 | Landmarks and other poems |  |
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OTHER POEMS
THE THREE WORK-DAYS.
So much to do, so little done!
In sleepless eyes I saw the sun;
His beamless disk in darkness lay,
The dreadful ghost of Yesterday!
In sleepless eyes I saw the sun;
His beamless disk in darkness lay,
The dreadful ghost of Yesterday!
So little done, so much to do!
The morning shone on harvests new;
In eager light I wrought my way,
And breathed the spirit of To-day!
The morning shone on harvests new;
In eager light I wrought my way,
And breathed the spirit of To-day!
So much to do, so little done!
The toil is past, the rest begun;
Though little done, and much to do,
To-morrow Earth and Heaven are new!
The toil is past, the rest begun;
Though little done, and much to do,
To-morrow Earth and Heaven are new!
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THE LOST GENIUS.
A giant came to me when I was young,
My instant will to ask—
My earthly Servant, from the earth he sprung
Eager for any task!
My instant will to ask—
My earthly Servant, from the earth he sprung
Eager for any task!
“What wilt thou, O my Master?” he began;
“Whatever can be,” I.
“Say thy first wish—whate'er thou wilt I can,”
The Strong Slave made reply.
“Whatever can be,” I.
“Say thy first wish—whate'er thou wilt I can,”
The Strong Slave made reply.
“Enter the earth and bring its riches forth,
For pearls explore the sea.”
He brought, from East and West and South and North,
All treasures back to me!
For pearls explore the sea.”
He brought, from East and West and South and North,
All treasures back to me!
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“Build me a palace wherein I may dwell.”
“Awake and see it done,”
Spake his great voice at dawn. Oh, miracle!
That glitter'd in the sun!
“Awake and see it done,”
Spake his great voice at dawn. Oh, miracle!
That glitter'd in the sun!
“Find me the princess fit for my embrace,
The vision of my breast;
For her search every clime and every race.”
My yearning arms were bless'd!
The vision of my breast;
For her search every clime and every race.”
My yearning arms were bless'd!
“Get me all knowledge.” Sages with their lore,
And poets with their songs,
Crowded my palace halls at every door,
In still, obedient throngs!
And poets with their songs,
Crowded my palace halls at every door,
In still, obedient throngs!
“Now bring me wisdom.” Long ago he went;
(The cold task harder seems:)
He did not hasten with the last content—
The rest, meanwhile, were dreams!
(The cold task harder seems:)
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The rest, meanwhile, were dreams!
Houseless and poor, on many a trackless road,
Without a guide, I found
A white-hair'd phantom, with the world his load
Bending him to the ground!
Without a guide, I found
A white-hair'd phantom, with the world his load
Bending him to the ground!
“I bring thee wisdom, Master.” Is it he,
I marvel'd then, in sooth?
“Thy palace-builder, beauty-seeker, see!”
I saw the Ghost of Youth!
I marvel'd then, in sooth?
“Thy palace-builder, beauty-seeker, see!”
I saw the Ghost of Youth!
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CONFLAGRATION.
I.
Playing with little children on the hearth,An hour ago—
With fitful mirth
Their gentle eyes were lighted—lo! the Flame,
Like a lithe Fairy, to their fancies came,
Whispering whispers low!
II.
All sleep. The harmless Fairy wakes and chasesAcross the floor, and from the darkness crawls,
Clambering up the walls,
And looks into the children's sleeping faces;
Now through the window shines
On the dew-burden'd vines;
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Aloof,
Upon the roof!
The city sleeps.
It waves its myriad hands,
And laughs and dances, a maniac lost from bands!
III.
The scared bells ring!—All sleepers, wakening, start
With fluttering heart!
Look! the gigantic Thing
The unimprison'd Fury, tosses high
Bloodiest arms against the frighten'd sky,
O'er streets that glare with men! Midnight gives way
To the flame-cradled day!
White Fear and red Confusion mingle cries:
“Arise! arise!
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The hearth-born Terror keeps its hurrying march,
The world aghast before, the clouds its victory-arch,
(The Larés on their altars die,
The wives and children fly:)
And ashes are its fame!
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THE NEW HOUSE.
I.
THE BUILDING.
A stranger in the village street,Shines the new house in morning light—
No quick enchantment sprung by night,
A vision for the sun, complete,
Like that the Arabian story shows:
For the slow toil of hours and days,
With steadfast hands and stalwart blows,
Wrought with the builder's brain, to raise
This temple, yet unconsecrate,
Of Home and Household Deities,
The stronghold of Domestic Peace,
Familiar Church and private State!
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Since first the pencil-plan was made
And the deep under-stone was laid,
The fast foundation firm and strong,
Through slow processes, day by day,
While floors were fix'd and rafters hung,
Till now—the workmen pass'd away—
He wakes from slumber, blithe and young:
Behold, at last, his work is done!—
His house-in-air no longer dream,
Illumined by the morning gleam,
Transfigured by the rising sun!
II.
THE DWELLERS.
Come at Morning—you shall see
What a blissful company
Enter in the open door!
Children, children, evermore,
Dancing, singing, laughing, play,
Making merry holiday—
Happy faces, garments gay!—
Introducing Fairy-land,
Back to barren desert sand
Bringing flowers flown from earth:
The long coming-in of Birth!
What a blissful company
Enter in the open door!
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Dancing, singing, laughing, play,
Making merry holiday—
Happy faces, garments gay!—
Introducing Fairy-land,
Back to barren desert sand
Bringing flowers flown from earth:
The long coming-in of Birth!
Come at Midnight—you shall see
What a ghostly company
Pass from out the open door!
Old men, old men, evermore,
Wrinkled, dusty, travel-spent,
Burden-bearers bow'd and bent,
Songless, sighing, halting, slow,
In funereal garments go,
But, upon the threshold, lo!
Sudden children, vanish there,
Lost in light and lifting air,
Beautiful with blissful breath:
The long going-forth of Death!
What a ghostly company
Pass from out the open door!
Old men, old men, evermore,
Wrinkled, dusty, travel-spent,
Burden-bearers bow'd and bent,
Songless, sighing, halting, slow,
In funereal garments go,
But, upon the threshold, lo!
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Lost in light and lifting air,
Beautiful with blissful breath:
The long going-forth of Death!
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THE PEACH-BLOSSOMS.
SENT TO ME IN THE CITY, WITH THE WORDS, “IT IS SPRING.”
It was a gentle gift to send,
This thought in blossoms from a friend:
Within my city room
I seem to breathe the country air,
While April's kisses every-where
Start Earth's brown cheeks to bloom!
This thought in blossoms from a friend:
Within my city room
I seem to breathe the country air,
While April's kisses every-where
Start Earth's brown cheeks to bloom!
Oh, beautiful the welcome sight!
(Flushing my paper as I write,
My words seem blossoming!)—
The lovely lighted snow that falls
Rosy around the cottage walls,
A miracle of Spring!
(Flushing my paper as I write,
My words seem blossoming!)—
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Rosy around the cottage walls,
A miracle of Spring!
Dream-like, I hear the sunny hum
Of swarming bees; low voices come
Familiar, close, and dear:
I hardly know if I am there,
Or, shutting out the noisy air,
Those birds are singing here!
Of swarming bees; low voices come
Familiar, close, and dear:
I hardly know if I am there,
Or, shutting out the noisy air,
Those birds are singing here!
To the dry city's restless heart
What tender influence ye impart,
My blossoms, soft and wild!
Ah! from this barren cell I feel
Your subtle wand, enchanting, steal
Me to the Past—a child!
What tender influence ye impart,
My blossoms, soft and wild!
Ah! from this barren cell I feel
Your subtle wand, enchanting, steal
Me to the Past—a child!
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A child whose laughter-lighted face
Breaks from some happy door, a-chase
For new-wing'd butterflies:
The wind, how merrily, takes his hair!—
Sing, birds, and keep him ever there
With world-forgetting eyes!
Breaks from some happy door, a-chase
For new-wing'd butterflies:
The wind, how merrily, takes his hair!—
Sing, birds, and keep him ever there
With world-forgetting eyes!
Most gracious miracle of Spring
That gives the dead tree, blossoming,
Its resurrection hour!
Lo! Memory lifts her wizard bough,
(That seem'd as bare and barren,) now
Within my soul, in flower!
That gives the dead tree, blossoming,
Its resurrection hour!
Lo! Memory lifts her wizard bough,
(That seem'd as bare and barren,) now
Within my soul, in flower!
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APPLE-GATHERING.
The beautiful apples, so golden and mellow,
They will fall at a kiss of the breeze,
While it breathes through the foliage frosty and yellow
And the sunshine is filling the trees!
Though high in the light wind they gladly would linger
On the boughs where their blossoms were found,
Yet they drop at a breath, at the touch of a finger
They shatter their cores on the ground!
They will fall at a kiss of the breeze,
While it breathes through the foliage frosty and yellow
And the sunshine is filling the trees!
Though high in the light wind they gladly would linger
On the boughs where their blossoms were found,
Yet they drop at a breath, at the touch of a finger
They shatter their cores on the ground!
Through the morn of October while Autumn is trying
With all things to make-believe Spring,
How the leaves of the orchard around us are flying!—
The heavens with jubilee ring!
The ladders in breezes of sunshine are swinging,
The farmer-boys gladden and climb:
To gather the fruit they are swaying and singing—
Glad hearts to glad voices keep time!
With all things to make-believe Spring,
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The heavens with jubilee ring!
The ladders in breezes of sunshine are swinging,
The farmer-boys gladden and climb:
To gather the fruit they are swaying and singing—
Glad hearts to glad voices keep time!
Far down the bright air they are happy to listen
To the noise of the mill and the flail,
And the waters that laugh as they leap and they glisten
From the dam that is lighting the vale!
The wild flutter of bells that so dreamily rises
From glades where the cows wander slow,
And the laughter of faces in childish surprises
When the wind flings an apple below!
To the noise of the mill and the flail,
And the waters that laugh as they leap and they glisten
From the dam that is lighting the vale!
The wild flutter of bells that so dreamily rises
From glades where the cows wander slow,
And the laughter of faces in childish surprises
When the wind flings an apple below!
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Oh, see! in the trees that are drinking the splendor,
How the gladness of boyhood is seen!—
How they shake all the branches so windy and slender,
And a quick golden rain is between!
High and higher they climb, till the grasses are cover'd
With the fruits that were sweet April flowers,
And the yellowing leaves that all over them hover'd
Flutter down with the apples in showers!
How the gladness of boyhood is seen!—
How they shake all the branches so windy and slender,
And a quick golden rain is between!
High and higher they climb, till the grasses are cover'd
With the fruits that were sweet April flowers,
And the yellowing leaves that all over them hover'd
Flutter down with the apples in showers!
The harvests are garner'd, the meadows are burning,
At sunset, in golden and brown;
The apples are gather'd, the wagons returning:
The Winter may bluster and frown!
The blind-drifting snows may make barren the even,
Dark twilights may shiver with rain;
But the apples and cider by Summer are given—
Give Winter to Summer again!
At sunset, in golden and brown;
The apples are gather'd, the wagons returning:
The Winter may bluster and frown!
The blind-drifting snows may make barren the even,
Dark twilights may shiver with rain;
But the apples and cider by Summer are given—
Give Winter to Summer again!
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CÆSAR SALUTED.
[JULY, 1870.]
Cæsar, morituri te salutant.”
[From the German of Albert Traeger.]
Is it enough, now? Nations into strife
To goad, your cloudy soul has ponder'd long;
The Slaughterers you have bidden whet the knife.
The Cæsar nods, and rages his wild throng.
But while they nod to you with their hot cries,
The Dying, to the arena who move fast,
Look you, and see the pallid Ghosts arise,
That stern and solemn gather, hurrying past!
Do you not know them—feel no sting at last?—
“Cæsar, the Dead salute you.”
To goad, your cloudy soul has ponder'd long;
The Slaughterers you have bidden whet the knife.
The Cæsar nods, and rages his wild throng.
But while they nod to you with their hot cries,
The Dying, to the arena who move fast,
Look you, and see the pallid Ghosts arise,
That stern and solemn gather, hurrying past!
Do you not know them—feel no sting at last?—
“Cæsar, the Dead salute you.”
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Where gay-cheek'd Vice her pleasure-house has set
For over-feasts of Horror, there erewhile
Shatter'd they lay upon the pavement, yet
Keeping the oath you swore to with a smile:
First victims to the death-tools, ever more
Your wit has tried to perfect: there lay still
In bloody blouse and the red cap, you wore
Yourself to court the Republic in until
The Butcher, silent, on them crept to kill—
“Cæsar, the Dead salute you.”
For over-feasts of Horror, there erewhile
Shatter'd they lay upon the pavement, yet
Keeping the oath you swore to with a smile:
First victims to the death-tools, ever more
Your wit has tried to perfect: there lay still
In bloody blouse and the red cap, you wore
Yourself to court the Republic in until
The Butcher, silent, on them crept to kill—
“Cæsar, the Dead salute you.”
Those, too, who did not win the bright, quick death
Of heroes, sword in hand and smile on face—
In Cayenne's fever-swamps who spent their breath,
With that dry guillotine dying apace;
Those who in prisons linger'd till the chain
Dropp'd but with life away; those who, outworn
With sharp, home-longing, ever-gnawing pain,
Saw their last light in exile-lands, forlorn;
Hair-blanch'd with grief, those left at home to mourn—
“Cæsar, the Dead salute you.”
Of heroes, sword in hand and smile on face—
In Cayenne's fever-swamps who spent their breath,
With that dry guillotine dying apace;
Those who in prisons linger'd till the chain
Dropp'd but with life away; those who, outworn
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Saw their last light in exile-lands, forlorn;
Hair-blanch'd with grief, those left at home to mourn—
“Cæsar, the Dead salute you.”
And, see, these come with open wounds, who chose
After your eagles' flights to follow, these
Whose days found in your battles early close—
To whom you said: “The Empire, it is Peace;”
For Liberty, you promised, to each fight
You led them: when their blood gave victory,
With scornful smile, after your triumph-light,
You dug another grave for Liberty,
So that the earth a graveyard seem'd to be—
“Cæsar, the Dead salute you.”
After your eagles' flights to follow, these
Whose days found in your battles early close—
To whom you said: “The Empire, it is Peace;”
For Liberty, you promised, to each fight
You led them: when their blood gave victory,
With scornful smile, after your triumph-light,
You dug another grave for Liberty,
So that the earth a graveyard seem'd to be—
“Cæsar, the Dead salute you.”
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From the Black Sea they rise and gather round;
Out of the Italian plains the Sleepers wake,
Who, freed by you, then saw their native ground
The after-burden of your armies take;
And those sent far across the Atlantic tide
To meet in Mexico their fatal blight,
There where a second time your sword was tried
At the Republic with malignant spite,
And where your star first lost its early light—
“Cæsar, the Dead salute you.”
Out of the Italian plains the Sleepers wake,
Who, freed by you, then saw their native ground
The after-burden of your armies take;
And those sent far across the Atlantic tide
To meet in Mexico their fatal blight,
There where a second time your sword was tried
At the Republic with malignant spite,
And where your star first lost its early light—
“Cæsar, the Dead salute you.”
From out his Tomb is risen another wraith—
(Rest in the Invalides he finds no more:)
The German war-cry, “Victory or Death!”
Has proved his sign of ruin once before;
In his gray cloak and the little hat he stands
Ready for march, the Ancestor of your reign,
But no war-fire his hollow eye commands:
Backward his finger points to St. Helene,
As if he sigh'd that still grave to regain—
“Cæsar, the Dead salute you.”
(Rest in the Invalides he finds no more:)
The German war-cry, “Victory or Death!”
Has proved his sign of ruin once before;
In his gray cloak and the little hat he stands
Ready for march, the Ancestor of your reign,
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Backward his finger points to St. Helene,
As if he sigh'd that still grave to regain—
“Cæsar, the Dead salute you.”
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IF.
Strong little Monosyllable betweenDesire and joy, between the hand and heart
Of all our longing; dreary death's-head seen
Ere our quick lips to touch the nectar part!
O giant dwarf, making the whole world cling
To thy cold arm before the infant feet
Of frail resolves can walk, man-like, complete,
Steep mountain-roads of high accomplishing!
Dim dragon in the way of our designing,
No Red-Cross Knight may vanquish! Though most brave,
Strong Will before thee crouches, a mute slave—
Faith dies to feel thee in her path declining!
If! thou dost seem to our poor human sense
The broken crutch of our blind providence!
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LONG AGO.
Though for the soul a lovely Heaven awaits,
Through years of woe,
The Paradise with angels in its gates
Is Long Ago.
Through years of woe,
The Paradise with angels in its gates
Is Long Ago.
The heart's lost Home! Ah, thither winging ever
In silence, show
Vanishing faces!—but they vanish never
In Long Ago!
In silence, show
Vanishing faces!—but they vanish never
In Long Ago!
Ye toil'd through desert sands to reach To-morrow,
With footsteps slow,
Poor Yesterdays!—Immortal gleams ye borrow
In Long Ago.
With footsteps slow,
Poor Yesterdays!—Immortal gleams ye borrow
In Long Ago.
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The world is dark: backward our thoughts are yearning,
Our eyes o'erflow:
Sweet Memories, angels to our tears returning,
Leave Long Ago.
Our eyes o'erflow:
Sweet Memories, angels to our tears returning,
Leave Long Ago.
We climb: child-roses to our knees are climbing,
From valleys low;
To call us back, dear birds and brooks are rhyming
In Long Ago.
From valleys low;
To call us back, dear birds and brooks are rhyming
In Long Ago.
Hands clasp'd, tears shed, sad songs are sung!—the fair,
Beloved ones, lo!
Shine yonder, through the angel-gates of air,
In Long Ago!
Beloved ones, lo!
Shine yonder, through the angel-gates of air,
In Long Ago!
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THE NEW COMING.
She comes again! She comes again! On the new earth once more!
The children sweet, they meet and greet and pull her to the door!
The children sweet, they meet and greet and pull her to the door!
Blithe maiden, dancing home her song! Oh, echoes sad, depart!
Her smile's the key in every door of the prison of the heart!
Her smile's the key in every door of the prison of the heart!
All things remember, seeing her—her traveling choir the birds!
What singing in the sunshine, and what lowing of the herds!
What singing in the sunshine, and what lowing of the herds!
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The lambs, that only Winter knew, have like a garland bound her—
As if they knew her long ago, all gladdening dance around her!
As if they knew her long ago, all gladdening dance around her!
The trees she only looks upon—green leaves begin to grow!
The orchard blushes! It is snow?—but oh! how fragrant snow!
The orchard blushes! It is snow?—but oh! how fragrant snow!
All things are in the sunny air, whate'er can learn to fly;
The very worm has brighest wings—in its heaven, the butterfly!
The very worm has brighest wings—in its heaven, the butterfly!
The Spring! The Spring! She is here again—her train the gentlest hours!
And the last of the snow, she is smiling so, forgets it was not—flowers!
And the last of the snow, she is smiling so, forgets it was not—flowers!
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CARPE DIEM.
To-day I can not choose but share
The indolence of earth and air;
In dreamful languor lying,
I see, like thistle-flowers that sail
Adown some hazed autumnal vale,
The Hours to Lethé flying.
The indolence of earth and air;
In dreamful languor lying,
I see, like thistle-flowers that sail
Adown some hazed autumnal vale,
The Hours to Lethé flying.
The hour-glass twinkles in the sun;
Unchanged its ceaseless course is run
Through ever-changeful weathers—
“Time flies,” its motto: 't is no crime,
I think, to pluck the wings of Time,
And sleep upon his feathers!
Unchanged its ceaseless course is run
Through ever-changeful weathers—
“Time flies,” its motto: 't is no crime,
I think, to pluck the wings of Time,
And sleep upon his feathers!
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SUNSHINE IN RAIN.
The rain darkles down over woodland and town,
The clouds are all hid in the gray of the rain;
The wind creeps out of the mist in the meadow,
And beats the wet rose at the pane.
The clouds are all hid in the gray of the rain;
The wind creeps out of the mist in the meadow,
And beats the wet rose at the pane.
On the honeysuckle porch in the shadow
The little child lightens the darken'd floor;
He claps at the storm with his happy hands,
He laughs at the thunder's roar!
The little child lightens the darken'd floor;
He claps at the storm with his happy hands,
He laughs at the thunder's roar!
Ah, why is he glad while the meadows are sad,
And our voices are lower'd in graver replies?
But so many rainbows spring up o'er the storm
From his heart to his merry eyes!
And our voices are lower'd in graver replies?
But so many rainbows spring up o'er the storm
From his heart to his merry eyes!
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BREVIA.
KEEPING A ROSE'S COMPANY.—A PERSIAN FABLE.
A traveler, toiling on a weary way,Found in his path a piece of fragrant clay.
“This seems but common earth,” says he, “but how
Delightful!—it is full of sweetness now!
Whence is thy fragrance?” From the clay there grows
A voice: “I have been very near a rose.”
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FOR ---.
If poor the words I breathe you,Oh, magic be their power!—
What lovely wreaths shall wreathe you
If wishes come to flower!
POPULARITY AND FAME.
I.
Post-haste one flies—at noisy inns she gossips on the way,Where staring boys applaud and shout, and men in liveries gay:
Her business is in yonder town, her journey lasts to-day.
II.
One travels slow—at first her inns are houses for the poor;85
To the world's end she journeys on, her road is evermore.
WINTER SUNSET.
The winter day is done:From early morn blown over restless crowds
Of slow-advancing clouds,
With chilly, azure-lighted intervals,
Now—large and low, beneath their lifted vail—
Breathlessly bright! the sun
Against the eastern distance falls,
Reddening the far forests, empty and cold,
Whence the dumb river draws its icy trail
Through valley-farms the barren hills enfold,
And on the slope, under the spark-like spire,
The village windows shiver, all afire!
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FOR SCULPTURE.
Lo, sleep binds over the weary angel Life,Whose globe, his care, turns idly from his hand,
With all its continents of toil and strife,
With all its tossing seas and shifting sand!
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TASKING THE MUSE.
Thy housekeeper the goddess will not be—Make task-work for the Muse and she will fly;
Her gift of love is in her liberty:
But, close thy door—then she is in her sky!
WITH SOME OLD LETTERS.
Old lips that speak no more I hear;Old vanish'd faces, brightening, come;
Old footsteps echo, strangely near,
From happy doors of Home!—
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Beat through Time's veins again in light;
I see warm hands, from loving hearts
Extended, while they write!
A DECEMBER NIGHT.
Listen!—the wind is crying, like a loonOn some far water, and the rising moon
Stands breathless on the snow! That wind!—it seems
A lost soul crying out in holy dreams,
The cry of some long unappeased despair
That has no human tongue—a soul in the air!
The flame drops into ember-breathing gloom;
Glimmers of shadow walk around the room,
Great shapeless shapes, a shuddering moment plain,
As the flame drops, then vanishing again!
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NEW FLIGHTS.
How glad yet sad is he whom gods have given,With wings that lift him ever toward their Heaven,
The sight that looks beyond the farthest star
And sees, each higher flight, the Heaven more far!
FORMER SELF.
Life's task-work comes, after our youthful dreams,And we forget in drudgeries of earth
Those bodily wings that took our dreams to Heaven,
Now heavy-drooping, soil'd, invisible,
Unlifted and unconscious by our sides.
Yet there are times when we remember them,
And vaguely feel their old and buoyant power
And dream its restoration suddenly,
But for a moment only—dropping down
We recognize the vanish'd angelhood,
Care-burden'd men whose footprints pass in dust.
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SNOW-FALLING.
The wonderful Snow is falling,
Over river and woodland and wold;
The trees bear spectral blossom
In the moonshine blurr'd and cold.
Over river and woodland and wold;
The trees bear spectral blossom
In the moonshine blurr'd and cold.
There 's a beautiful garden in Heaven;
And these are the banish'd flowers,
Falling and driven and drifted
Into this dark world of ours!
And these are the banish'd flowers,
Falling and driven and drifted
Into this dark world of ours!
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HALF-DREAMING.
TO ---, IN ABSENCE.
They come, in long procession rise beforeMy wakeful sight, most gentle thoughts of thee
And of thy love, the dearest dream to me
That ever grew dear truth for evermore;
And as a child in his still bed—the door
Half-open where his mother's light may be
A comfort to his lonely sense when he,
Though waking, feels warm slumber reach the core
Of his fresh spirit—drops his lids at last
To visit Fairyland, and numberless
Lithe shadows pass and shapes created fast,
Charming him till he sleeps, and are his dream:
So, while I wake in home-sick dreaminess,
My thoughts of thee through dreamful visions gleam.
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BEARERS OF THE WORLD.
I thought of that grave Fable of the Past,
World-shouldering Atlas, and I slept at noon.
World-shouldering Atlas, and I slept at noon.
Then wandering shadows, wavering out of dreams,
(From men once sweating in the sun,) I saw,
Stooping and groaning, pass—like those beheld
In Purgatory by the Florentine,
Bow'd down with penance. And these utter'd cries
Of sharp complaint continuous, wailing blind
At the deaf Providence that would not see
Nor lift their woful burdens. Each one cried:
“Most wretched Atlas, for I bear the world!”
And vanish'd in some barren space of sand.
Then others follow'd—burden'd like to those
That pass'd before lamenting—crown'd with peace,
Silent with dews of patience in their breasts,
Or with long sorrows hush'd on prayerful lips,
Or cheerful-brow'd, with forward-looking smiles
Of tender welcome for the wayside friends
By Nature sent to meet them—flower, and bird,
And tree, and fountain-head, and dancing brook;
And some with eyes uplifted came, like him
Who dropp'd his pack at the Celestial Gate,
White with the years and wayworn with the dust.
And each one, leaning onward ever, said:
“Most happy Atlas, for I bear the world!”—
Vanishing in the gateways of a Land
Green with the pastures of a Paradise.
(From men once sweating in the sun,) I saw,
Stooping and groaning, pass—like those beheld
In Purgatory by the Florentine,
Bow'd down with penance. And these utter'd cries
Of sharp complaint continuous, wailing blind
At the deaf Providence that would not see
Nor lift their woful burdens. Each one cried:
“Most wretched Atlas, for I bear the world!”
And vanish'd in some barren space of sand.
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That pass'd before lamenting—crown'd with peace,
Silent with dews of patience in their breasts,
Or with long sorrows hush'd on prayerful lips,
Or cheerful-brow'd, with forward-looking smiles
Of tender welcome for the wayside friends
By Nature sent to meet them—flower, and bird,
And tree, and fountain-head, and dancing brook;
And some with eyes uplifted came, like him
Who dropp'd his pack at the Celestial Gate,
White with the years and wayworn with the dust.
And each one, leaning onward ever, said:
“Most happy Atlas, for I bear the world!”—
Vanishing in the gateways of a Land
Green with the pastures of a Paradise.
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AFTERWARD.
No more? Through all the years to meet
No more? No more! Alas, no more!
I pray thy lips may smile as sweet—
Unblest, I bless thee as before;
In solitudes of men apart
My life's blind flowers for their dawn
Shall grope and climb—into thy heart;
And grow—in dreams of sunshine gone!
No more? No more! Alas, no more!
I pray thy lips may smile as sweet—
Unblest, I bless thee as before;
In solitudes of men apart
My life's blind flowers for their dawn
Shall grope and climb—into thy heart;
And grow—in dreams of sunshine gone!
No more? Through all the years to meet
No more? No more! Alas, no more!
The tide that in my heart has beat
May ebb, but still must haunt the shore
And leave vague shells of thought to lie
And murmur evermore of thee;
On barren sand, until I die,
The tide-mark of my love shall be.
No more? No more! Alas, no more!
The tide that in my heart has beat
May ebb, but still must haunt the shore
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And murmur evermore of thee;
On barren sand, until I die,
The tide-mark of my love shall be.
No more? Through all the years to meet
No more? No more! Alas, no more!
Yet oft from embers, strange and sweet,
Shall start the flame so sweet before.
Again thy face I may not see,
But still thy spirit in mine shall rise;
The violets over graves shall be,
And from their souls shall look thine eyes.
No more? No more! Alas, no more!
Yet oft from embers, strange and sweet,
Shall start the flame so sweet before.
Again thy face I may not see,
But still thy spirit in mine shall rise;
The violets over graves shall be,
And from their souls shall look thine eyes.
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TRANSFIGURATION.
[CHARLESTOWN, VA., DEC. 2, 1859. WASHINGTON, D. C., DEC. 2, 1863. ]
Four years ago the Savior of the Slave
Took in his strong, brave arms a slave-born child—
Ere from the gallows to the martyr's grave
He pass'd—with manly blessing, deep and mild.
Took in his strong, brave arms a slave-born child—
Ere from the gallows to the martyr's grave
He pass'd—with manly blessing, deep and mild.
O Land, however strong, too weak to do
Such office then! Like Christopher of old,
In that poor child the lifted Christ he knew,
The great bond-breaker in his human hold!
Such office then! Like Christopher of old,
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The great bond-breaker in his human hold!
O humbled Nation! To thy proudest place
Thou liftest yonder shape of Freedom now,
Where Morning shall be quick to see her face,
And Eve to touch with dew her sacred brow!
Thou liftest yonder shape of Freedom now,
Where Morning shall be quick to see her face,
And Eve to touch with dew her sacred brow!
But he who seeks the soul within the form
In that bright shape shall see another sight:
A gray old man, holding, in calm or storm,
The unfetter'd child forever in the light!
In that bright shape shall see another sight:
A gray old man, holding, in calm or storm,
The unfetter'd child forever in the light!
It seemed a suggestive coincidence, that Crawford's Statue of Freedom (the work of putting which in bronze was said to have been executed by negroes who were, or had been, slaves in the employ of Clark Mills) was raised to its position on the dome of the National Capitol on the anniversary of the execution at Charlestown, four years previous, and at the same hour of the day.
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TWO WATCHERS.
Two ships sail on the ocean;
Two watchers walk the shore:
One wrings wild hands and cries,
“Farewell for evermore.”
Two watchers walk the shore:
One wrings wild hands and cries,
“Farewell for evermore.”
One sees, with face uplifted,
(Soft homes of dream her eyes,)
Her sail, beyond the horizon,
Reflected in the skies!
(Soft homes of dream her eyes,)
Her sail, beyond the horizon,
Reflected in the skies!
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A MAN'S VOTE.
[NOVEMBER, 1864.]
Go down into the ballot-box—from no unconscious hand—
And, rising on the morrow morn, ring out through all the Land!
Go down into the ballot-box, my single vote, tonight:
Ring with a myriad, single-voiced, abroad in morning light!
And, rising on the morrow morn, ring out through all the Land!
Go down into the ballot-box, my single vote, tonight:
Ring with a myriad, single-voiced, abroad in morning light!
Go down into the ballot-box, a righteous vote and true—
No patriot's blood shall wasted seem, no bondman's dream, for you!
Go down into the ballot-box, unheard, unfelt, unknown:
You shall be heard and felt and seen—the Day for you'll be shown!
No patriot's blood shall wasted seem, no bondman's dream, for you!
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You shall be heard and felt and seen—the Day for you'll be shown!
If all the morn I held you fast, in silence and apart,
It matters not, O vote, you know I kept you in my heart!
Go down into the ballot-box—for Right at any cost;
And, what though last?—the polls are closed—thank God, you are not lost!
It matters not, O vote, you know I kept you in my heart!
Go down into the ballot-box—for Right at any cost;
And, what though last?—the polls are closed—thank God, you are not lost!
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PARTING AND MEETING.
O wings of parting, heavy!
O wings of meeting, light!
We part—the shadows hover;
We meet—the world is bright!
O wings of meeting, light!
We part—the shadows hover;
We meet—the world is bright!
We part—the birds at sunset
Fold round their songs their wings;
We meet—the sun arises,
The lark in Heaven sings!
Fold round their songs their wings;
We meet—the sun arises,
The lark in Heaven sings!
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A ROSE'S JOURNEY.
Haste on your gentle journey, sent
To sweetest goal flower ever went:
Ah me, that can not follow close—
But my heart runs before you, rose!
To sweetest goal flower ever went:
Ah me, that can not follow close—
But my heart runs before you, rose!
O happy rose, I envy you—
But sweetness makes such sweet grace due:
First to her lips one moment press'd—
Then your long Heaven on her dear breast!
But sweetness makes such sweet grace due:
First to her lips one moment press'd—
Then your long Heaven on her dear breast!
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TWO RETURNS.
Last night I found your gentle face
Within the household air you bless;
The gather'd rays of happiness
Touch'd all things in the hearth-warm'd place.
Within the household air you bless;
The gather'd rays of happiness
Touch'd all things in the hearth-warm'd place.
Last night I dream'd a weird, sad dream:
The moonrise shiver'd through the trees,
With a low-moaning autumn breeze,
And fleck'd the roof with ghostly gleam.
The moonrise shiver'd through the trees,
With a low-moaning autumn breeze,
And fleck'd the roof with ghostly gleam.
Through frost-furr'd rose-vines warmly cast,
Welcoming arms of household flame
Reach'd forth to meet me as I came
And clasp me in from all the Past.
Welcoming arms of household flame
Reach'd forth to meet me as I came
And clasp me in from all the Past.
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Glad voices made the walls alive
With murmur-music: loving sound
That even the world's far echoes found—
Lost bees of Love in Memory's hive!
With murmur-music: loving sound
That even the world's far echoes found—
Lost bees of Love in Memory's hive!
I paused, I listen'd: you were there!—
A moment and the wander'd years
Would melt in smiles or drown in tears,
And change would pass away in air!
A moment and the wander'd years
Would melt in smiles or drown in tears,
And change would pass away in air!
I knock'd: your footsteps lightly came,
And drew old music from my heart—
Oh, opening door! I stood apart:
Darkness!—no voice, no face, no flame!
And drew old music from my heart—
Oh, opening door! I stood apart:
Darkness!—no voice, no face, no flame!
No hurrying warmth of happy air,
Though the dear chimney rosily
Clasp'd close some lighted family:
You were not there, you were not there!
Though the dear chimney rosily
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You were not there, you were not there!
“The wind!” half-whisper'd some one. Then
The Summer shut the Winter out:
The startled child with eager shout
Climb'd mother-knees secure again!
The Summer shut the Winter out:
The startled child with eager shout
Climb'd mother-knees secure again!
The walls were glad with laugh and shout:
Returning young, and lithe and gay,
Who shiver'd there so old and gray?—
The Summer shut the Winter out.
Returning young, and lithe and gay,
Who shiver'd there so old and gray?—
The Summer shut the Winter out.
And where were you? Dead years replied,
Slow, one by one.
—Another tone,
The dream in blissful waking flown,
Gave back the happy-hearted tide!
Slow, one by one.
—Another tone,
The dream in blissful waking flown,
Gave back the happy-hearted tide!
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Snow warm'd to flowers by April air,
How brightly fell those dreadful years!
Lo, all my heart lay fresh in tears—
Your morning voice was on the stair!
How brightly fell those dreadful years!
Lo, all my heart lay fresh in tears—
Your morning voice was on the stair!
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TO THE STATUE ON THE CAPITOL:
LOOKING EASTWARD AT DAWN.
What sunken splendor in the Eastern skies
Seest thou, O Watcher, from thy lifted place?—
Thine old Atlantic dream is in thine eyes,
But the new Western morning on thy face.
Seest thou, O Watcher, from thy lifted place?—
Thine old Atlantic dream is in thine eyes,
But the new Western morning on thy face.
Beholdest thou, in reäpparent light,
Thy lost Republics? They were visions, fled.
Their ghosts in ruin'd cities walk by night—
It is no resurrection of their dead.
Thy lost Republics? They were visions, fled.
Their ghosts in ruin'd cities walk by night—
It is no resurrection of their dead.
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But look, behind thee, where in sunshine lie
Thy boundless fields of harvest in the West,
Whose savage garments from thy shoulders fly,
Whose eagle clings in sunrise to thy crest!
Thy boundless fields of harvest in the West,
Whose savage garments from thy shoulders fly,
Whose eagle clings in sunrise to thy crest!
Washington, D. C.
112
IN MARCH.
Welcome, sweet Wind; you bring
A soul of Spring
From some far, fragrant rose,
That blows
In some dear, coming May, or half-forgotten Spring.
A soul of Spring
From some far, fragrant rose,
That blows
In some dear, coming May, or half-forgotten Spring.
Welcome, sweet Dream; you bear
Your wings of air
From some far isle of love—
A dove,
Flying with gentle bough from some far, lovelier air.
Your wings of air
From some far isle of love—
A dove,
Flying with gentle bough from some far, lovelier air.
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What though the sweet Wind knows
A vanish'd rose—
My dream the Past, alone,
Has known?—
Bloom from my heart, sweet dream; climb from my dream, sweet rose!
A vanish'd rose—
My dream the Past, alone,
Has known?—
Bloom from my heart, sweet dream; climb from my dream, sweet rose!
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