 | A few verses of many years |  |
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TO THE FRIENDS FOR WHOM IT HAS BEEN PRINTED I OFFER THIS LITTLE BOOK, NOT FOR ITS OWN WORTH BUT FOR FRIENDSHIP'S SAKE.
Cambridge,
Christmas, 1887.
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TO A FRIEND WITH SOME VERSES.
By
cliff and stream and mountain pass
Together we have wandered
And looked on Nature's beauteous face
And her high mysteries pondered;
And still some bud or leaf or spray
Or red wild-rose we'd gather
In memory of the charming scene,
Or day of lovely weather.
Together we have wandered
And looked on Nature's beauteous face
And her high mysteries pondered;
And still some bud or leaf or spray
Or red wild-rose we'd gather
In memory of the charming scene,
Or day of lovely weather.
So, on life's path from time to time
Some fair experience staying,
I 've thrown the feeling into rhyme
To keep it undecaying.
And now for you within these leaves
I these wild-roses pressing
Hope that some fragrance you may find,
Some sweet perennial blessing.
Some fair experience staying,
I 've thrown the feeling into rhyme
To keep it undecaying.
And now for you within these leaves
I these wild-roses pressing
Hope that some fragrance you may find,
Some sweet perennial blessing.
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THE HOMESTEAD.
Home of my fathers! once again
I stand beneath the shade
Of those ancestral trees where once
A dreamy child I played.
Those ancient elms still o'er thy roof
Their sheltering branches spread;
But they who loved their pleasant shade
In heavenly places tread.
I stand beneath the shade
Of those ancestral trees where once
A dreamy child I played.
Those ancient elms still o'er thy roof
Their sheltering branches spread;
But they who loved their pleasant shade
In heavenly places tread.
No longer at the window now
Their friendly glance I catch,
No longer hear, as I approach,
The sound of lifted latch;
The ready hand which once threw wide
The hospitable door—
I know its warm and hearty grasp
Shall answer mine no more.
Their friendly glance I catch,
No longer hear, as I approach,
The sound of lifted latch;
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The hospitable door—
I know its warm and hearty grasp
Shall answer mine no more.
The red rose by the window still
Blooms brightly as of old;
The woodbines still around the door
Their shining leaves unfold;
The pale syringa scents the air
Through the long summer hours;
But ah! the old beloved hands
No longer pluck their flowers.
Blooms brightly as of old;
The woodbines still around the door
Their shining leaves unfold;
The pale syringa scents the air
Through the long summer hours;
But ah! the old beloved hands
No longer pluck their flowers.
I wander where the little brook
Still keeps its tranquil flow.
Where blooms the crimson cardinal,
And golden lilies glow;
Or, crossing o'er the wooden bridge,
I loiter on my way
To watch where in the sunny depths
The darting minnows play.
Still keeps its tranquil flow.
Where blooms the crimson cardinal,
And golden lilies glow;
Or, crossing o'er the wooden bridge,
I loiter on my way
To watch where in the sunny depths
The darting minnows play.
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That little bridge, the vine-clad elms
That guarded either end,—
Oh, with that spot how many dreams,
How many memories, blend!
When summer suns at morning kissed
The dew from grass and flower,
I 've wandered there; and lingered long
At evening's holy hour.
That guarded either end,—
Oh, with that spot how many dreams,
How many memories, blend!
When summer suns at morning kissed
The dew from grass and flower,
I 've wandered there; and lingered long
At evening's holy hour.
Still as each spring returns those trees
Put on their garments green;
And still in summer hues arrayed
Those blooming flowers are seen;
And when the autumn winds come down
To wrestle with the wood,
The gold and crimson leaves are shed
To float along the flood.
Put on their garments green;
And still in summer hues arrayed
Those blooming flowers are seen;
And when the autumn winds come down
To wrestle with the wood,
The gold and crimson leaves are shed
To float along the flood.
Thus seasons pass, and year on year
Follows with ceaseless pace;
Though all things human change or die,
Unchanged is Nature's face.
Yet, when these well-remembered scenes
Before my vision glide,
I feel that they who made them fair
No more are by my side.
Follows with ceaseless pace;
Though all things human change or die,
Unchanged is Nature's face.
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Before my vision glide,
I feel that they who made them fair
No more are by my side.
And one there was—now distant far—
Who shared my childish plays,
With whom I roamed in deeper joy
In boyhood's thoughtful days.
Dear cousin, round thine early home
When truant memory
Lingers in dreams of fond regret,
Dost thou e'er think of me?
Who shared my childish plays,
With whom I roamed in deeper joy
In boyhood's thoughtful days.
Dear cousin, round thine early home
When truant memory
Lingers in dreams of fond regret,
Dost thou e'er think of me?
Gorham, 1839.
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EVENING LAMPS.
The trees stand dim along the bank,
In the sky float purple clouds;
Inverted in the stream below,
Dim trees and purple clouds!
In the sky float purple clouds;
Inverted in the stream below,
Dim trees and purple clouds!
Out from the gray and dusky shore
A single lamp now gleams,
And, trembling far upon the tide,
Its red reflection streams.
A single lamp now gleams,
And, trembling far upon the tide,
Its red reflection streams.
No other light is kindled yet
On the earth, or near or far,
And but one lamp in heaven is set,—
The holy evening star.
On the earth, or near or far,
And but one lamp in heaven is set,—
The holy evening star.
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Soon shall be lighted other lamps,
From every window burn;
And the laborers, guided by their rays,
Shall homeward gladly turn.
From every window burn;
And the laborers, guided by their rays,
Shall homeward gladly turn.
Soon, too, shall countless lamps, God-lighted,
In the high heavens gleam,
And the traveller, on his way benighted,
Shall bless their holy beam.
In the high heavens gleam,
And the traveller, on his way benighted,
Shall bless their holy beam.
Cambridge, 1839.
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MY BOOKS.
I am a monarch, though my realm is small;Four narrow walls contain my kingdom all.
Yet, low as is my state,
No royal potentate
Hath wider power than I:
Like the Olympian god
I do but give the nod,
And far and wide my messengers do fly,
To bring me goodly company
Lest I should be alone.
Earth's wisest, noblest, saintliest, and most great
Do, at their bidding, wait
Around my throne,
And lay their treasures at my feet.
If I but stretch my hand
At once I see
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Sages before me stand,
Teachers from every land;
The orators unseal their golden tongues,
The poets greet me with their sweetest songs,
Earth's choicest inspirations are for me.
Such is my throne,
Such my dominion,
While I sit here, alone!
Cambridge, 1842.
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SONG FOR THE φ. β. κ. DINNER.
Drink, weary traveller, drink and pray
For the poor soul of Sybil Grey,
Who built this cross and well.
Marmion.
For the poor soul of Sybil Grey,
Who built this cross and well.
Marmion.
The pilgrim oft in days of old
Paused on his weary road
Where, guarded by its rude-hewn cross,
The fountain's current flowed:
And as upon the sparkling stream
His eye delighted fell,
He blessed in prayer the name of him
Who built the cross and well.
Paused on his weary road
Where, guarded by its rude-hewn cross,
The fountain's current flowed:
And as upon the sparkling stream
His eye delighted fell,
He blessed in prayer the name of him
Who built the cross and well.
We in our weary pilgrimage
Have turned aside to-day,
For thick upon our sandals lies
The dust of life's hot way.
We drink of Friendship's living wave
In Learning's sacred dell,
And bless in prayer the names of them
Who built this cross and well.
Have turned aside to-day,
For thick upon our sandals lies
The dust of life's hot way.
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In Learning's sacred dell,
And bless in prayer the names of them
Who built this cross and well.
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MY ROOM.
I wish I could bring you here,
If only for a minute,
That you might see my room
And everything that is in it.
If only for a minute,
That you might see my room
And everything that is in it.
But as there are no carpets
In these degenerate days,
Like those in Arabian story
Which could take you from place to place,
In these degenerate days,
Like those in Arabian story
Which could take you from place to place,
I must try what my pen can do
As a sort of magic wand.
I'll describe to you the room,
And I hope you'll understand.
As a sort of magic wand.
I'll describe to you the room,
And I hope you'll understand.
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First and foremost, then, you must know
That it's up on the third floor
In old Massachusetts Hall
That's a hundred years old and more;
That it's up on the third floor
In old Massachusetts Hall
That's a hundred years old and more;
As I dare say you would think
If you saw those heavy beams
That go across the ceiling
Like so many broad seams.
If you saw those heavy beams
That go across the ceiling
Like so many broad seams.
But they are not beams of oak
With carvings rich and rare
And all grown black with age;—
I'm sure I wish they were.
With carvings rich and rare
And all grown black with age;—
I'm sure I wish they were.
Two windows are in the room,
Both on the northern side,—
Very pleasant to sit at in summer
When they are open wide;
Both on the northern side,—
Very pleasant to sit at in summer
When they are open wide;
And from them you look out
On the elms and the College Green;
To the left the barren Common
And the wide street are seen,
On the elms and the College Green;
To the left the barren Common
And the wide street are seen,
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And that modest little church,
So pleasant to the eye,
That was built by our English fathers
In the years so long gone by.
So pleasant to the eye,
That was built by our English fathers
In the years so long gone by.
And among the many elms
You see that noblest one,—
That grand old tree with its broad boughs
Once sheltered Washington.
You see that noblest one,—
That grand old tree with its broad boughs
Once sheltered Washington.
All this and more you may see
In the pleasant summer-tide;
But now it 's better within
By the cheerful fireside.
In the pleasant summer-tide;
But now it 's better within
By the cheerful fireside.
On the left, between the doors,
Opposite the fireplace,
You will see my greatest treasures
In that old-fashioned case.
Opposite the fireplace,
You will see my greatest treasures
In that old-fashioned case.
Yet my books are few enough,
And none of them are rare;
But you'll find some good old friends,
And perhaps some new ones there.
And none of them are rare;
But you'll find some good old friends,
And perhaps some new ones there.
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Upon the centre shelf
Are Shakspere's noble plays;
And some of the many poets
Who sing in our own days.
Are Shakspere's noble plays;
And some of the many poets
Who sing in our own days.
And there is glorious Milton
Whom suffering could not bow,
And melancholy Dante
With wrinkled cheek and brow.
Whom suffering could not bow,
And melancholy Dante
With wrinkled cheek and brow.
On the upper shelf is Schiller,—
Youth living in the man,—
And next the Greek tragedians;
Greek and Barbarian!
Youth living in the man,—
And next the Greek tragedians;
Greek and Barbarian!
And “visionary Coleridge,”
That German-English mind,—
Three volumes of his poems
And some prose works you'll find.
That German-English mind,—
Three volumes of his poems
And some prose works you'll find.
For philosophy, there 's Jouffroy,
A fair, clear-minded man,
And Benjamin Constant,
And much-abused Cousin.
A fair, clear-minded man,
And Benjamin Constant,
And much-abused Cousin.
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And now look at this ancient table
With its nicely inlaid top
And its prettily carved acorns;
Each drawer has its brass drop.
With its nicely inlaid top
And its prettily carved acorns;
Each drawer has its brass drop.
And near it the antique chair
So very prim and tall,
With its straight cane-woven back,
And the carved rose crowning all.
So very prim and tall,
With its straight cane-woven back,
And the carved rose crowning all.
How many a gray-haired man
Has rested in that chair;
How many a bright-eyed child
With softly curling hair!
Has rested in that chair;
How many a bright-eyed child
With softly curling hair!
Or some young loving mother,
With half-arrested breath,
Has sat and watched her darling
Slumbering into death.
With half-arrested breath,
Has sat and watched her darling
Slumbering into death.
But now I wish you were in it,
Dear heart, so true and fond!
You should be there, this minute,
If my pen were a magic wand.
Dear heart, so true and fond!
You should be there, this minute,
If my pen were a magic wand.
1842.
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ON LAKE SUNAPEE.
The summer night is wooing;
“Come, come,” the lake is suing;
With tender gleam,
With witching beam,
“Here am I,”
Cries the beckoning half-moon in the sky.
“Come, come,” the lake is suing;
With tender gleam,
With witching beam,
“Here am I,”
Cries the beckoning half-moon in the sky.
The boat impatient waiting,
Our hearts within dilating,
Away, away,
In the mimic day,—
You and I,
And the silver half-moon in the sky.
Our hearts within dilating,
Away, away,
In the mimic day,—
You and I,
And the silver half-moon in the sky.
From oar-blades, slowly dipping,
Fall drops in music slipping;
We are afloat
In charmèd boat,—
You and I,
And the magic half-moon in the sky!
Fall drops in music slipping;
We are afloat
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You and I,
And the magic half-moon in the sky!
For us the night wind's sighing,
The night-bird's soft replying;
The world 's our own,
We are alone,—
You and I,
And the silent half-moon in the sky.
The night-bird's soft replying;
The world 's our own,
We are alone,—
You and I,
And the silent half-moon in the sky.
And now, dissolved in dreaming,
The world is naught but seeming;
The shadowy woods
Reflect our moods,—
You and I,
And the dreamy half-moon in the sky.
The world is naught but seeming;
The shadowy woods
Reflect our moods,—
You and I,
And the dreamy half-moon in the sky.
Of time we take no noting,
Between the two worlds floating
Of soft ideal
And misty real,—
You and I,
And the mystic half-moon in the sky.
Between the two worlds floating
Of soft ideal
And misty real,—
You and I,
And the mystic half-moon in the sky.
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Our thoughts and feelings mingle,
We are not two, nor single;
Our spirits blend,
No word we send,—
You and I;
And the sinking half-moon leaves the sky!
We are not two, nor single;
Our spirits blend,
No word we send,—
You and I;
And the sinking half-moon leaves the sky!
1886.
| A few verses of many years | |