gaping ruins show
The ravage of the spoiler's hands.
Two hundred years have rolled away,
And still, at twilight's haunted hour,
A ghostly lady seems to stray
By ruined barbacan and tower.
All seam'd and battle-scarr'd it stands,
And rents and gaping ruins show
The ravage of the spoiler's hands.
Two hundred years have rolled away,
And still, at twilight's haunted hour,
A ghostly lady seems to stray
By ruined barbacan and tower.
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Dauntless within her lone domain
She held at bay her father's foe,
Till faithless followers fired the train
That laid her feudal fortress low.
Afar her exiled kinsmen roam;
She perished in the smoldering pile,
The last of all her house and home,
The lonely lady of Don Isle.
She held at bay her father's foe,
Till faithless followers fired the train
That laid her feudal fortress low.
Afar her exiled kinsmen roam;
She perished in the smoldering pile,
The last of all her house and home,
The lonely lady of Don Isle.
The gray moss gathers on the wall,
And slow beneath the silent stars
The crumbling turrets waste and fall
Wrecked in the wild Cromwellian wars:
And peasants round their evening fire
With many a tale the hours beguile,
Of warrior ghosts and spectres dire
That haunt the castle of Don Isle.
And slow beneath the silent stars
The crumbling turrets waste and fall
Wrecked in the wild Cromwellian wars:
And peasants round their evening fire
With many a tale the hours beguile,
Of warrior ghosts and spectres dire
That haunt the castle of Don Isle.
1864.
153
NIGHTFALL ON THE SEACONNET SHORE.
To R. D. S.
We sat together, you and I,
And watched the daylight's dying bloom,
And saw the great white ships go by,
Like phantoms through the gathering gloom.
And watched the daylight's dying bloom,
And saw the great white ships go by,
Like phantoms through the gathering gloom.
Like phantom lights the lonely stars
Looked through the sea-fog's ghastly veil,
Beyond the headland's rocky bars
We heard the stormy surges wail.
Looked through the sea-fog's ghastly veil,
Beyond the headland's rocky bars
We heard the stormy surges wail.
We sat together, hand in hand,
Upon the lonely, sea-girt wall,
And watched along the glimmering strand,
The wild, white breakers plunge and fall.
Upon the lonely, sea-girt wall,
And watched along the glimmering strand,
The wild, white breakers plunge and fall.
You spoke of pleasures past away,
Of hopes that left the heart forlorn,
Of life's unrest and love's decay,
And lonely sorrows proudly borne.
Of hopes that left the heart forlorn,
Of life's unrest and love's decay,
And lonely sorrows proudly borne.
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The sea's phantasmal sceneries
Commingled with your mournful theme;
The splendors of your starry eyes
Were drowned in memory's deepening dream.
Commingled with your mournful theme;
The splendors of your starry eyes
Were drowned in memory's deepening dream.
Darker and lonelier grew the night
Along the horizon's dreary verge,
And lonelier through the lessening light
Sang the wild sea-wind's wailing dirge.
Along the horizon's dreary verge,
And lonelier through the lessening light
Sang the wild sea-wind's wailing dirge.
When, kindling through the gathering gloom,
Beyond West-Island's beetling brow,
Where breakers dash, and surges boom,
We saw Point Judith's fires aglow.
Beyond West-Island's beetling brow,
Where breakers dash, and surges boom,
We saw Point Judith's fires aglow.
Piercing night's solemn mystery,
The light-house reared its lonely form,
Serene above the weltering sea
And guardant through the gathering storm.
The light-house reared its lonely form,
Serene above the weltering sea
And guardant through the gathering storm.
So, o'er the sea of life's unrest,
Through grief's wild storm, and sorrow's gloom,
Faith's heavenly pharos in the breast
Lights up the dark with deathless bloom.
Through grief's wild storm, and sorrow's gloom,
Faith's heavenly pharos in the breast
Lights up the dark with deathless bloom.
155
The sea-born sadness of the hour
Melted beneath its holy spell;
Faith blossomed into perfect flower,
And our hearts whispered, “All is well.”
Melted beneath its holy spell;
Faith blossomed into perfect flower,
And our hearts whispered, “All is well.”
1864.
156
TO “SHIRLEY:”
The good Santa Claus who sent me David Gray's Poems.
Dear Santa Claus, your reindeer hoof
Fell soft as snow-flakes on the roof
That spanned my hall of dreams last night,
And when I woke, the morning light
Was lovelier, and the wintry day
More fair for you and David Gray:
His summer moons, his autumn nights,
The glamour of his sunset lights,
His red dawns and their rosy glow
On the white wonder of the snow;
The sadness of his poet-soul
That looked beyond life's mortal goal,
For the great glory that should pour,
Through golden death's immortal door.
Fell soft as snow-flakes on the roof
That spanned my hall of dreams last night,
And when I woke, the morning light
Was lovelier, and the wintry day
More fair for you and David Gray:
His summer moons, his autumn nights,
The glamour of his sunset lights,
His red dawns and their rosy glow
On the white wonder of the snow;
The sadness of his poet-soul
That looked beyond life's mortal goal,
For the great glory that should pour,
Through golden death's immortal door.
Entranced I lie the livelong day,
Dreaming of you and David Gray,—
Dreaming I see the daylight fade
Across the castled palisade
Of sunset clouds; it dies and dies
Into diviner harmonies.
Sweet, haunting faces light the gloom
Of twilight in my lonely room,—
Proud poet-faces, sad and stern,
To whom earth gave a marble urn
That could nor life nor love restore:
This, “only this, and nothing more!”
Dreaming of you and David Gray,—
Dreaming I see the daylight fade
Across the castled palisade
157
Into diviner harmonies.
Sweet, haunting faces light the gloom
Of twilight in my lonely room,—
Proud poet-faces, sad and stern,
To whom earth gave a marble urn
That could nor life nor love restore:
This, “only this, and nothing more!”
The page grows dim, and solemn night,
Drops her rich curtain o'er the light,
Till, fold on fold, its dusky fall
Shuts out the far horizon wall:
The stars begin to glint and spark
Across the purple of the dark,
And all the happy winter day,
Made fair through you and David Gray,
Melts in a heavenly dream away!
Drops her rich curtain o'er the light,
Till, fold on fold, its dusky fall
Shuts out the far horizon wall:
The stars begin to glint and spark
Across the purple of the dark,
And all the happy winter day,
Made fair through you and David Gray,
Melts in a heavenly dream away!
December 25, 1865.
158
PROSERPINE TO PLUTO IN HADES.
“Nec repetita sequi curet Proserpina matrem.”
Virgil, George. I. 39.
Virgil, George. I. 39.
I think on thee amid these spring-time flowers,
On thee, my emperor, my sovran lord,
Dwelling alone in dim Tartarean towers
Of thy dark realm, by earth and heaven abhorred,
Wandering afar by that Avernian river
Where dead kings walk and phantoms wail forever.
On thee, my emperor, my sovran lord,
Dwelling alone in dim Tartarean towers
Of thy dark realm, by earth and heaven abhorred,
Wandering afar by that Avernian river
Where dead kings walk and phantoms wail forever.
I think on thee in that stern palace regnant,
Where no sweet voice of summer charms the air,
Where the vast solitude seems ever pregnant
With some wild dream of unforetold despair.
Thy love, remembered, doth heaven's light eclipse;
I feel thy lingering kisses on my lips.
Where no sweet voice of summer charms the air,
Where the vast solitude seems ever pregnant
With some wild dream of unforetold despair.
Thy love, remembered, doth heaven's light eclipse;
I feel thy lingering kisses on my lips.
159
I languish for the late autumnal showers,
The cool, cool plashing of the autumn rain,
The shimmering hoar-frost and fast-fading flowers,
That give me back to thy dark realm again:
To thee I'll bring Sicilia's starry skies
And all the heaven of summer in my eyes.
The cool, cool plashing of the autumn rain,
The shimmering hoar-frost and fast-fading flowers,
That give me back to thy dark realm again:
To thee I'll bring Sicilia's starry skies
And all the heaven of summer in my eyes.
When from earth's noontide beauty borne away
To the pale prairies of that under world,
A mournful flower upon thy breast I lay
Till round thy heart its clinging tendrils curled—
A frighted dove, that tamed its fluttering pinion
To the dear magic of thy love's dominion.
To the pale prairies of that under world,
A mournful flower upon thy breast I lay
Till round thy heart its clinging tendrils curled—
A frighted dove, that tamed its fluttering pinion
To the dear magic of thy love's dominion.
For thou wert grandly beautiful as night,
Stern Orcus, in thy realm of buried kings;
And thy sad crown of cypress in my sight
Fairer than all the bright and flowery rings
Of wreathèd poppies and of golden corn
By Ceres on her stately temples worn.
Stern Orcus, in thy realm of buried kings;
And thy sad crown of cypress in my sight
Fairer than all the bright and flowery rings
Of wreathèd poppies and of golden corn
By Ceres on her stately temples worn.
I sat beside thee on Hell's dusky throne,
Nor feared the awful shadow of thy fate;
Content to share the burden of thy crown,
And all the mournful splendors of thy state;
Bending my flower-like beauty to thy will,
Seeking with light thy lonely dark to fill.
Nor feared the awful shadow of thy fate;
Content to share the burden of thy crown,
And all the mournful splendors of thy state;
160
Seeking with light thy lonely dark to fill.
Wondering, I think how thy dear love hath bound me
In a new life that half forgets the old;
All day I haunt the meadows where you found me,
Knee-deep in daffodils of dusky gold,
Or sit by Cyane's sad fountain, dreaming
Of the red lake by thy proud palace gleaming.
In a new life that half forgets the old;
All day I haunt the meadows where you found me,
Knee-deep in daffodils of dusky gold,
Or sit by Cyane's sad fountain, dreaming
Of the red lake by thy proud palace gleaming.
When, in her car by wingèd dragons borne,
Pale Ceres sought me through the shuddering night,
With angry torches and fierce eyes, forlorn,
Slaying the dark that screened me from her sight,
Like a reft lioness that rends the air
Of midnight with her perilous despair,
Pale Ceres sought me through the shuddering night,
With angry torches and fierce eyes, forlorn,
Slaying the dark that screened me from her sight,
Like a reft lioness that rends the air
Of midnight with her perilous despair,
Jove, pitying the great passion of her woe,
Gave back thy queen-bride to the mother's grief—
To Ceres gave—through summer's golden glow
And all the crescent months, from spear to sheaf:
Alas, how sadly in Sicilian bowers
I pass this lonely, lingering time of flowers!
Gave back thy queen-bride to the mother's grief—
To Ceres gave—through summer's golden glow
And all the crescent months, from spear to sheaf:
161
I pass this lonely, lingering time of flowers!
In the long silence of the languid noons,
When all the panting birds are faint with heat,
I wander listless by the blue lagoons
To hear their light waves rippling at my feet
Through the dead calm, and count the lingering time
By the slow pulsing of their silver chime.
When all the panting birds are faint with heat,
I wander listless by the blue lagoons
To hear their light waves rippling at my feet
Through the dead calm, and count the lingering time
By the slow pulsing of their silver chime.
I languish for the late autumnal showers,
The cool, cool plashing of the autumn rain,
The shimmering hoar-frost and fast-fading flowers,
That give me back to thy dark realm again:
I have no native land from thee apart,
And my high heaven of heavens is in thy heart.
The cool, cool plashing of the autumn rain,
The shimmering hoar-frost and fast-fading flowers,
That give me back to thy dark realm again:
I have no native land from thee apart,
And my high heaven of heavens is in thy heart.
162
THE TYPHON.
“Typhon, dread demon from the realms below,
The dark, mysterious cause of every woe,
The racking ague and the fever throe!”
The dark, mysterious cause of every woe,
The racking ague and the fever throe!”
When the green leaves to golden bronze were turning,
And earth lay parched beneath the October sun,
A sullen fever in my veins was burning,
While life and death seemed melting into one.
And earth lay parched beneath the October sun,
A sullen fever in my veins was burning,
While life and death seemed melting into one.
At eventide the cheerful embers glowing
Through the cool chamber turned to fires of doom;
In the white draperies o'er the windows flowing
Lurked sheeted phantoms from the nether gloom.
Through the cool chamber turned to fires of doom;
In the white draperies o'er the windows flowing
Lurked sheeted phantoms from the nether gloom.
Great, gorgon heads and stony faces only
Looked out from all the pictures on the wall;
The quaint sequestered room grew vast and lonely
As the wide vaulted arch of Vathek's hall;
Looked out from all the pictures on the wall;
163
As the wide vaulted arch of Vathek's hall;
The walls, now fading into endless distance,
Now narrowing round me to a low-browed cave,
Where in a living death without resistance
I lay as in the hollow of a grave.
Now narrowing round me to a low-browed cave,
Where in a living death without resistance
I lay as in the hollow of a grave.
Strange life in death! that left my soul to wander
Long ages in a dim sepulchral pile,
The legend of forgotten lives to ponder
On footworn marbles of the moldering aisle.
Long ages in a dim sepulchral pile,
The legend of forgotten lives to ponder
On footworn marbles of the moldering aisle.
My vanished years were there—a long succession
Of sultry summers severed by the snows
Of endless winters, while some dark obsession
Forced me to read the record to its close.
Of sultry summers severed by the snows
Of endless winters, while some dark obsession
Forced me to read the record to its close.
Day followed day and night to night succeeded,
And still the powers of darkness reigned supreme;
A smoldering fire the pulse of life impeded,
And all my past seemed one long fever dream.
And still the powers of darkness reigned supreme;
A smoldering fire the pulse of life impeded,
And all my past seemed one long fever dream.
164
Then the foul Typhon fled. A wondrous glory
Flooded the world with health's returning tide,
And all the sorrows of life's mystic story
Were but as wandering clouds through moonlit heavens that glide.
Flooded the world with health's returning tide,
And all the sorrows of life's mystic story
Were but as wandering clouds through moonlit heavens that glide.
I865.
165
CHRISTMAS EVE.
TO MY LITTLE FRIENDS AT NEW ROCHELLE.
Let fall the curtains, drop the shades;
Behind the hills the twilight fades;
The sullen rain-drops, heavily,
In the dank, drooping hemlocks lie;
The fir-trees in the rounding park
Loom statelier through the gathering dark,
And reddening in the starless night
The tall church windows blaze with light.
The north wind whistles down the glades;
Let fall the curtains, drop the shades,
And, while the fire-light's glowing gloom
Casts fitful shadows through the room,
Gather around the ruddy blaze
To welcome in the holidays.
Behind the hills the twilight fades;
The sullen rain-drops, heavily,
In the dank, drooping hemlocks lie;
The fir-trees in the rounding park
Loom statelier through the gathering dark,
And reddening in the starless night
The tall church windows blaze with light.
The north wind whistles down the glades;
Let fall the curtains, drop the shades,
And, while the fire-light's glowing gloom
Casts fitful shadows through the room,
Gather around the ruddy blaze
To welcome in the holidays.
See Haidee's dark brown eyes grow bright
As diamonds in the dancing light,
To hear the merry bells that ring
In the tall steeples,—ding dong ding;
While Rena's songs sound sweet and rare
As music heard in mountain air,
And Ethel, with cheeks all abloom,
Goes dancing, dancing round the room,
Or softly lingers at my knee
To watch the wondrous Christmas Tree.
As diamonds in the dancing light,
To hear the merry bells that ring
In the tall steeples,—ding dong ding;
166
As music heard in mountain air,
And Ethel, with cheeks all abloom,
Goes dancing, dancing round the room,
Or softly lingers at my knee
To watch the wondrous Christmas Tree.
Sweet Christmas Eve! The holidays
May pass, the firelight's cheerful blaze
Die out, the little waltzing feet
To other mazy measures beat,
And other Christmas Trees may spread
Their fragrant branches o'er my head,
And fairy fruit for us may fall
In many a distant bower and hall,
And Santa Claus at Christmas tide
May down the roaring chimneys ride,
And chapel bells with solemn chime
Ring in the Christ-child's holy time,
And tell to all the wondering Earth
The mystic story of his birth;
But memory long shall fondly dwell
On this blithe eve at New Rochelle,
And fairer deem our Christmas Tree
Than all that have been or may be,
And keep the birthnight it embalms
Sweet as the breath of heavenly palms.
May pass, the firelight's cheerful blaze
Die out, the little waltzing feet
To other mazy measures beat,
And other Christmas Trees may spread
Their fragrant branches o'er my head,
And fairy fruit for us may fall
In many a distant bower and hall,
And Santa Claus at Christmas tide
May down the roaring chimneys ride,
And chapel bells with solemn chime
Ring in the Christ-child's holy time,
And tell to all the wondering Earth
The mystic story of his birth;
But memory long shall fondly dwell
On this blithe eve at New Rochelle,
And fairer deem our Christmas Tree
Than all that have been or may be,
And keep the birthnight it embalms
Sweet as the breath of heavenly palms.
December, I866.
167
SANTA CLAUS.
A health to good old Santa Claus,
And to his reindeer bold,
Whose hoofs are shod with eider-down,
Whose horns are tipped with gold.
And to his reindeer bold,
Whose hoofs are shod with eider-down,
Whose horns are tipped with gold.
He comes from utmost fairy-land
Across the wintry snows;
He makes the fir-tree and the spruce
To blossom like the rose.
Across the wintry snows;
He makes the fir-tree and the spruce
To blossom like the rose.
Over the quaint old gables,
Over the windy ridge,
By turret wall and chimney tall,
He guides his fairy sledge;
Over the windy ridge,
By turret wall and chimney tall,
He guides his fairy sledge;
Along the sleeping house-tops
Its silver runners trend,
All loaded down with wonder-books
And tales without an end.
Its silver runners trend,
All loaded down with wonder-books
And tales without an end.
168
He steals upon the slumbers
Of little rose-lipped girls,
And lays his waxen dollies down
Beside their golden curls.
Of little rose-lipped girls,
And lays his waxen dollies down
Beside their golden curls.
He scatters blessings on his way
And sugar-coated plums.
He robs the sluggard of his rest,
With trumpets, guns, and drums.
And sugar-coated plums.
He robs the sluggard of his rest,
With trumpets, guns, and drums.
Small feet, before the dawn of day,
Are marching to and fro,
Drums beat to arms through all the house,
And penny trumpets blow.
Are marching to and fro,
Drums beat to arms through all the house,
And penny trumpets blow.
A health to brave old Santa Claus,
And to his reindeer bold,
Whose hoofs are shod with eider-down,
Whose horns are tipped with gold.
And to his reindeer bold,
Whose hoofs are shod with eider-down,
Whose horns are tipped with gold.
He tells us of the yule-log
That blazed in Saxon halls,
Of the marchpane and the mistletoe,
And the minstrels' merry calls;
That blazed in Saxon halls,
Of the marchpane and the mistletoe,
And the minstrels' merry calls;
Of Christmas candles burning bright
In ages long ago;
Those long dark ages when the world
Turned round so very slow.
In ages long ago;
169
Turned round so very slow.
He comes from utmost fairy-land
Across the wintry snows;
He makes the fir-tree and the spruce
To blossom like the rose.
Across the wintry snows;
He makes the fir-tree and the spruce
To blossom like the rose.
He lingers till the Christmas bells,
With sweet and solemn chime,
Come sounding o'er the centuries
Through years of war and crime.
With sweet and solemn chime,
Come sounding o'er the centuries
Through years of war and crime.
Ring out, ring out, sweet Christmas bells!
Ring loud and silver clear!
Ring peace on earth, good will to man,
Till all the world shall hear!
Ring loud and silver clear!
Ring peace on earth, good will to man,
Till all the world shall hear!
December, I867.
170
OUR LAST WALK.
TO R. B. B.
The October day was dying, the dark sea
Flushed crimson at the coming of the sun;
The ripened year lay drowsing on the lea,
Like a tired reaper when his task is done.
Flushed crimson at the coming of the sun;
The ripened year lay drowsing on the lea,
Like a tired reaper when his task is done.
Slowly we loitered o'er the twilight wold,
Through velvet sheep-walks, and where reedy plumes
And nodding fern tufts, tipt with tawny gold,
Fringe the dank borders where the gentian blooms.
Through velvet sheep-walks, and where reedy plumes
And nodding fern tufts, tipt with tawny gold,
Fringe the dank borders where the gentian blooms.
The very crickets seemed to drone and dream,
As if they felt the sweet mysterious charm
Of the hushed evening, and attuned their theme
To its low cadences of slumberous calm.
As if they felt the sweet mysterious charm
Of the hushed evening, and attuned their theme
To its low cadences of slumberous calm.
171
With scarlet hips and sprays of purpling leaves
The brier-rose in the bosky thickets burned,
The maples flamed beneath the forest eaves,
And their cold gloom to sudden splendor turned.
The brier-rose in the bosky thickets burned,
The maples flamed beneath the forest eaves,
And their cold gloom to sudden splendor turned.
The level sunbeams glinted through the trees
And flecked with arrowy light their verdant mold,
And bound red baldricks round their gnarled knees,
And fringed the tufted knolls with raveled gold.
And flecked with arrowy light their verdant mold,
And bound red baldricks round their gnarled knees,
And fringed the tufted knolls with raveled gold.
Our woodland path was dim with tender dreams
Of the past summer, and a pensive gloom,
Lit by the rosy sunset's dying gleams,
Filled the long arches of our sylvan room:
Of the past summer, and a pensive gloom,
Lit by the rosy sunset's dying gleams,
Filled the long arches of our sylvan room:
Sweet haunting memories of our golden noons,
Our twilight wanderings by the lonely shore,
Our August mornings, our September noons,
Our long, sweet, summer days that are no more.
Our twilight wanderings by the lonely shore,
Our August mornings, our September noons,
Our long, sweet, summer days that are no more.
We sat together by the sunset sea,
Screened from its solemn splendors by a wall
Of beech and oak and many a tangled tree
Of the witch-elms that over-roofed our hall.
Screened from its solemn splendors by a wall
172
Of the witch-elms that over-roofed our hall.
It was your birthnight, and close-clasped in mine
I held your hand, and blessed the imperial hour
That sheathed your spirit in a mortal shrine,
And gave to bloom on earth a thornless flower.
I held your hand, and blessed the imperial hour
That sheathed your spirit in a mortal shrine,
And gave to bloom on earth a thornless flower.
173
OUR HAUNTED ROOM.
TO E. N. G.
“Oh life! infinite life! the beautiful gates unfold!
The shadowless light that knows no night
Breaks over the city of gold!
I rise on invisible pinions.
I breathe an ineffable breath!
Oh, life! rivers of life! for me there is no more death!”
The shadowless light that knows no night
Breaks over the city of gold!
I rise on invisible pinions.
I breathe an ineffable breath!
Oh, life! rivers of life! for me there is no more death!”
[_]
[Last lines of Elizabeth N. Gladding, who died of malarial fever, while teaching the freedmen at St. Helena Island, S. C., July, I867.]
Here, where thy presence, like a rare,
Sweet perfume, lingers everywhere,
Elusive shadows haunt the air.
Sweet perfume, lingers everywhere,
Elusive shadows haunt the air.
The dimly-pictured walls expand
To mountain sceneries, wild and grand,
Where war-worn castles proudly stand,—
To mountain sceneries, wild and grand,
Where war-worn castles proudly stand,—
Bastions and barbacans that gleam
In the old mirror's crystal stream,
Like far-off palaces of dream.
In the old mirror's crystal stream,
Like far-off palaces of dream.
174
A censer, curiously enwrought,
That burned in some barbaric court,
Drowsed in the Orient's dusky thought,
That burned in some barbaric court,
Drowsed in the Orient's dusky thought,
On the long centuries seems to brood,
When in Mongolian halls it stood,
Breathing of myrrh and sandal wood.
When in Mongolian halls it stood,
Breathing of myrrh and sandal wood.
From an amphora, quaint and tall,
Funereal mosses float and fall,
And waver down the chamber wall,
Funereal mosses float and fall,
And waver down the chamber wall,
Dark southern mosses that have hung
The wild sea-island woods among,
And o'er their deep morasses swung.
The wild sea-island woods among,
And o'er their deep morasses swung.
The hands that twined with flexile grace
Their garlands round my flower-lipped vase,
Shrouding the corbel's sculptured face,
Their garlands round my flower-lipped vase,
Shrouding the corbel's sculptured face,
Fair-folded in a southern clime,
Absolved from all the toils of time,
Await the eternal morning's prime:
Absolved from all the toils of time,
Await the eternal morning's prime:
Fair-folded by the Atlantic wave,
'Mid the dark race she died to save,
Where homeless sea-winds haunt her grave.
'Mid the dark race she died to save,
Where homeless sea-winds haunt her grave.
175
But when the sunset fires are low,
And twilight fancies come and go,
And mystic winds of memory blow,—
And twilight fancies come and go,
And mystic winds of memory blow,—
When the heart feels its courage fail,
Its visioned hopes without avail,
Untouched, unfound its Holy Grail,—
Its visioned hopes without avail,
Untouched, unfound its Holy Grail,—
Some solemn rapture, like a strain
Of music's beautiful disdain,
Uplifts beyond all mortal pain:
Of music's beautiful disdain,
Uplifts beyond all mortal pain:
A sudden splendor rifts the gloom,—
A light that seems to bud and bloom
From out the shadows of the room:
A light that seems to bud and bloom
From out the shadows of the room:
A silken stir anear the door,
Like rose-leaves rippling o'er the floor,
And lo! glad-smiling, as of yore,
Like rose-leaves rippling o'er the floor,
And lo! glad-smiling, as of yore,
Close at my side I see thee stand
In shining garments, ghostly grand,
A palm-branch budding in thy hand,
In shining garments, ghostly grand,
A palm-branch budding in thy hand,
And, sweet as morning's music breath
Across the hills of Nazareth,
A low voice murmurs, “No more death!”
Across the hills of Nazareth,
A low voice murmurs, “No more death!”
1870.
176
MEMORIAL HYMN.
WRITTEN FOR THE DEDICATION OF THE RHODE ISLAND SOLDIERS' AND SAILORS' MONUMENT.
Raise the proud pillar of granite on high,
Graced with all honors that love can impart;
Lift its fair sculptures against the blue sky,
Blazoned and crowned with the trophies of art,—
Crowned with the triumphs of genius and art!
Long may its white column soar to the sky,
Like a lone lily that perfumes the mart,
Lifting its coronal beauty on high.
Graced with all honors that love can impart;
Lift its fair sculptures against the blue sky,
Blazoned and crowned with the trophies of art,—
Crowned with the triumphs of genius and art!
Long may its white column soar to the sky,
Like a lone lily that perfumes the mart,
Lifting its coronal beauty on high.
Sons of Rhode Island, your record shall stand
Graven on tablets of granite and bronze;
Soldiers and sailors, beloved of our land,
Darlings and heroes, our brothers and sons,—
Gray-bearded heroes and beautiful sons!
Soldiers and sailors, the flower of our land,
Deep as on tablets of granite and bronze,
Graved on our hearts shall your bright record stand.
Graven on tablets of granite and bronze;
Soldiers and sailors, beloved of our land,
Darlings and heroes, our brothers and sons,—
177
Soldiers and sailors, the flower of our land,
Deep as on tablets of granite and bronze,
Graved on our hearts shall your bright record stand.
Swell the loud psalm, let the war trumpets sound;
Fling the old flag to the wild autumn blast;
High in Valhalla our comrades are crowned;
There may we meet when life's conflicts are past,—
Meet in the great Hall of Heroes at last!
High in Valhalla our comrades are crowned.
Swell with Hosannas the wild autumn blast!
Let the full chorus of voices resound!
Fling the old flag to the wild autumn blast;
High in Valhalla our comrades are crowned;
There may we meet when life's conflicts are past,—
Meet in the great Hall of Heroes at last!
High in Valhalla our comrades are crowned.
Swell with Hosannas the wild autumn blast!
Let the full chorus of voices resound!
September 16, 1871.
178
A BUNCH OF GRAPES.
PAINTED BY E. C. LEAVITT.
“Such as lurked behind the trees
In gardens of Hesperides.”
In gardens of Hesperides.”
On a sultry night in June,
In the trances of the moon,
Came a sudden thunder-squall
Crashing through the lindens tall;
Every grape-vine was blown down,
Every rose-tree lost its crown,
Jagged lightning, sheeted rain,
Dashed athwart the window pane.
In the trances of the moon,
Came a sudden thunder-squall
Crashing through the lindens tall;
Every grape-vine was blown down,
Every rose-tree lost its crown,
Jagged lightning, sheeted rain,
Dashed athwart the window pane.
Then a gust swept through the hall,
A sudden splendor rent the pall
Of darkness;—by its dazzling glare
I saw a stranger standing there,
With beaded raindrops in his hair.
Over eyes of dusky sheen
Vine-wreaths wove a leafy screen,
Such as crowns the marble brow
Of Bacchus in the busts we know;
Such, at least, I seemed to see,—
Perchance the lightning blinded me.
A sudden splendor rent the pall
Of darkness;—by its dazzling glare
I saw a stranger standing there,
With beaded raindrops in his hair.
Over eyes of dusky sheen
Vine-wreaths wove a leafy screen,
179
Of Bacchus in the busts we know;
Such, at least, I seemed to see,—
Perchance the lightning blinded me.
Then a hand of plastic power,
Cool and dripping with the shower,
Dropped within my hand a bunch
Of grapelets, fit for Juno's lunch;
Grapes by Orient sunbeams kissed
Into globes of amethyst;
Such as haughty Guinevere
Flung into the haunted mere;
Jewels for some queenly head,
In the purple born and bred;
Every dark globe veined with fire,
Like the brown cheek of a gypsy;
Lucent drops of love and ire,
Such as made the Mænads tipsy;
Every purple bead a gem
For Alraschid's diadem;
Each a miracle of art,
Fit to charm a poet's heart.
Cool and dripping with the shower,
Dropped within my hand a bunch
Of grapelets, fit for Juno's lunch;
Grapes by Orient sunbeams kissed
Into globes of amethyst;
Such as haughty Guinevere
Flung into the haunted mere;
Jewels for some queenly head,
In the purple born and bred;
Every dark globe veined with fire,
Like the brown cheek of a gypsy;
Lucent drops of love and ire,
Such as made the Mænads tipsy;
Every purple bead a gem
For Alraschid's diadem;
Each a miracle of art,
Fit to charm a poet's heart.
Dazed I stood, without a word,
And the silence was unstirred
Save by storm winds sweeping o'er us,
And the thunder's hollow chorus,
As he vanished from my sight,
In the wild and lonesome night.
And the silence was unstirred
180
And the thunder's hollow chorus,
As he vanished from my sight,
In the wild and lonesome night.
Was it Bacchus? Who can tell?
If not he, 't was—E. C. L.
If not he, 't was—E. C. L.
1872.
181
THE OLD MIRROR.
Oft I see at twilight,
In the hollow gloom
Of the dim old mirror,
Phantasmal faces loom:
In the hollow gloom
Of the dim old mirror,
Phantasmal faces loom:
Noble antique faces,
Sad as with the weight
Of some ancient sorrow,
Some ancestral fate:
Sad as with the weight
Of some ancient sorrow,
Some ancestral fate:
Little rose-lipped faces,
Locks of golden shine,
Laughing eyes of childhood
Looking into mine:
Locks of golden shine,
Laughing eyes of childhood
Looking into mine:
Sweet auroral faces,
Like the morning's bloom;
Ah, how long and long ago
Shrouded for the tomb!
Like the morning's bloom;
Ah, how long and long ago
Shrouded for the tomb!
182
In a bridal chamber
Once the mirror hung;
Draperies of Indian looms
Over it were flung.
Once the mirror hung;
Draperies of Indian looms
Over it were flung.
From its gilded sconces,
Fretted now with mold,
Waxen tapers glimmered
On carcanets of gold.
Fretted now with mold,
Waxen tapers glimmered
On carcanets of gold.
Perfumes of the summer night
Were through the lattice blown,
Scents of brier roses
And meadows newly mown.
Were through the lattice blown,
Scents of brier roses
And meadows newly mown.
The mirror then looked eastward
And caught the morning bloom,
And flooded with its rosy gold
The dreamlight of the room.
And caught the morning bloom,
And flooded with its rosy gold
The dreamlight of the room.
To-night 't is looking westward
Toward the sunset wall;
The wintry day is waning,
The dead leaves drift and fall.
Toward the sunset wall;
The wintry day is waning,
The dead leaves drift and fall.
All about the hearth-stone
The whitening ashes blow,
The wind is wailing an old song
Heard long and long ago.
The whitening ashes blow,
183
Heard long and long ago.
Like the dead leaves drifting
Through the wintry air,
Like white ashes sifting
O'er the hearth-stone bare,
Through the wintry air,
Like white ashes sifting
O'er the hearth-stone bare,
Sad ancestral faces,
Wan as moon-lit snow,
Haunt the dim old mirror
That knew them long ago.
Wan as moon-lit snow,
Haunt the dim old mirror
That knew them long ago.
1875.
184
THE NIGHT BLOOMING CEREUS.
A NOCTURNE, FOR M. A.
A July evening, damp and cold;
Over the dim horizon wall
Low clouds their heavy draperies rolled,
Till darkness gathered like a pall
Around me, and the shadowy room
Grew slumberous with its weight of gloom.
Over the dim horizon wall
Low clouds their heavy draperies rolled,
Till darkness gathered like a pall
Around me, and the shadowy room
Grew slumberous with its weight of gloom.
Heard I a step?—or had I dreamed?
Strange perfume through the chamber streamed,
A phantom flower was in my hand
From some far off enchanted land.
Wondering, I placed it where a low
Lamp gleamed, like moonlight over snow.
The winds were hushed, the night was still,
The very silence seemed to thrill
With that strange effluence.
Filled with awe,
In rapt and wondering mood I saw
The mystic lily, pure and cold,
Whose beauty never knew the sun,
Its vestal garniture unfold,
Till slowly, slowly, one by one,
Its lucent petals fall apart,
Unveiling all its virgin heart!
From what far heights of glory came
That coronal of silver flame?
From what deep fount of wonder welled
The holy gold its chalice held?
Strange perfume through the chamber streamed,
A phantom flower was in my hand
From some far off enchanted land.
Wondering, I placed it where a low
Lamp gleamed, like moonlight over snow.
The winds were hushed, the night was still,
The very silence seemed to thrill
With that strange effluence.
185
In rapt and wondering mood I saw
The mystic lily, pure and cold,
Whose beauty never knew the sun,
Its vestal garniture unfold,
Till slowly, slowly, one by one,
Its lucent petals fall apart,
Unveiling all its virgin heart!
From what far heights of glory came
That coronal of silver flame?
From what deep fount of wonder welled
The holy gold its chalice held?
Strange marvel of the summer night,
Veiled in an aureole of light,
To vanish ere the morning hour!
Gazing upon thy magic flower,
With such superfluous beauty fraught,—
Owning the presence of a power
Beyond the reaches of our thought,—
Almost the gazer fears to guess
The mystery of thy loveliness.
Veiled in an aureole of light,
To vanish ere the morning hour!
Gazing upon thy magic flower,
With such superfluous beauty fraught,—
Owning the presence of a power
Beyond the reaches of our thought,—
Almost the gazer fears to guess
The mystery of thy loveliness.
1877.
186
“A PAT OF BUTTER.”
TO EMILIA.
Yellow as the cups of gold,Peering through the springtime mold,
Sweeter than a breath of clover
Blowing the June meadows over.—
Butter, such as Goethe said
Werter saw his Charlotte spread
For her sisters and her brothers,
And, perhaps, for a few others,
Till it turned her lover's head;
Such as sweet Red Riding Hood,
By that wicked wolf pursued,
Through the enchanted forest bore
To her grandam's fatal door.
'T is the ashen time of Lent.
Well, I know some fairy sent
This, for my soul's nourishment:
Well I know a fairy churned
The creamy lactage till it turned
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Of gracious presence, known to fame
By her sweet baptismal name
Of Emilia (Emily),
Pressed it into shape for me
With her jeweled fingers.
Say you:
“This is all a dream?” I pray you,
Then, in sober truth to tell me
Has your huckster some to sell me?
Tell me, tell me, I implore,
What's his number? Where 's his store?
1877.
188
EPIGÆA.
—“Pink with promises of spring.”
“I wandered lonely as a cloud”
Along the busy, bustling street,
Unmindful of the alien crowd
That passed me by with hurrying feet:
I knew not 't was an April day,
So chill the winds that blew this way.
Along the busy, bustling street,
Unmindful of the alien crowd
That passed me by with hurrying feet:
I knew not 't was an April day,
So chill the winds that blew this way.
When, at a crossing of the flags
A wanderer from the woods I met,
With willow wands and alder tags
And tufts of pink arbutus, wet
With April dews and showers, that fell
Around them in some far-off dell,
And redolent of the rich loam
That fed them in their forest home—
Strange perfume, in whose effluence broods
The wild, sweet spirit of the woods—
Bringing remembrance of old days,
Of spring-time wanderings through a maze
Of mossy, winding, woodland ways,
Or, o'er some brown hill's hoary side
Where the shy May-flower loves to hide.
A wanderer from the woods I met,
With willow wands and alder tags
And tufts of pink arbutus, wet
With April dews and showers, that fell
Around them in some far-off dell,
And redolent of the rich loam
That fed them in their forest home—
Strange perfume, in whose effluence broods
The wild, sweet spirit of the woods—
Bringing remembrance of old days,
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Of mossy, winding, woodland ways,
Or, o'er some brown hill's hoary side
Where the shy May-flower loves to hide.
Then, with a glinting of surprise
In the cool shadow of his eyes,
The woodman touched me with his wand
And turned the street to Fairy-land!
“Well met,” he cried; “I have a few
Tufts of arbutus. These for you.”
In the cool shadow of his eyes,
The woodman touched me with his wand
And turned the street to Fairy-land!
“Well met,” he cried; “I have a few
Tufts of arbutus. These for you.”
April, 1876.
190
“SCIENCE.”
“The words ‘vital force,’ ‘instinct,’ ‘soul,’ are only expressions of our ignorance.”—
Buchner.While the dull Fates sit nodding at their loom,
Benumbed and drowsy with its ceaseless boom,
I hear, as in a dream, the monody
Of life's tumultuous, ever-ebbing sea;
The iron tramp of armies hurrying by
Forever and forever but to die;
The tragedies of time, the dreary years,
The frantic carnival of hopes and fears,
The wild waltz-music wailing through the gloom,
The slow death-agonies, the yawning tomb,
The loved ones lost forever to our sight,
In the wide waste of chaos and old night;
Earth's long, long dream of martyrdom and pain;
No God in heaven to rend the welded chain
Of endless evolution!
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And mole-eyed “Science,” gloating over bones,
The skulls of monkeys and the Age of Stones,
Blinks at the golden lamps that light the hall
Of dusty death, and answers: “It is all.”
1877.
192
TO THE ANGEL OF DEATH.
Thou ancient Mystery! thy solemn night,—
Pierced by attempered rays from that far realm
That lies beyond, dark with excess of light,—
No more the shuddering spirit shall o'erwhelm.
Pierced by attempered rays from that far realm
That lies beyond, dark with excess of light,—
No more the shuddering spirit shall o'erwhelm.
No more thy charnel glooms the soul appall,
Pale Azrael! awful eidolon of Death!—
The dawn-light breaks athwart thy glimmering hall,
And thy dank vapors own the morning's breath.
Pale Azrael! awful eidolon of Death!—
The dawn-light breaks athwart thy glimmering hall,
And thy dank vapors own the morning's breath.
Too long the terror of the dread unknown
Hath the wrung heart with hopeless anguish riven;
The blasting splendors of the fiery throne
“Burning within the inmost veil of Heaven”—
Hath the wrung heart with hopeless anguish riven;
The blasting splendors of the fiery throne
“Burning within the inmost veil of Heaven”—
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The gloom of that great glory, which of old
Haunted the vision of the prophet's dream,
When the archangel of the Lord foretold
The day of doom, by dark Hiddekel's stream.
Haunted the vision of the prophet's dream,
When the archangel of the Lord foretold
The day of doom, by dark Hiddekel's stream.
In vain, through lingering years, I turned the page
Rich with these sacred records of the past,
Hope languished, and no legend could assuage
The rayless gloom thy awful shadow cast.
Rich with these sacred records of the past,
Hope languished, and no legend could assuage
The rayless gloom thy awful shadow cast.
In dread apocalypse, I saw thee borne
On the pale steed, triumphant o'er the doomed,
Till the rent Heavens like a scroll were torn,
And hollow earth her hundred isles entombed.
On the pale steed, triumphant o'er the doomed,
Till the rent Heavens like a scroll were torn,
And hollow earth her hundred isles entombed.
In vain I questioned the cold stars, and kept
Lone vigils by the grave of buried love;
No angel wing athwart the darkness swept,
No voice vouchsafed my sorrow to reprove.
Lone vigils by the grave of buried love;
No angel wing athwart the darkness swept,
No voice vouchsafed my sorrow to reprove.
Was it the weight of that remorseless woe,
The lonely anguish of that long despair,—
That made thy marble lips at length forego
Their silence at my soul's unceasing prayer?
The lonely anguish of that long despair,—
That made thy marble lips at length forego
Their silence at my soul's unceasing prayer?
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Henceforth, the sorrowing heart its pulse shall still
To solemn cadences of sweet repose,
Content life's mystic passion to fulfill
In the great calm that from thy promise flows.
To solemn cadences of sweet repose,
Content life's mystic passion to fulfill
In the great calm that from thy promise flows.
Welcome as the white feet of those who bring
Glad tidings of great joy unto the world,
Shall fall the shadow of thy silver wing
Over the weary couch of woe unfurled.
Glad tidings of great joy unto the world,
Shall fall the shadow of thy silver wing
Over the weary couch of woe unfurled.
A heavenly halo kindles round thy brow;
Beyond the palms of Eden softly wave;
Bright messengers athwart the empyrean go,
And love to love makes answer o'er the grave.
Beyond the palms of Eden softly wave;
Bright messengers athwart the empyrean go,
And love to love makes answer o'er the grave.
195
THE PORTRAIT.
After long years I raised the folds concealing
That face, magnetic as the morning's beam:
While slumbering memory thrilled at its revealing,
Like Memnon wakening from his marble dream.
That face, magnetic as the morning's beam:
While slumbering memory thrilled at its revealing,
Like Memnon wakening from his marble dream.
Again I saw the brow's translucent pallor,
The dark hair floating o'er it like a plume;
The sweet, imperious mouth, whose haughty valor
Defied all portents of impending doom.
The dark hair floating o'er it like a plume;
The sweet, imperious mouth, whose haughty valor
Defied all portents of impending doom.
Eyes planet calm, with something in their vision
That seemed not of earth's mortal mixture born;
Strange mythic faiths and fantasies Elysian,
And far, sweet dreams of “fairy lands forlorn.”
That seemed not of earth's mortal mixture born;
Strange mythic faiths and fantasies Elysian,
And far, sweet dreams of “fairy lands forlorn.”
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Unfathomable eyes that held the sorrow
Of vanished ages in their shadowy deeps,
Lit by that prescience of a heavenly morrow
Which in high hearts the immortal spirit keeps.
Of vanished ages in their shadowy deeps,
Lit by that prescience of a heavenly morrow
Which in high hearts the immortal spirit keeps.
Oft has that pale, poetic presence haunted
My lonely musings at the twilight hour,
Transforming the dull earth-life it enchanted,
With marvel and with mystery and with power.
My lonely musings at the twilight hour,
Transforming the dull earth-life it enchanted,
With marvel and with mystery and with power.
Oft have I heard the sullen sea-wind moaning
Its dirge-like requiems on the lonely shore,
Or listening to the Autumn woods intoning
The wild, sweet legend of the lost Lenore;
Its dirge-like requiems on the lonely shore,
Or listening to the Autumn woods intoning
The wild, sweet legend of the lost Lenore;
Oft in some ashen evening of October,
Have stood entranced beside a moldering tomb
Hard by that visionary Lake of Auber,
Where sleeps the shrouded form of Ulalume;
Have stood entranced beside a moldering tomb
Hard by that visionary Lake of Auber,
Where sleeps the shrouded form of Ulalume;
Oft in chill, star-lit nights have heard the chiming
Of far-off mellow bells on the keen air,
And felt their molten-golden music timing
To the heart's pulses, answering unaware.
Of far-off mellow bells on the keen air,
And felt their molten-golden music timing
To the heart's pulses, answering unaware.
197
Sweet, mournful eyes, long closed upon earth's sorrow
Sleep restfully after life's fevered dream!
Sleep, wayward heart! till on some cool, bright morrow,
Thy soul, refreshed, shall bathe in morning's beam.
Sleep restfully after life's fevered dream!
Sleep, wayward heart! till on some cool, bright morrow,
Thy soul, refreshed, shall bathe in morning's beam.
Though cloud and sorrow rest upon thy story,
And rude hands lift the drapery of thy pall,
Time, as a birthright, shall restore the glory,
And Heaven rekindle all the stars that fall.
And rude hands lift the drapery of thy pall,
Time, as a birthright, shall restore the glory,
And Heaven rekindle all the stars that fall.
1870.
198
THE VENUS OF MILO.
“When I entered for the last time that magnificent hall of the Louvre, where stands on her pedestal the ever-blessed goddess of beauty, our beloved Lady of Milo, the diva looked on me with a face of mournful and tender compassion.”—
Heinrich Heine.
Goddess of dreams, mother of love and sorrow,
Such sorrow as from love's fair promise flows,
Such love as from love's martyrdoms doth borrow
That conquering calm which only sorrow knows!—
Such sorrow as from love's fair promise flows,
Such love as from love's martyrdoms doth borrow
That conquering calm which only sorrow knows!—
Venus, Madonna! so serene and tender,
In thy calm after-bloom of life and love,
More fair than when of old thy sea-born splendor
Surprised the senses of Olympian Jove!—
In thy calm after-bloom of life and love,
More fair than when of old thy sea-born splendor
Surprised the senses of Olympian Jove!—
Not these the lips, that kindling into kisses,
Poured subtile heats through Adon's languid frame,
Rained on his sullen lips their warm caresses,
Thrilled to his heart and turned its frost to flame.
Poured subtile heats through Adon's languid frame,
Rained on his sullen lips their warm caresses,
Thrilled to his heart and turned its frost to flame.
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Thy soul transcending passion's wild illusion,
Its fantasy and fever and unrest,
Broods tenderly in thought's devout seclusion,
O'er some lost love-dream lingering in thy breast.
Its fantasy and fever and unrest,
Broods tenderly in thought's devout seclusion,
O'er some lost love-dream lingering in thy breast.
Thy face seems touched with pity for the anguish
Of earth's disconsolate and lonely hearts;
For all the lorn and loveless lives that languish
In solitary homes and sordid marts:
Of earth's disconsolate and lonely hearts;
For all the lorn and loveless lives that languish
In solitary homes and sordid marts:
With pity for the faithlessness and feigning,
The vain repentance and the long regret,
The perfumed lamps in lonely chambers waning,
The untouched fruits on golden salvers set:
The vain repentance and the long regret,
The perfumed lamps in lonely chambers waning,
The untouched fruits on golden salvers set:
With pity for the patient watchers yearning
Through glimmering casements over midnight moors,
Thrilled by the echo of far feet returning
Through the blank darkness of the empty doors:
Through glimmering casements over midnight moors,
Thrilled by the echo of far feet returning
Through the blank darkness of the empty doors:
With sorrow for the coy, sweet buds that cherish
In virgin pride love's luxury of gloom,
And in their fair unfolded beauty perish,
Fading like flowers that knew not how to bloom:
In virgin pride love's luxury of gloom,
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Fading like flowers that knew not how to bloom:
With sorrow for the over-blown pale roses
That yield their fragrance to the wandering air;
For all the penalties that life imposes
On passion's dream, on love's divine despair.
That yield their fragrance to the wandering air;
For all the penalties that life imposes
On passion's dream, on love's divine despair.
1868.
201
IN MEMORIAM.
How many Aprils have I roamed beside thee
O'er the brown hills where now alone I tread?
And though far realms of wonder now divide thee
From our dim world, I cannot deem thee dead.
O'er the brown hills where now alone I tread?
And though far realms of wonder now divide thee
From our dim world, I cannot deem thee dead.
I held thee in my arms while life was failing,—
Close in my arms and watched thy fluttering breath,
Till the red sunset in the west was paling
And twilight veiled the awful calm of death.
Close in my arms and watched thy fluttering breath,
Till the red sunset in the west was paling
And twilight veiled the awful calm of death.
In that white calm I saw then and forever
The grandeur of thy spirit and its power;
E'en as its mortal vestment seemed to sever,
I saw the immortal bursting into flower.
The grandeur of thy spirit and its power;
E'en as its mortal vestment seemed to sever,
I saw the immortal bursting into flower.
That soul, so lofty in its isolation;
So strong in weakness, resolute in pain;
So self-reliant in its reprobation
Of servile arts and custom's iron reign;
So strong in weakness, resolute in pain;
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Of servile arts and custom's iron reign;
Mid alien crowds alone, with none to know thee,
With nothing left behind thee to regret,
Save one sad heart that love's sweet debt doth owe thee,
One lonely heart that never can forget.
With nothing left behind thee to regret,
Save one sad heart that love's sweet debt doth owe thee,
One lonely heart that never can forget.
April, 1878.
203
MY FLOWERS.
Sweet buds and berries gathered, far and wide,In haunted glens or wild sequestered ways;
By sun or starlight,—in the purple pride,
Of Summer, or in Autumn's golden haze
Long have I held ye, clasped within my hands,
Wooing your mystic odors to restore
The sweet aroma of those flowery lands;—
The perfume of the days that are no more:
Sad Autumn leaves, touched with the fatal glow
Kindling athwart the forest's silent gloom,
Farewell! I fling ye on the way-side now,
Where heedless feet may trample on your bloom;
For, through the silence and the o'ershadowing calm,
Floats the far perfume of the Eden palm.
| Poems by Sarah Helen Whitman | |