University of Virginia Library

I.
INVOCATION.

Spirit that dwellest in the opening flower,
And bathest in the morning's earliest dew,—
Thou that hast wings to hurry on the hour,
And makest that lovely which were else but true;
Yielding fresh odor for the hungering sense,
Teaching the zephyr mournful eloquence,
And, when he brings his worship to the rose,
That givest such heavenly sweetness to his tone,
That fancy straightway deems it music's own!
Come to me, spirit, from thy far domain—
Fain would I, with a tenderness like thine,
To her I love, of her I love, complain;
For she hath beckon'd me to seek her shrine,
Beholds me there, yet nothing heeds my pain.

II.
SYMPATHIES.

I will breathe music in the little bell
That cups this flower, until it takes a tone
For every feeling human heart has known;
Though hearts their secrets may not often tell,
Mine is the charm to win them: I will wake
Strains, which though new to men, they shall not fail
To tremble as they hear,—as an old tale,
Will with new joy the absent wanderer take,
Moving his spirit with a strange delight!
Love will I win from friendship—the old lure
Will I make new, and all the new secure;
And beauty never thence shall fade from sight!
Think not I mock thee—spells of higher power
Are gathered in the blue depths of this flower.

III.
TO THE SISTER OF MY FRIEND.

Sweet Lady! in the name of one no more,
Both of us loved and neither shall forget,
Make me thy brother,—though our hearts before,
Perchance, have never in communion met;
Give me thy gentle memories, though there be,
Between our forms some thousand miles of sea,
Wild tract and wasted desert:—let me still,
Whate'er the joy that warms me, or the thrill,
That tortures, and from which I may not flee,
Hold ever a sweet place within thy breast!
In this my spirit shall be more than bless'd—
And in my prayers,—if, haply, prayer of mine
Be not a wrong unto a soul like thine,—
There shall be blessings from the skies for thee.

IX.
SOLACE OF THE WOODS.

Woods, waters, have a charm to soothe thine ear,
When common sounds have vex'd it. When the day
Grows sultry, and the crowd is in thy way,
And working in thy soul much coil and care,—
Betake thee to the forests, in the shade
Of pines, and by the side of purling streams
That prattle all their secrets in their dreams,
Unconscious of a listener,—unafraid,—
Thy soul shall feel their freshening, and the truth
Of nature then, reviving in thy heart,
Shall bring thee the best feelings of thy youth,
When in all natural joys, thy joy had part,
Ere lucre and the narrowing toils of trade
Had turn'd thee to the thing thou wast not made.

XI.
FANCIES.

Here, on this bank of bruiséd violets,
That the crush'd odor comes from, lay thee down,
And listen to the silence, and leaves blown,
Until thy overtask'd, sad heart forgets
The sleepless struggle of yon busy town!
There, every passion sickens ere 'tis spent,
Here, others follow ere the first are done,
Each, like its fellow, meetly innocent,
Soul sweetening, and most easy to be won!
And woman!—thou shalt see her as at first,
When, on a bank like this, in Eden sleeping,
On sight of its lone habitant she burst,
Suddenly bright, as heavenly rainbow leaping,
From the retiring cloud where it was nurst.

XII.
THE WINDS.

These are God's blessed ministers, methinks,
These winds that whisper to the heart subdued,
So winningly, that still the sad ear drinks
Their messages of mercy, and the mood
Grows chaste and unresentful—while the blight
Passes from off the spirit that, but late,
Gloom'd with the gloomy progress of the night,
And spoke defiance to the will of fate.—
Comforts they bring with the submissive thought
That teaches, sorrow still is the best friend,
And moves to bless the chastener, that has brought
The heart to tremble and the knees to bend,—
Counselling that better hope, that born of fears,
Is nursed in trembling and baptised in tears.

XIV.
HARBOR BY MOONLIGHT.

The open sea before me, bathed in light,
As if it knew no tempest; the near shore
Crown'd with its fortresses, all green and bright,
As if 'twere safe from carnage ever more;
And woman on the ramparts; while below
Girlhood, and thoughtless children bound and play
As if their hearts, in one long holiday,
Had sweet assurance 'gainst to-morrow's wo:—
Afar, the queenly city, with her spires,
Articulate, in the moonlight,—that above,
Seems to look downward with intenser fires,
As wrapt in fancies near akin to love;
One star attends her which she cannot chide,
Meek as the virgin by the matron's side.

XV.
MEMORIES OF FANCY.

This fairy vision gladdens us no more,
As in our days of boyhood;—it is gone,
The glory which in fancy's eye it wore,
The crown of spiritual semblance it put on,—
The lustre and the holy tenderness,—
Appealing, as it were, to glimmering ties,
Of some past being, that we love not less,
Because beyond our memory's reach it lies.
And yet, even now, these mellow smiles of light,—
That sad and sinking star—these silent woods,
Sprinkled with gleams, that, as we gaze, take flight—
Wake strange, sad thoughts, and still superior moods,
And in the eyes that once they filled with joy,
Tears gather,—and the man is twice the boy!

XXIII.
VITALITY OF STATES.

Sudden, the mighty nation goes not down;—
There is no mortal fleetness in its fate:—
Time,—many omens—still anticipate
The peril that removes its iron crown,
And shakes its homes in ruins. Centuries
Fleet by in the long struggle; and great men
Rush, mounted, to the breach where victory lies,
And personal virtue brings us life again!
Were it not thus, my Country!—were this hope
Not ours,—the present were a fearful time;
Vainly we summon mighty hearts to cope
With thy oppressors,—vanity and crime—
These ride thee, as upon some noble beast,
The scoundrel jackal, hurrying to his feast.

XXIV.
HOME SERVICE.

Would we recal our virtues and our peace?
The ancient teraphim we must restore;
Bring back the household gods we loved of yore,
And bid our yearning for strange idols cease.
Our worship still is in the public way,—
Our altars are the market-place;—our prayer
Strives for meet welcome in our neighbor's ear,
And heaven affects us little while we pray.
We do not call on God but man to hear;—
Nor even on his affections;—we have lost
The sweet humility of our home desires
And flaunt in foreign fashions at rare cost;
Nor God our souls, nor man our hearts, inspires,
Nor aught that should to God or man be dear.

XXV.
PROMISE.

Another yet, and still another height,
And still the last most wearisome; but hark!
Comes not, like bless'd starlight through the dark,
Smiling with soft but most effectual light,
The confident look of hope, that cheers us still—
Mocks at the toilsome waste of wood and hill,
And with most sweet assurance of a joy,
That waits and beckons at the cottage door,
Takes off the oppressive toil, the day's annoy,
And teaches that the task will soon be o'er,—
Forgot in arms we love:—then, if we tell
Of the day's journey, wearisome and sad,
Twill be, in thanks and blessings, that so well
It ended,—in a night so bright and glad.

XXXII.
LIGHT WITHIN.

Not wholly dark the darkness! The shut eye
Is but an intimation to the soul,
That thenceforth spreads a wing without control,
And seeks its light in immortality;—
Beating its upward wing against the sky,
Impatient of the invisible, and still,
Catching such golden glimpses of the goal,
As make new pulses to emotion thrill,
And a new spirit waken;—though denied
Fruition of the promise, 'till that life,
Which now makes upward flight a thing of strife,
Yields to the better virtue in our gift;—
And we unclose an eye that makes us lift
Vans mighty, that must bear us far and wide.

XXXIII.
SAME SUBJECT.
[LIGHT WITHIN.]

And night is full of competence, and brings
A presence to the soul that fills the hour,
Else dark and vacant, with a native power,
Which clothes the common thought with mightiest wings;
And we sail on with fancy, and in pride,
To the dominion which is over earth;
And glorious spirits gather at our side,
And fill the teeming echoes with rare mirth,—
Hopes born of best affections—loving dreams,
That have no taint;—passions that still delight
In excellence, and virtue's better themes;—
That make all life one starlight to the sight—
A realm of sweet re-union with the blest,
Who leave their own to hallow thus our rest.

XXXV.
AMBITION.

Descend, ye dark brow'd ministers of thought,
Ye that are of the mountains! In your shapes,
Gigantic, I discern great shadows, wrought
Like those which to my eyes have risen unsought,
In midnight visions, and my soul escapes,
Joyful, triumphant,—borne aloft, along
Your gloomy dwellings of the crag, with song,
Whose thunder-tones have riven it, and yet roll,
Subsiding, o'er the steeps of each far hill,
That feels the ample voice and trembles still!
Descend, ye glorious phantoms, vast and strong!
Proud agents of the swift and sleepless soul,
Whose ceaseless longings, not to be control'd,
Toil for the mighty eminence ye hold.

XXXV.
[AMBITION.]
ITS DANGERS.

Yet, is there danger, if, in that wild flight,
That tongue forgets the spell-word! If the soul
Sinks in its terrors, and the aching sight
Grows dim and dizzy,—while the thunders roll,
And the clouds thicken! Bitter is the mock
Of those dark spirits, bred of elements,
That revel in the tempest, love its shock,
And glory in the extreme and the intense!
Hurl'd from their pinions down the eminence,
They flout the impotent spirit that would dare
Invoke the slaves it could not sway—assume
The wand of power that, waved aloft, would scare
The soul of its usurper! Dread the doom,
If heart, and voice, and eye, fail in that hour of gloom!

XXXVI.
SAME SUBJECT.
[AMBITION. ITS DANGERS.]

And yet, to perish were the kindlier fate,
For one thus feebly striving. Not to die,
Leaves him a puny clamorer for the state,
Denied forever,—evermore too high;
The scorn of all who mark the yearning eye
Forever straining upward, with no wing
The height to overcome, the space o'erleap,
And pluck the sullen honors from the steep!
He toils amid the sterile hills of Time
That mock him with delusions which still fly,
Even as he seeks them, like th' Arabian spring;—
Leaving a desert waste, a gloomy clime,
A weary track before him, gloomier yet,
Night stooping down in storm, and the bright sun long set.

XLII.
BEAUTY-VISIONS.

I saw it in my dream! O! could I task
My sense again to slumber, nor awake
So long as the dear vision were in sight;—
I will not do it so much wrong to make
My rude words show the picture thou dost ask:—
Behold it in my passion—a delight
Trembles through all my utterance! O! I feel,
In the devoted beatings of my heart,
That I should look enjoyment, nor appeal
To vain resource of language to impart
This vision of a most rare happiness—
That rapture, it would madden to reveal,
Which song itself would render spiritless;—
It was such sweet, such sad, heart-touching tenderness.

XLIII.
SPIRIT-WANDERINGS.

Ah, me! that sleeping like Endymion,
Upon a gentle hillslope, flow'r bestrewn,
I could be laid to wait the coming moon,
And her fresh smile, as some rich garment, don!
Let the winds gather round me, and the dell,
That breaks into the valley, catch the sound,
And, with its many voices, speed around
The airy rapture, till the natural spell
Rouse up the wood-nymphs to delight my sleep;
While she, my mistress, from her ocean cell,
Ascends to the blue summits, with a swell
Of those sweet noises from the caverns deep,
Where blue eyed Nereids sport on ocean's shell,
And to old Triton's conch, in long procession sweep.

XLIV.
GLIMPSES.

Upon the Poet's soul they flash forever,
In evening shades, these glimpses strange and sweet;
They fill his heart betimes—they leave him never,
And haunt his steps with sounds of falling feet:
He walks beside a mystery night and day;
Still wanders where the sacred spring is hidden;
Yet, would he take the seal from the forbidden,
Then must he work and watch as well as pray!
How work? How watch? Beside him—in his way,—
Springs without check the flow'r by whose choice spell,—
More potent than “herb moly,”—he can tell
Where the stream rises, and the waters play!—
Ah! spirits call'd avail not! On his eyes,
Sealed up with stubborn clay, the darkness lies.

XLV.
LOVE THE PURIFIER.

Lady, when o'er my heart thy smile was cast,
Like moonlight o'er the waters,—thou didst wake
That passion of song within me which must last,
Less for its own frail worth than thy dear sake.
The muse thus hallows fond devotion's pray'r,
Though lowly;—lifts the worshipper on high
To mounts of song in the Olympian air,
And makes earth pregnant with divinity.
Love thus, itself, converts to excellence,
Clay that was meanest;—purges it of dross;
Lights the dull eye with raised intelligence,
And makes a gain to good of evil's loss.
Thus hath that smile of thine uplifted me;
How can the heart be ill thus full of thee!

L.
[DAWNINGS OF FANCY.]
CONTINUED.

Whose denies this wholesome, natural want,
Endangers her existence! She must bask
Among the woods she rifles,—free from task,
The master's eye, and hard command,—and nap,
Where nature yields her groves and matron lap;—
Where birds sing slumber, and the hunted doe,
Assured of safety, stops awhile to pant!
Thus resting, she arises, prompt and strong,
With eye all vigor,—wing prepared to go,
Rapt, heavenward, in the upward-gushing song!—
Poised like the great sea-eagle in his state,
Sovereign 'mongst rolling clouds, careering free
Or, like the meeker lark, at heaven's own gate,
That, in her love, proclaims her liberty.

LV.
SYMPATHY WITH NATURE.

We are a part of all we hear and see,—
We share in their existence—we are taught
By what they suffer—with their feelings fraught,—
Are bound by their captivity, or free,
In their fresh impulses;—the earth, the air,
Master us through our sympathies—we share
The life that is about us, and thus flee,
From our own nature to a converse strange
With other natures—to the rock and tree,
The bird, and the sleek animal that glides
Still happy in deep thickets. Thus we range,
Capricious, still obedient to the tides
That chide or soothe our streams, as winds impel the sea.

LIX.
FIRST LOVE.

Oh! precious is the flow'r that Passion brings
To his first shrine of beauty, when the heart
Runs over in devotion, and no art
Checks the free gush of the wild lay he sings;—
But the rapt eye, and the impetuous thought
Declare the pure affection; and a speech,
Such as the ever-tuned affections teach,
Delivers love's best confidence unbought;—
And all is glory in the o'er-arching sky,
And all is beauty in the uplifting earth,
And from the wood, and o'er the wave, a mirth,
Such as mocks hope with immortality,
Declares that all the loved ones are at hand,
With still the turtle's voice, the loudest in the land.

LX.
HEEDLESSNESS.

We see the flow'r decaying as we pass,
Pale with the coming cold, and, on the grass,
Write ruin, with our footsteps, every hour,
Yet pause not in our progress, though a pow'r,
As much superior to ourselves, as we
To these dumb suff'rers of the predestined earth,
Beholds us rapidly passing from our birth,
To a like ruin with the things we see;
And, from our side, as little heeded, goes,
Drawn by invisible cords, the treasured thing
That has our heart, in keeping;—yet we sing
As idly as if life were free from foes,
And love were sure 'gainst danger;—there is one,
Who, speaking near me now, of death, is heard by none!

XLIII.
SONNET AT TONGEVILLE.

Somers,—if to thy courts the robin comes
Still cheerily chirping,—and the gipsy throng
That, in the thorny thicket, hourly hums
In noon-day yellow, with a thoughtless song
That stirs with spleen the mockbird, 'till he pours,
Beneath thy very eaves, such resolute strain,
As takes the voice from nature, nor restores,
'Till he has pleased to yield her ears again;—
If these surround thy footsteps, nor complain;—
If, in thy walks, the timorous dove appears,
Timorous no longer, nor inclined to flee;—
If these unharméd ones thus speak with me,—
Thou hast an evidence that nobly cheers,
And with no scruple I award it thee.

LXIV.
DESPONDENCY OF AMBITION.

Thou wilt remark my fate when I am dead,
Let not fools scoff above me, and proclaim,
That I had vainly struggled after fame,
'Till the good oil of my young life was shed,
And I became a mockery, and fell
Into the yellow leaf before my time;
A sacrifice, even in my earliest prime,
To that which thinn'd the heavens and peopled hell!
How few will understand us at the best,
How few, so yield their sympathies, to know,
What cares have robb'd us of our nightly rest,
How stern our trial, how complete our wo,—
And how much more our doom it was than pride,
To toil in devious ways with none who loved beside.

LXVII
ATTICA.

Sterile but proud, beneath her own blue sky,
Sleeps Attica, there bounded by the sea,
There by Eubœa; yet how boundless she,
In sole dominion; with her realms that lie,
Wherever winds can wing, or waters bear
The proofs of her great magic;—magic wrought,
By genius, on the stern and shapeless thought,
Which thenceforth took a form that cannot fear
Whatever Time may threaten. Overthrow
Her altars, yet how certain that the God,
Still from the eminence sends her breath abroad
Spelling the nations with her soul alone;
The soul that makes soil sacred, and from earth,
Triumphant plucks the doom of death that came with birth.

LXIX.
TO DEPARTING FRIENDS.

The friends that still would keep thee from thy home,
Yet pray that when thou leav'st them, winds may be
Meek and submissive; and the ocean foam
Unroused by tempests; and the obedient sea,
A docile steed that needs no spur to goad,
Nor yet the anxious leash which Terror's hand
Grasps, doubting, lest, all reckless of command,
The untamed creature flies the appointed road!
Skies favor thee and fortune—keep from ills,—
Make thee to reach thy haven and embrace
The pillars of thy ancient dwelling-place,—
Hear all the well-known voices of thy hills,
And those that, prattling up from new-found rills,
Grow happier, as they look into thy face.

LXX.
THE BROKEN HEART.

Weave me, sweet minstrel, into gentlest song,
The story that I bring thee, of a maid,
Who, blessing earth with beauty, did not long
Withhold from heaven the treasure that it pray'd;
She died, 'tis said, for love of one whose heart,
Wanton as winning, did from hers withdraw,
When that, persuaded of his faith by art,
She knew no other life, no other law;
And while all wondering, worship'd,—he, alone,
Mock'd at the holy truth that never err'd,
Save once, when by his baleful homage won,
Him, o'er all others, hapless, she prefer'd!
She died of heart-break,—though, what earth has riven,
If loving truly, is made whole in heaven.

LXXI.
INSENSIBILITY.

Methinks, there is no blindness such as this—
To know not, though the treasure near us lies;
Love's treasure, first and dearest,—which the skies
Vouchsafed, when earth had lost all right to bliss;
The treasure of a true heart; which, to roof
Lowly brings life;—and, when all fortune spent,
Cheers with devotion and the sweetest proof,
So that the sufferer freshens with content;
And, in the desolation at his door,
Sees but the sweet security of all,
Which, lost to hapless Adam at the fall,
Eden regained, had left possession poor!
Yet daily, in our blindness, we rush on,
Though hearts around us cry imploring to be won.

LXXII.
ATTRIBUTES OF LOVE.

If Love had not an understanding eye,
If Love's eye had not comprehensive speech,
If Love were not a thing of memory,
Or if to aught but Love, Love aught could teach,
How much, sweet heart, have I said fruitlessly,
How much fond speech were thrown away on thee;
How much have both remember'd bootlessly,
How much have others seen, who should not see;
How profligate our hearts of moments wasted;
How vain the fond expectancies that led;
How wild the dreams whose raptures sleep untasted;
How sad the sweet delusions which have fed;
The hearts whole being from this danger shrinks!
Yet Love is no such profligate, methinks!

LXXIV.
DESIRE AND FRUITION.

Three children play'd beneath a spreading tree,
In an old garden,—a secluded clime,
With orange laden, citron and the lime:—
Two were twin-children, and the first who came
Men called Desire; the second bore Love's name;
The third, Enjoyment,—sweetest of the three!
How strove the twins then for his young embrace,
With panting heart, wild eye and eager face;
But, delicate by nature, in the strife,
O'erpow'r'd, the child soon rendered up his life!
Then fell the two that once had loved, apart,
And knew no more each other;—then a gloom,
Settled upon the garden, while each heart
Grew cold, and Joy's first birth-place was his tomb.

LXXV.
LIFE IN LOVE.

Oh! what is there of magic in the name,
That thus my heart should tremble,—though long years
Have pass'd, since, following that delusive flame,
I learn'd how little profit came from tears,—
How great the shame of weakness, what the scorn
Of power, at meek devotion,—and, how vain,
When pride finds pleasure in bestowing pain,
To hope that nobler feelings may be born
In the tyrannic bosom!—Shall it be,
That, from the passion which has brought me shame,
The sacrifice of human hope and fame,
The Fates deny my spirit to go free?
Ah! wherefore love if thus?—but love reproves
The murmur,—since he lives alone who loves!

LXXVII.
THE SAME SUBJECT.
[THE SPIRIT OF INTELLECTUAL ART.]

Thy thought, but whisper'd, rises up a spirit,
Wing'd and from thence immortal. The sweet tone,
Freed by thy skill from prisoning wood or stone,
Doth thence, for thine, a tribute soul inherit!
When from the genius speaking in thy mind,
Thou hast evolved the godlike shrine or tower,
That moment does thy matchless art unbind
A spirit born for earth, and arm'd with power,
The fabric of thy love to watch and keep
From utter desecration. It may fall,
Thy structure,—and its gray stones topple all,—
But he who treads its portals, feels how deep
A presence is upon him,—and his word
Grows hush'd, as if a shape, unseen, beside him heard

LXXVIII.
THE SUBJECT CONTINUED.
[THE SPIRIT OF INTELLECTUAL ART.]

At every whisper we endow with life,
A being of good or evil,—who must, thence,
Allegiance yield to that intelligence,
Which, calling into birth, decreed the strife,
Which he must seek forever! The good thought,
Is born a blesséd angel, that goes forth,
In ministry of gladness, through the earth
Still teaching what is love, by love still taught!
The evil joins the numerous ranks of ill,
And, born of curses, through the endless years,
'Till Time shall be no more, and human tears
Dried up in judgment,—must his curse fulfil!
Dream'st thou of what is blessing or unblest,
Thou tak'st a God or Demon to thy breast!

LXXIX.
THE BEAUTY OF DEPARTING OBJECTS.

How beautiful, thus fading from the eye,
Are the sweet things we scarcely saw before;
Scenes that, 'till now, ne'er challenged smile or sigh,
How lovely seem they, fleeting evermore;
We feel, too late, our blindness and would buy
From memory, all that memory can restore!
Thus, the o'erburthen'd form, as on the bed
Of Death, and the last trial, it reposes,
New freshness feels in all around it spread,
And finds new sweetness in the leaves and roses.
'Till now there had been nothing in the things,
Most precious near us, and our eyes unfold,
Even as they close forever, to behold
How dear the gifts of home our blindness from us flings.

LXXX.
THE PURITANS.

ON SEEING WEIR'S NATIONAL PICTURE

Men were ye!—fearless and strong hearted men,
Firm in endurance, resolute for right,
Ready to beard the Lion in his den,
And, slow to conflict, slower still in flight!
I heed not of your bigotry, that grew
From a too-easily persuaded self;—
Nor yet of your strong appetite for pelf,—
Hard toils and slender gains might prompt that too!
But ye were men!—brave, earnest, whole-soul'd men,
Forever battling in the good old cause,
Of man!—his rights, his liberties and laws,
And, over all, his progress! Be it then,
Your glory to have struggled through the strife,
Renewed, and sure of still-renewing life.

LXXXI.
BUNKER HILL MONUMENT.

The record should be made of each great deed,
That brings unnumbered blessings for its fruits,
So, that, while gazing on the vigorous shoots,
Our children may possess the generous seed;
Nor, aught forgetting of the glorious past,
Lay good foundations in the future's womb;
So, when the hardy sire descends at last,
The emulous son shall still defend his tomb!
Thus chronicled, the mighty deed begets
Still mightier,—and the column that mounts high,
Where brave souls met to conquer or to die,
Speaks histories the good son ne'er forgets,
And joys if he can emulate! Thus stand,
Gray, granite speaker, still, to glad and guide the land.

LXXXII.
THE FALL OF WARSAW.

Thy sun has set, and yet the sun shines on,
Sad City!—not a ray obscured, and bright,
As on the eve before thy hope went down
In blood, and battle, and o'erwhelming night,—
And thou wert made a ruin, shrunk in blight,—
Not by thy foes alone!—but traitors too
Were there to thwart, if not to shame, the few,
Who, to the last sad hour, maintained the fight;
And clung to the red ashes of their land,
As to a mother's grave,—nerved by a strength
Which, though defeated and subdued, at length,
Proves nobly what the soul of man may do,
Cheer'd, by a generous hope, to wield the brand,
In battling for the cause it holds more true.

LXXXIII.
THE PEACE OF THE WOODS

Thou hast enamor'd me of woodland scenes,
Good shepherd, for thou show'st them with an air
Of truth, to win even wilder hearts to hear,
Than his who sits beside thee,—and thus gleans
Thy secret from thee of true happiness,
Inbred content and quiet humbleness,
That cannot be o'erthrown by rising high,
And vexeth not the glance of envious eye.
They blessings are of that serener kind,
Which, as they rouse no passions up, must be,
Lik'd to that breeze benign that strokes the sea,
'Till it subsides in murmurs. No rude wind
Disturbs thy world's smooth waters, and defames
The glory of its peace, with its unreasoning storms.

LXXXIV.
THE ANCIENT RIVULET.

Sit thee beside me for awhile, and rest,
On these green marges of the slope, and hear,
As yon sly brooklet sends up to the ear
Its chaunt of murmurs, like a strain repress'd
By sobbings of the heart that pours it out!—
I mind me, friend, that it is now about
Some thirteen summers, since I laid me down
Beside this little streamlet, as I left,
Grieving with boyhood's heart, my native town!
To this I now return,—of youth bereft,
And thorns about my head in place of crown.
Then all was, “lo! the triumph!” in my breast,
My thought, heart, eye, on one achievment set;
Now! all is changed save this poor rivulet.