The collected poems of William Ellery Channing the younger, 1817-1901

And some, who think these simple things
Can bear no goodness to their minds,
May learn to feel how nature brings,
Around a quiet being winds,
And through us sings.

A stream to some is no delight,
Its element diffused around;
Yet in its unobtrusive flight
There trembles from its heart a sound
Like that of night.

So give thy true allotment,—fair;
To children turn a social heart;
And if thy days pass clear as air,
Or friends from thy beseeching part,
O humbly bear.

854

TORMENTS.

Yes! they torment me
Most exceedingly:—
I would I could flee.
A breeze on a river—
I listen forever;
The yellowish heather
Under cool weather,—
These are pleasures to me.

What do torment me?
Those living vacantly,
Who live but to see;
Indefinite action,
Nothing but motion,
Round stones a rolling,
No inward controlling;—
Yes! they torment me.

Some cry all the time,
Even in their prime
Of youth's flushing clime.
O! out on this sorrow!
Fear'st thou to-morrow?
Set thy legs going,
Be stamping be rowing,—
This of life is the lime.

Hail, thou mother Earth!
Who gave me thy worth
For my portion at birth:
I walk in thy azure,
Unfond of erasure,
But they who torment me
So most exceedingly
Sit with feet on the hearth.

855

THEME FOR A WORLD-DRAMA.

THE MAIDEN—THE ADOPTED FATHER—THE ADOPTED MOTHER—THE LOVER.

I would that we had spoke two words together,
For then it had gone right, but now all still,—
This perfect stillness fastens on my heart
Like night,—nothing can come of it.

Why art thou so sad?

O, I do not know.

But thou must know. Whoever knew not living
Some of his inner self; who had no consciousness
Of all his purposes, his doings,—will?
Why this we call the mind, what is it, save
A knowledge of ourselves?

I would it were so.

What were so?

Come—let us be alone awhile; I'm weary.

If you would be left, I'll leave you.

Do so,—I'm glad he's gone;
I think of him even when my guardian here,
So gentle and affectionate a man,
Would converse with me of myself. Alas!
And yet why do I say alas!—am I
Not happy in the depth of this my sorrowing,
The only treasure which is simply mine,
That watchful eye is now upon me, ever.
If I look abroad and recognise the forms
Of those familiar mountains, my brothers,
And see the trees soft-waving in the wind
This summer's day;—what then? I cannot, cannot!

One thing it is to have an outward life,
Another—such as mine.

856

Why is she then so sad?

Partly it is her nature to be so.
These delicate beings look not o'er
The earth and the rough surface of society,
As commoners. They breathe a finer air,
And their enraptured senses, sudden brought
Into harsh contact with the scaly folds
Of the enormous serpent, Sin, shatter;
As if a glass in which an image dwelt
Of an all-perfect seeming were rudely
On a bitter stone employed, smiting it
Into a million fragments.—She is of this breed,
This narrow suffrage in a world of dross
Of gold thrice molten, and it seems to me
That, with a strange peculiar care of love,
We should encompass her with lovely thoughts,
Forms breathing Italy in every bend,
Scarce enough products of our northern vale.

I feel that, although she is not our child,
We do regard her with a parent's love

But O, our love is a poor mockery
Of what that love had been. We do not live,
As marrow in the bone, within her life,
As parents had. Nature has ministered to these,
In such full kind; they are the double worlds,
As man, if truly wise, a twice-told tale,
First for himself, and then for Nature.
I am all aware that with what stress of mind
I strive to paint a parent's love for her
In my imagination, will drop short
O' the mark; I cannot sling the stone, as one
Who from his hand the whirling pebble sent
To dive into another's life.

Let us not despair!

This world is much too wide for that;
I pity him, the poor despairing man,
Who walks the teeming earth,—a solitude;

857

Who groans his soul away, as if it were
The conduit pipe of a dull city, or
The dreadful hum of oiled machinery,
Which from the doors, where starveling weavers ply
Their horrid toil, down to the sunset hour
Floats out upon the tune of all this visible love,
A clanging echo of the miser's shrieks.
Our very freedom is to be awake,
Alive to inspiration from the whole
Of a fair universe.

I feel myself,—I do not see myself;
But my particular nature masters me,
Even here, among these waving spirits
Who haunt the reedy banks of this calm river,
Lofty genial presences who fill their place,
Nor will displace a thought their long year lives.
I defy all but this, and this I must
Obey,—I cannot this defy. This is
The oracular parent of the child,
Whose simple look can wind him into tasks
Hateful and hated.—I did not wish
To love; I said,—here stands a man whose soul
The imprisoning forms of things shall master,
Not without a strife convulsed as death;
I stand upon an adamantine basis
Never to rock; I triumphed over much;
The whimperings of the youth I changed to words;
Nor scoffs, nor jeers, nor place, nor poverty
Gained footing in the scale of my design.
This girl came to me on a summer's day,
The day of my o'ermastery, which passes
From my mind but with my life. Up she rose
As the first revelation to the Poet's soul
Of his dear art, thenceforth to him his spring;
A radiance circled her with grace, as I
Have seen about the fronts of Raphael's
Time-defying saints,—a ring of glory,
Waxing immeasurably potent
In its symbolical form; her motion
Flung me to the ground in prayer, I hardly
Daring to translate my eyes again to hers,
Lest another glance would represent a thin
And shadowy lustre fading fast away.

858

At length, with breath suspended, looked again,
And there in very form she was. I felt
I know not what. I will not venture on a chance
That I may hit the sense of my expression,
Yet I was expressed; a copious sense
Of knowledge that my former mind of beauty
Was inconceivably blind, rushed through me;
A decided view of perfect loveliness,
Bore information of celestial heights,
At whose first inch I had thus far stood idle
Into the Ideal in my mind; there fixed
The simple surface of her body; the hair
Of tender brown, not negligent disposed,
The unrivalled tracing through her dress
Of a prodigious nature; her life
Glowed out in the embalming whiteness of her neck;
All that she is in fact came to me then,
And in me now finds ready utterance.

SONG.

Like seas flashing in caves
Where stalactites gleam,
Like the sparkling of waves
Where Northern lights beam;
Like the swift drops that fall
Where the sun brightly shines,
Like a clear crystal hall
Amid clustering vines;

859

Like emerald leaves
All transparent with light,
Where the summer breeze weaves
Its song of delight,
Like wild flickering dreams,
Is the light which lies,
Which flashes and beams
In Angela's eyes.

Like ripples slow circling
Where a stone has been thrown,
Like a sunny spring gushing
In a meadow alone;
Like a fair sea-girt isle
All blooming with flowers,
Is the joy of her smile
In our wild-wood bowers.

Deep as the sea,
As the voice of the night,
Lofty and free
As the vast dome of light,
Are the thoughts which live
In the soul of this being,
To her God did give
The true power of seeing.
Comprehending by love
What love did create,
She seeks not above
Like one weary of fate,
And longing to see
A bright world to come,
Where'er she may be
Is her beautiful home.

860

PRAYER.

Mother dear! wilt pardon one
Who loved not the generous Sun,
Nor thy seasons loved to hear
Singing to the busy year:—
Thee neglected, shut his heart,
In thy being, had no part.
Mother dear! I list thy song
In the autumn eve along:
Now thy chill airs round the day,
And leave me my time to pray.
Mother dear! the day must come
When thy child shall make his home,
His long last home, amid the grass,
Over which thy warm hands pass.
I know my prayers will reach thine ear,
Thou art with me while I ask,
Nor a child refuse to hear,
Who would learn his little task.
Let me take my part with thee,
In the gray clouds or thy light,
Laugh with thee upon the sea,
And idle on the land by night;
In the trees I live with thee,
In the flowers, like any bee.

861

AFTER-LIFE.

They tell me the grave is cold,
The bed underneath all the living day;
They speak of the worms that crawl in the mould,
And the rats that in the coffin play;
Up above the daisies spring,
Eyeing the wrens that over them sing:
I shall hear them not in my house of clay.

It is not so; I shall live in the veins
Of the life which painted the daisies' dim eye,
I shall kiss their lips when I fall in rains,
With the wrens and bees shall over them fly,—
In the trill of the sweet birds float
The music of every note,
A-lifting times veil,—is that called to die?

862

TO SHAKSPEARE.

As the strong wind that round the wide Earth blows,
Seizing all scents that shimmer o'er the flowers,
The sparkling spray from every wave that flows
Through the proud glory of the summer hours,
Sweet questioning smiles, and gentle courteous glances,
The stately ship that stems the ocean tide,
The butterfly that with the wild air dances,
And radiant clouds on which the Genii ride,
Bearing all these on its triumphant way,
Sounding through forests, soaring o'er the sea,
Greeting all things which love the joyous day,
In life exulting, freest of the free;
Thus do thy Sonnets, Shakspeare, onward sweep,
Cleaving the winged clouds, stirring the mighty deep.

THE POET.

No narrow field the poet has,
The world before him spreading,
But he must write his honest thought,
No critic's cold eye dreading.

His range is over everything,
The air, the sea, the earth, the mind,
And with his verses murmurs sing,
And joyous notes float down the wind.

863

LIFE.

It is a gay and glittering cloud,
Born in the early light of day,
It lies upon the gentle hills,
Rosy, and sweet, and far away.

It burns again when noon is high;
Like molten gold 't is clothed in light,
'T is beautiful and glad as love,—
A joyous, soul-entrancing sight.

But now 't is fading in the west,
On the flowering heaven a withered leaf,
As faint as shadow on the grass
Thrown by a gleam of moonshine brief.

So life is born, grows up, and dies,
As cloud upon the world of light;
It comes in joy, and moves in love,
Then,—gently fades away in night.

864

[Sweet Love, I cannot show thee in this guise]

Sweet Love, I cannot show thee in this guise
Of earthly words, how dear to me thou art,
Nor once compare thy image in my eyes
With thy dear self reposed within my heart.
The love I bear to thee I truly prize
Above all joys that offer in the mart
Of the wide world, our wishes to suffice,—
And yet I seek thy love; for no desert
That I can boast, but that my new love cries
For love that to its own excess is meet,
And searching widely through this dark world's space,
Hath found a love which hath its holy seat
Within thy bosom's blissfulest embrace,
And to awake this love is at thy feet,
Whence will it not arise till thou accord this grace.

Let not my love implore of thee in vain,
For in its loneliness it dooms to wo,
From whose deep depths I cannot rise again;
Let not thy love conspire to kill me so
With my love, which will only share its reign
With thine its sister; rather may both go
To that high altar, where no longer twain,
In sweetest concord both together grow,
Thence to ascend to the Eternal Love,
And be absorbed and spread through all the life
That breathes in purest holiest bliss above,
Or that incites all mortals to the strife
Of kindness, in this scene of mixed delight
And griefs—of brightest day and darkest night.

865

SPRING.

With what a still, untroubled air,
The spring comes stealing up the way,
Like some young maiden coyly fair,
Too modest for the light of day.

THE SONG OF BIRDS IN SPRING.

They breathe the feeling of thy happy soul,
Intricate Spring! too active for a word;
They come from regions distant as the pole;
Thou art their magnet,—seedsman of the bird.

866

AN OLD MAN.

Heavy and drooping,
By himself stooping,
Half of his body left,
Of all his mind bereft,
Antiquate positive,
Forgotten causative,—
Yet he still picks the ground,
Though his spade makes no sound,
Thin fingers are weak,
And elbows a-peak.

He talks to himself,
Of what he remembers.
Rakes over spent embers,
Recoineth past pelf,
Dreams backwards alone,
Of time gnawing the bone.
Too simple for folly,
Too wise for content,
Not brave melancholy,
Or knave eminent,
Slouched hat, and loose breeches,
And gaping with twitches,—
Old coin found a-ploughing,
Curious but cloying,
How he gropes in the sun,
And spoils what he's done.

867

AUTUMN.

A varied wreath the autumn weaves
Of cold grey days, and sunny weather,
And strews gay flowers and withered leaves
Along my lonely path together.

I see the golden-rod shine bright,
As sun-showers at the birth of day,
A golden plume of yellow light,
That robs the Day-god's splendid ray.

The aster's violet rays divide
The bank with many stars for me,
And yarrow in blanch tints is dyed,
As moonlight floats across the sea.

I see the emerald woods prepare
To shed their vestiture once more,
And distant elm-trees spot the air
With yellow pictures softly o'er.

I saw an ash burn scarlet red
Beneath a pine's perpetual green,
And sighing birches hung their head,
Protected by a hemlock screen.

Yet light the verdant willow floats
Above the river's shining face,
And sheds its rain of hurried notes
With a swift shower's harmonious grace.

868

The petals of the cardinal
Fleck with their crimson drops the stream,
As spots of blood the banquet hall,
In some young knight's romantic dream.

No more the water lily's pride
In milk-white circles swims content,
No more the blue weed's clusters ride
And mock the heaven's element.

How speeds from in the river's thought
The spirit of the leaf that falls,
It's heaven in this calm bosom wrought,
As mine among those crimson walls.

From the dry bough it spins to greet
Its shadow in the placid river,
So might I my companion meet,
Nor roam the countless worlds forever.

Autumn, thy wreath and mine are blent
With the same colors, for to me
A richer sky than all is lent,
While fades my dream-like company.

Our skies glow purple, but the wind
Sobs chill through green trees and bright grass,
To-day shines fair, and lurk behind
The times that into winter pass.

So fair we seem, so cold we are,
So fast we hasten to decay,
Yet through our night glows many a star,
That still shall claim its sunny day.

869

THE MOTHER'S GRIEF.

I stand within my garden fair
Where flowers in joyous beauty spring,
Their fragrance mingles in the air,
The birds most sweetly sing.

And in that spot a lonely mound,
Spread o'er with grasses heavily,
My infant sleeps within the ground,
Nor may the garden see.

The wind sighs sadly, and the sun
Shines down to dazzle weary eyes;
That buried form the truest one,
The rest its mockeries.

ALLSTON'S FUNERAL.

The summer moonlight lingered there,
Thy gently moulded brow to see,
For art in thee had softened care,
As night's mild beams the dying tree.

That storied smile was on thy face,
The fair forgetfulness of fame,
The deep concealment of that grace,
Thy tender being's only aim.

870

TO THE MUSE.

Whither? hast thou then faded?
No more by dell, or spring, or tree?
Whither? have I thy love upbraided?
Come back and speak to me;
Shine, thou star of destiny!

O simple plains and quiet woods,
Your silence asks no poet's strains,
For ye are verse-like solitudes,
Your leaf-like paths the sweet refrains
The muse awakens but in pains.

Yet shines above undauntedly
The star-wreathed crownlet, heaven's great fame,
And azure builds the dome-like sky,
Nor should I make my nature tame,
Lest distant days shall hide my name.

“Thou bearest in these shades the light,
That piled the rugged height of leaves,
Thou rob'st with artificial night
These dells so deep;—he who believes,
The muse enchants not, or deceives.

871

And let the deep sea toss the shore,
Thy infinite heart no motion hath;
Let lightning dance and thunder roar,
And dark remembrance crowd thy path,
Thy spirit needs some wider wrath.

That verse,—the living fate within,
Shall truly find its tone to save,
Its adamantine goal to win
Demands no voice, descends no grave,
They sing enough who life-blood have.”

O placid springs which murmur through
The silken grass so glistening;
Are fed your veins with silent dew
So softly that ye onward sing,
For in the middle earth ye cling.

O gentlest woods,—your birds' kind song,
How had you that so virtuous lay?
Among you let me linger long,
And seek the arborous dim-lit way,
And listen to your light wind's play.

And thou, the essence of the flowers,
My bride, my joy, my own dear wife,
Who melted in thine eyes those hours,
Those hours with sunlight richly rife?
Art thou a song of earnest life?

872

WILLIAM TELL'S SONG.

Where the mountain cataracts leap,
And the stern wild pine builds fast,
And the piercing crystals keep
Their chains for the glaciers vast,
I have built up my heart with a stony wall,
I have frozen my will for a tyrant's fall.

As the crag from the high cliff leaps,
And is ground to fine dust below,
As the dreaded avalanche creeps,
And buries the valleys in woe,
So tyranny sinks 'neath my mountain heart,
So slavery falls by my quivering dart.

873

THE FATAL PASSION,—A DRAMATIC SKETCH.

BY WILLIAM ELLERY CHANNING.

Henry Gray. Chester. William Gray, the father. Murray, friend to Gray. Vincent. Mary. Adeline.

ACT I.

—Scene I.

A Wood.—Henry. (Alone.)
How like a part too deeply fixed in me,
A shadow where the substance lies behind,
Is this sweet wood. I cannot grasp my thought,
But see it swell around me in these trees,
These layers of glistening leaves, and swimming full
In the blue, modulated heaven o'er all.
I would embrace you kindred tenements,
Where dwells the soul by which I deeply live.
But ye are silent; they call you emblems,
The symbols of creation, whose memory
Has failed in its behest, and so ye stand
Merely dumb shadows of what might have been,
Or hints of what may be beyond these days.

(Enter Chester and observes Henry.)

874

Ches.
(to himself.)
I love these moods of youth, I love the might
Of untamed nature battling with despair.
How firmly grasps the iron-handed earth
The youthful heart, and lugs it forth to war
With calm, unmoving woods, or silent lakes,
Making it dastard in the sun's light dance.
Brave on, ye unbarked saplings, soon your boughs
Shall wing the arrows of red manhood's life,
And then, as your low depths of ignorance
Unfold, how shall you wonder at your youth.
How flaunt the banners in the light of morn,
How torn and trailing when the day-god sets.
'T is a brave sight with all sails up, to see
The shining bark of youth dash through the foam,
And sickening to the most, to look upon
Her planks all started, and her rigging split,
When she hugs closely to the beach in age.
But I console myself for my gray hairs,
By spinning such warm fancies in my brain,
That I become a little thing again,
And totter o'er the ground, as when I whipped my top.
(Approaches Henry.)
Your servant, sir, the day goes bravely down.

Hen.
Through the red leaves, I see the mornings' glow.

Ches.
'T is but the picture of some morning scene;
A fair conceit the sun has in his head,
And when he sets makes fatal flourishes.

Hen.
I hear you jest with nature, that you mock,
And fling queer faces at her holy calm,
Write witty volumes that demoralize;
Pray Mr. Chester, do you fear the devil?

Ches.
As I do nightfall. I have some night-fears,
Some horrid speculations in my brain;
And when the mice play hangmen in the wall,
Or out the house the pretty frost-toes creep,
I think, pest o'nt, what dark and doleful sounds,
If it were safe I'd raise the curtain's hem.

875

And when I puff away the cheerful light,
The moonbeam makes a thief's dark-lantern flit;
My head is filled with horribund designs,
And on myself I pack damned Macbeth's part.
I love to nourish such complexed conceits;
I have a vein of dreadful longing in me,
Was born to murder, and excel in arson,
And so I love the devil, though broad day
Has all the devilish aspects that I know.
See, comes the gentle Mary, know you her?

Hen.
Not I, my solitude hath its own figures.

(Enter Mary.)
Ches.
(to Mary.)
God speed thee, lady, it was opportune
Your footsteps led you up this sheltered walk,
For here is Henry Gray, my friend at least,
And now is yours.

Mary.
I willingly would know what Chester does,
And Mr. Gray, I trust, will but forgive me.
I rarely venture in these forest walks,
Where leads that prithee? (To Henry.)

Hen.
'T is by the lake, which gleaming like a sword,
One edge of this green path, a peacock lance,
Crosses in sport, and then descends away,
And vanishes among the outspread moors.

Ches.
And Mr. Gray, sweet Mary, knows the path,
All paths that frolic in these devious woods,
For he's sworn friends with squirrels, steals their nuts,
Divides with other beasts their favorite meat,
Can show you hungry caves, whose blackening jaws
Breathe out a little night into the air,
Will stand you on the dizzy precipice,
Where all whirls round you like a whizzing wheel,
In truth his skill is perfect, so farewell.

(Exit Chester.)

876

SCENE II.

Henry and Mary.—(By the Lake.)
Mary.
Those hills you say are lofty.

Hen.
Most lofty.
I have clomb them, and there stood gazing
On villages outspread, and larger towns
Gleaming like sand-birds on the distant beach.
I love the mountains, for a weight of care
Falls off his soul, who can o'erlook this earth.

Mary.
And there you passed the night?

Hen.
I have passed weeks
Upon their very tops, and thought no more
To fall upon the low, dark days of earth.
Above, the clouds seemed welcome faces to me,
And near the raging storms, came giant-like,
And played about my feet. Yet even there,
I feared for my own heart, lest I should grow
Too careless of myself. Yonder the town,—
You must excuse my absence, for the clock
Rounds the small air-balls into leaden weights.

(Exit Henry.)
Mary,
(alone.)
I breathe, and yet how hardly,—a moment,
What a thing am I,—a passing moment,
Lifting from the earth my weary heart so sick,
O'er-burdened with the grating jar of life,—
This youth,—how sleeps the lake, how blue it gleams.

(Chester again enters.)
Ches.
Ah! Mary alone,—indeed, has Henry Gray
Shot like a rocket in the rayful air?
A brilliant youth, at least his eyes are bright.

877

SCENE III.

Chester and Mary.—(Outskirts of Town.)
Mary.
He is a student at the college.

Ches.
Mark you, he is a student, and knows the trick.
He has a brother too, Vincent, a gay
Free, dashing animal, or so I hear,
But I hate characters at second-hand.
You know they are towns-people; 't is an old,
And comfortable family, I hear
Pest on't, my brains won't hold much matter now,
I am too old for gossip.

Mary.
Has he a sister?

Ches.
Who wants that good device? it is a part
Of every comfortable family.

Mary.
My father's mansion, will you enter?

Ches.
No, Mary, not to-night. (Mary goes in.)

(Chester alone.)
What comes of this,
When two youths come together, but woman
Rarely loves,—a play upon the word, So, So!
As I grow old, I lose all reasoning.
I hunt most nimble shadows, and have grown
A perfect knave for picking out old seams.

(Enter William Gray.)
Gray.
Good evening Mr. Chester. I call it evening,
For I see you walk, and they say here your gait
Is nightly.

Ches.
I have seen Henry now, and Mary came,
He had not known her,—strange!

Gray.
Mary, the banker's daughter; a girl of promise.

Ches.
They are old friends of mine, banker and all.
I've held him on my arm, and made him quake
At jingling coppers. He's richer now-a-days.

Gray.
'T would please me to make more of them.

Ches.
I will contrive it. There are times in life,
When one must hold the cherry to his lips,
Who faints to pluck a fair maid by the ear.

878

ACT II.

Scene I.

Adeline and Vincent.—(Mr. Gray's House.)
Vin.
She is a lovely girl.

Ade.
And rich as lovely.

Vin.
I wish I knew her better.

Ade.
One day is not enough, friend Vin., to know
The mind of woman; many days must go,
And many thoughts.

Vin.
You will assist me, Adeline.

Ade.
So far as in me lies,—I know not Mary.

Vin.
But the sex is in your favor.

Ade.
I know not that.

(Enter Henry.)
Vin.
You made a good report on botany.

Hen.
I'm glad you think so. 'T is a fair study,
To spy into the pretty hearts of flowers,
To read their delicacies, so near to.
But Vincent, science at the best
Demands but little justice at my hands,
It has its masters, has its oracles,
I am content to gather by the wall,
Some little flowers that sport a casual life,
To hover on the wing; who comes?—'T is Chester.

(Exit Chester.)
Ches.
Three frends in charming concert act their part.
But Henry, I have news for you.

879

SCENE II.

Chester and Henry.—(Seated in Chester's House.)
Hen.
What is the news, I pray?

Ches.
Last night, as I went walking in the wood,
I practise often in these woodland walks,
And on some nights I almost pluck the stars
Like crystal plums from off the tops of trees,—
But, as I said, I walked far down the wood,
In that rheumatic kind of greasy gait
I have accumulated, and I went
Dreaming and dreaming on, almost asleep,
If not quite half awake, until I reached
The lake's dim corner, where one ragged tree
Let in a gush of fuming light. The moon
Now being high, and at its full, I saw
Upon that little point of land a shape,
A fair round shape, like early womanhood
Kneeling upon the ground wept by the dews;
And then I heard such dreadful roar of sobs,
Such pouring fountains of imagined tears
I saw, following those piteous prayers,
All under the great placid eye of night.
'T was for an old man's eye, for a young heart
Had spun it into sighs, and answered back.
And now the figure came and passed by me,
I had withdrawn among the ghostly shrubs,
'T was Mary,—poor Mary! I have seen her smile
So many years, and heard her merry lips
Say so much malice, that I am amazed
She should kneel weeping by the silent lake,
After old midnight night-caps all but me.
But you are young, what can you make of it?

880

Where Henry's life hangs balanced in its might,
Breathe gently o'er this old, fond, doting man,
Who seems to cherish me among his thoughts,
As if I was the son of his old age,
The son of that fine thought so prodigal.
O God, put in his heart his thought, and make
Him heir to that repose thou metest me.
Ye sovereign powers that do control the world,
And inner life of man's most intricate heart,
Be with the noble Chester; may his age

Hen.
What can one make of figures? I can see
The fair girl weeping by the moonlit lake.

Ches.
Canst thou not see the woman's agony,
Canst thou not feel the thick sobs in thy throat,
That swell and gasp, till out your eyes roll tears
In miserable circles down your cheeks?

Hen.
I see a woman weeping by the lake;
I see the fair round moon look gently down,
And in the shady woods friend Chester's form,
Leaning upon his old, bent maple stick.

Ches.
What jest ye? Dare you, Henry Gray, to mock
A woman's anguish, and her scalding tears,
Does Henry Gray say this to his friend Chester,
Dares he speak thus, and think that Chester's scorn
Will not scoff out such paltry mockeries?

Hen.
Why how you rage; why Chester, what a flame
A few calm words have lighted in thy breast.
I mock thee not, I mock no woman's tears,
Within my breast there is no mockery.

Ches.
True, true, it is an old man's whim, a note
Of music played upon a broken harp.
I fancied you could read this woman's tears,
Pest on't, I am insane; I will go lock me up.

[Exit Chester.
Hen.
(alone.)
Ye fates, that do possess this upper sphere,

881

Yield brighter blossoms than his early years,
For he was torn by passion, was so worn,
So wearied in the strife of fickle hearts,
He shed his precious pearls before the swine.
And, God of love, to me render thyself,
So that I may more fairly, fully give,
To all who move within this ring of sky,
Whatever life I draw from thy great power.
Still let me see among the woods and streams,
The gentle measures of unfaltering trust,
And through the autumn rains, the peeping eyes
Of the spring's loveliest flowers, and may no guile
Embosom one faint thought in its cold arms.
So would I live, so die, content in all.

SCENE III.

Mary's Room. Midnight.
Mary,
(alone.)
I cannot sleep, my brain is all on fire,
I cannot weep, my tears have formed in ice,
They lie within these hollow orbs congealed,
And flame and ice are quiet, side by side.
[Goes to the window.
Yes! there the stars stand gently shining down,
The trees wave softly in the midnight air;
How still it is, how sweetly smells the air.
O stars, would I could blot you out, and fix
Where ye are fixed, my aching eyes;
Ye burn for ever, and are calm as night.
I would I were a tree, a stone, a worm;
I would I were some thing that might be crushed;
A pebble by the sea under the waves,
A mote of dust within the streaming sun,

882

Or that some dull remorse would fasten firm
Within this rim of bone, this mind's warder.
Come, come to me ye hags of secret woe,
That hide in the hearts of the adulterous false,
Has hell not one pang left for me to feel?
I rave; 't is useless, 't is pretended rage;
I am as calm as this vast hollow sphere,
In which I sit, as in a woman's form.
I am no woman, they are merry things,
That smile, and laugh, and dream away despair.
What am I? 'T is a month, a month has gone,
Since I stood by the lake with Henry Gray,
A month! a little month, thrice ten short days,
And I have lived and looked. Who goes? 'tis Chester,
I must,—he shall come in.

[She speaks from the window. Chester enters.
Ches.
You keep late hours, my gentle Mary.

Mary.
Do not speak so. There is no Mary here.
Hush! (Holds up her finger.)
I cannot bear your voice; 't is agony
To me to hear a voice, my own is dumb.
Say,—thou art an old man, thou hast lived long,
I mark it in the tottering gait, thy hair,
Thy red, bleared eyes, thy miserable form,
Say, in thy youthful days,—thou art a man,
I know it, but still men are God's creatures,—
Say, tell me, old man Chester, did thine eyes
Ever forget to weep, all closed and dry?
Say, quick, here, here, where the heart beats, didst feel
A weight, as if thy cords of life would snap,
As if the volume of the blood had met,
As if all life in fell conspiracy
Had met to press thy fainting spirit out?—
Say, say, speak quickly; hush! hush! no, not yet,
Thou canst not, thou art Chester's ghost, he's dead,

883

I saw him, 't was month ago, in his grave,
Farewell, sweet ghost, farewell, let's bid adieu.
[Chester goes out, weeping.
'T is well I am visited by spirits.
If 't were not so, I should believe me mad,
But all the mad are poor deluded things,
While I am sound in mind. 'T is one o'clock,
I must undress, for I keep early hours.

SCENE IV.

The Wood.—Henry and Murray.
Hen.
I cannot think you mean it; 't is some dream
Of your excited fancy. You are easily
Excited. You saw a nodding aspen,
For what should Mary's figure here?

Mur.
It was her figure, I am persuaded.
They tell strange tales, they say she has gone mad,
That something's crazed her brain.

Hen.
Is that the story? I have been mad myself.
Sometimes I feel that madness were a good,
To be elated in a wondrous trance,
And pass existence in a buoyant dream;
It were a serious learning. I do see
The figure that you speak of, 't is Mary.

Mur.
I'll leave you then together. (Enter Mary.)

Hen.
(To Mary.)
You have the way alone; I was your guide
Some weeks ago, to the blue, glimmering lake.
I trust these scenes greet happily your eyes.

Mary.
They are most sweet to me; let us go back
And trace that path again. I think 't was here
We turned, where this green sylvan church
Of pine hems in a meadow and some hills.

884

Hen.
Among these pines they find the crow's rough nest,
A lofty cradle for the dusky brood.

Mary.
This is the point I think we stood upon.
I would I knew what mountains rise beyond,
Hast ever gone there?

Hen.
Ah! ye still, pointing spires of native rock,
That, in the amphitheatre of God,
Most proudly mark your duty to the sky,
Lift, as of old, ye did my heart above.
Excuse me, maiden, for my hurried thought.
'T is an old learning of the hills; the bell!
Ah! might the porter sometimes sleep the hour.

[Exit Henry.
The Sun is setting.
Mary.
'T is all revealed, I am no more deceived,
That voice, that form, the memory of that scene!
I love thee, love thee, Henry; I am mad,
My brain is all on fire, my heart a flame,
You mountains rest upon my weary mind;
The lake lies beating in my broken heart.
That bell that summoned him to the dark cell,
Where now in innocence he tells his beads,
Shall summon me beyond this weary world.
I long to be released; I will not stay,
There is no hope, no vow, no prayer, no God,
All, all have fled me, for I love, love one,
Who cannot love me, and my heart has broke.
Ye mountains, where my Henry breathed at peace,
Thou lake, on whose calm depths he calmly looked,
And setting sun, and winds, and skies, and woods,
Protect my weary body from the tomb;
As I have lived to look on you with him,
O let my thoughts still haunt you as of old,
Nor let me taste of heaven, while on the earth,
My Henry's form holds its accustomed place.

[Stabs herself.

885

TO READERS.

A voice, a heart, a free, unfettered pen,
My life in its own shape not rudely tasked,
If I could journey o'er my path again,
No entertainment could be better asked,
Not wealth, not fame, nor gentlemen to see,
Rather would I consort with liberty.

That which I must not buy, I do demand,
My way to worship God, my company,
The service of my own decisive hand,
The love that by its life is deeply free,
Flattered by those I live with,—O not so,
If I have dropped the seed, then may it grow.

Yet I would perish rather, and be dead
Within this mortal mind than lose my right
Upon a nobler fruitage to be fed,
And spring where blooms more excellent delight,
To man, shall time remain the sacred thing,
Shall poets for reward demand to sing?

886

Bring to my lays thy heart, if it be thine,
Read what is written and no meaning see,
Think that I am a barren, useless vine,
There is no bond agreed 'twixt thee and me,
That thou shouldest read the meaning clearly writ,
Yet thou and I may both be part of it.

O Reader, if my heart could say,
How in my blood thy nature runs,
Which manifesteth no decay,
The torch that lights a thousand suns,
How thou and I, are freely lent,
A little of such element.

If I could say, what landscape says,
And human pictures say far more,
If I could twine our sunny days,
With the rich colors, on the floor
Of daily love, how thou and I,
Might be refreshed with charity.

For pleasant is the softening smile
Of winter sunset o'er the snow,
And blessed is this spheral isle
That through the cold, vast void must go,
The current of the stream is sweet,
Where many waters closely meet.

887

THE DEATH OF SHELLEY.

Fair was the morn,—a little bark bent
Like a gull o'er the waters blue,
And the mariners sang in their merriment,
For Shelley the faithful and true,
Shelley was bound on his voyage o'er the sea,
And wherever he sailed the heart beat free.

And a dark cloud flew, and the white waves hurled
The crests in their wrath, at the angry wind,
The little bark with its sails unfurled,
While the dreadful tempest gathered behind,—
With the book of Plato pressed to his heart,
Came to the beach Shelley's mortal part,

Then a pyre they kindled by ocean side,
Poets were they who Shelley did burn,
The beautiful flame to Heaven applied,
The ashes were pressed in the marble urn.
In Rome shall those ashes long remain,
And from Shelley's verse spring golden grain.

888

A SONG OF THE SEA.

Where the breeze is an emerald green,
The breath of the fathomless deep,
Fresh, pure, living it falls on the scene,
While the little waves tremblingly creep,
So the air of the soul hath this firmness of cheer,
And over it thoughts like wild vessels veer.

'Tis a breeze from the shore that uplifts
The surface, and tosses it far,
But the depths are unmoved, and the drifts
Of white foam like the cloud o'er the star,
Hurry on, madly roam, but the light is unmoved,
Like the heart of the bride for the mate she has loved.

I would sail on the sea in my boat,
I would drift with the rolling tide,
In the calm of green harbors I float,
On the black mountainous chasms I ride,
I am never at anchor, I never shall be,
I am sailing the glass of infinity's sea.

Rage on, strongest winds, for the sail
Has ropes to the fast trimly set,
My heart which is oak cannot fail,
And the billows I cheered that I met,
Cold,—no, good breeze thou art comfort to me,
There are vessels I hail on the generous sea.

889

SONNET.

BY WILLIAM ELLERY CHANNING.

An endless round of formless circumstance
The unthinking men go treading day by day,
As in the sparkling sunbeams the motes play,
And, like the busy crowd, keep timeless dance.

Struggles their food, anxiety their mind,
A pile of straws all disarranged and broke;
And tossing in the eddy of a wind,
Or played upon by some quick flail's sharp stroke.

Drink, drink, O men, yon azure's beverage,
Admit the sun's eye to your bandaged brain;
Let the free airs, as free, your thoughts engage,
And exercise to cast the tightening chain
Which now grips round this sinking, fainting age,
In cold paralysis of leperous pain.

CHRISTIAN SONG OF THE MIDDLE AGES.

BY WILLIAM ELLERY CHANNING.

Like waving vine the hard stone bends
Into cathedrals soft and free,
An angel every coping tends,
The fretwork blesses sacredly.

The virgin with the Holy Child,
Shines o'er the altar's golden cross,
A lovely mother pure and mild,
Whose heaven mourns no virtue's loss.

The swelling anthem dies away
In mournful music sweet and slow,
To celebrate that sacred day
On which Christ's blood drank up our woe.

890

THE FUTURE.

BY WILLIAM ELLERY CHANNING.

A sound of music floats upon the wind,
Tempering the discord of the general mind,
A lovely spirits minister to men
As in old times, their ravishment again.
The time has dawned when no more virtue lies,
Sport for the mocking tongues, whose flatteries
Have whispered consolation, but to make
Our destiny a darker semblance take.
Such was the counsel of the wise and meek,
In future times true nobleness to seek,
With reverence and holy hope alive
Which never from his mind his age might drive.
So onward, onward, men of every clime,
Look for the great wise age in coming time,
And as ye feel how it is now your own,
Let all around you breathe its happy tone.

SOLDIERS' GRAVES.

BY W. E. CHANNING.

For fretted roof, God's brave bright sky,
Flaming with light, bends over them.
In place of verse—a people's liberty,
Graved in deep hearts, their requiem;
The fringes, little flowers,—the shining grass;—
Will any for such burial say—Alas!

891

TO MY WIFE

Back from the false and unbelieving earth;
Out from the sorrows circling like a sea;
From woe to joy—from grief to chastened mirth—
True midst the false, true Wife! I come to thee.

Not as I would. The hands of love have wrought
Strange furrows early on this bended brow;
This heart, that beats with thine, it has not sought
Always the Good, as it is seeking now;—

But come I as I am,—come seeking Peace,
And those sweet eyes beam on my soul a sign:
‘Still in this world, O Doubting! get increase,
Since this True Heart is married unto thine!’

“True Heart!” What words to come from tongues like ours!
True Love! yet yields it here below to dwell!
Hush, it is here, as on the mount-top flowers,
Larks in the clouds, sun-beams in prison cell.

We die not all amidst this so much dying,
Look up, dear face! look up—I see the sign;
While speaks that tongue all speaking is not lying;
Two stars there are that shine serene divine.

We die not all amidst this so much dying:
My Own! we know there is no death in this:—
White-winged Seraphs' round the Holy flying
Are next shadowed by the Death of Bliss:

892

We die not all amidst this so much dying,
Look up, dear face! look up—I see the sign;
While speaks that tongue all speaking is not lying;
Two stars there are that shine serene divine.

We die not all amidst this so much dying:
My Own! we know there is no death in this:—
White-winged Seraphs' round the Holy flying
Are next shadowed by the Death of Bliss:

And love we not some little in such fashion?
Less, as the earth the great sky is below—
Know we not something of that wondrous Passion
The awful Guardians of the Godhead know?—

Know we not something of that thick-hushed Thrilling
Pervadeth, like a sword, the Universe,
Sharp, yet O gentle,—Planets, Spirits filling,
Thine eyes, True Wife! and this my humble verse?

Won'drous sharp, and yet how kindly gentle!
Lo! you star-blue it painteth golden warm!
Lo! these white limbs it clothes as with a mantle!
Lo! this war-wasted Heart it fills with calm!

893

For this we met: To give worth to our living,
Worth in our short Time—worth (as we pray) for ever:
Great Prophet Souls, in fiery Out-giving,
Have they not said the Love decayeth never?

For this we met; sick, found a matchless healing,—
And so go on, two Pilgrim souls together—
Two Pilgrim-souls, each to its mate appealing,
For summer-light in wintry world weather.

Alone, unhelped True Wife, we might have traveled,
(Mayhap such Journey had not been amiss,)
But He—the God, Life's tangled web that cancelled,
Pitied us sore; for such Life gave us this.

Praise be to Him! With knees all lowly bended,
See, with one common Thought, we look above:
‘Father of Hearts! alone we Pilgrims wended
But now, what change! what Miracles of Love!’

New Bedford, Mass Werner

894

TO HESTER.

By William Ellery Channing.

A light lies on the Western hill,
A purple on the sleeping sea,
And on the trickling forest rill,
Though bringeth that no joy to me.

The children of the budding Spring
Are mantling in the solemn woods,
And clear the forest minstrels sing
To Nature, in most joyous moods.

But there is that I deeper prize,
Beyond the form of everything—
The smile within thy vivid eyes,
The graces that around thee cling.

895

THE RETREATING ARMY.

By William Ellery Channing.

The pipes no longer sound in gladness,
Nor glisten arms beneath the sun;
They fold their hands in utter sadness,
The eager day is sadly done.

Over the tottering bridge are going—
That wavers in the misty wind—
Some fugitives, few looks bestowing
Upon the stainéd field behind.

The bridge is high upon the mountain,
It was a long ascent to climb;
Beneath, leaps through a mirthful fountain,
Below, the landscape lies sublime:

Green fields that yield to toil's devotion
The heaped-up granary's golden load,
Encircled by the azure ocean—
The lovely land of man's abode.

Above them, where their steps retreating
Seek shelter with the mountain chain,
The misty wind their entrance greeting,
Enfolds them in a dizzy rain.

'Yond the gray rocks the sun is streaming,
On boldly through the threatening storm:
The peaceful clouds float softly dreaming,
The vale is beautiful and warm.

896

TO THE READER.

Far back, when I was young, I had a dream
Of buried Nations; to my eyes did seem
An ancient City, wide with ruins strown,
A soil that in late times was richly sown
With Beauty's increase; it was happy there,
The landscape smiled, and love breathed in the air.
Then in the middle of this City old
A brave Church stood, whose dome was high and bold;
Far fell the light across the echoing floor,
And on the ear the wavy organs pour
Their rolling billows, as the thunders sigh,
When o'er the hills the sudden tempests die;
So, in cathedrals green of tufted pine,
The weeping wind plays harmonies divine.

897

And entered there to me the spirits great,
Who rendered Art their joy and best estate;
I heard wise voices speak in later days,
The repetition of those Artists' praise.

Dreams! I revere them; may we not dispel
The shadowy visions that within us dwell!
Bright shapes and fiery forms, be those our care,
And a gay landscape float around them fair,
Have solid gold for ceiling of their earth,
And in the dust a planetary worth!
Let the Soul journey in the land of dream,
And never may the day, with flattering beam,
Look in and light that land; let us see Rome,
As she stands firm within the Fancy's home.

For never on such shapes the sun shall set
As rise within thee; all things else forget,—
Thy friend, thy work, whatever thou dost know,—
Let all decease, and keep thy faith below,
In the austerer cities of thy soul,
Founded where winds and rains have no control;
Their architecture ribbed with subtlest thought,
Their streets that only phantom feet have sought;
There let the ruins crumble, the decay,
Like distant landscapes, smoothed by parting day.
There build thy churches, as St. Peter's high,
There Raphael paint beneath the inward sky,

898

And the brave Romans,—they were giant men,
Cæsar and Scipio; may they live again,
Stalk through thy inward Forum!—seek no more;
The sands of Europe gleam on Salem's shore.

For if thou art an angel, from the land
Of crystal Heaven, and in thy right hand
Hast the old power to form all things that are,
Can weigh the mote, or whirl the new-born star,
Until it poise itself, and roll in duty,
And thou art sed, like roses, with that Beauty
Which nicer fabrics from the air may steal,—
If thou like Lovers in their trance might feel,—
Still never should thou touch the flowing stream
On which there sailed at morning thy sweet Dream,
Saw nations rise like meadows from the snow,
Saw ceremonies that no courts can show.
Revere thy Dream, seek not the outer part;
The true description reads within the heart.

Dry pages! who may turn you gaily o'er,
Hoping for wine?—forbear, it cannot pour;
Cobwebs are in the measure, and the spring
Is choked with leaves; no birds about it sing,
For Winter's frost has fallen o'er the pool,
And flowers, and trees, and sands obey his rule,
And weary people speak with husky cold,
Dispute like crickets, in the frozen mould.

899

But we must search, and toil, and grope our way;
Shines not the sun for Students every day.
Think! if there is plain need of Virtue here,
Thy native Wit shall sweet the atmosphere.

THE CAMPAGNA.

A graveyard, where some lonely tombs remain,
A desert city, where the long grass waves,
The living figures a slow-moving herd
Of large gray oxen, with their flaunting horns,
Or, keeping watch, a shepherd in his hut;

900

But for the most part still, and wild, and waste,
Its wide green levels rounded by bold hills,
Clothed in the verdure of this Southern soil,
And hinting in its pathways where old Rome
And her proud sons marshalled their fearless men.
Here was the Appian Way; with tombs once lined,
And seats of pleasure, in the elder time,
Where now the sallow, ragged herdsman stalks,
Himself, the ruins, and the scene confused.
These plains were furnished proudly as those hills,
Where the Eternal City rears her towers,
And by her shadows from the fading past
Attracts devoted pilgrims to her shrines.
How bathes the desolation Nature's love
In flowing sunlight, and the tall grass waves,
Proud as the tresses on a Roman brow,
O'er all the crumbling fragments, buried deep.
And from the shadow of the graceful hills
A veil of silentness the twilight weaves,
And drapes the elder nations in the gray,
Departing presence of the Modern day.

Here were their houses; near, a Temple stood;
This was a Circus; there, the cheerful home
Of some good family. I see the sons
Come running there at eve, to please the eyes
Of the fond mother, who by yonder gate
Stands in columnar beauty, like the shape
Of some old Goddess exquisite in Heaven.
There bends a hoary Grandsire o'er his staff,

901

Who seeks his home upon yon rising ground,
Whence we comprise the snow-capped Apennines,
And for his children's children, who did then
Worship the white-haired elder of their line.
Now sweep the way a troop of Chariots,
The solid stones grating their brazen wheels,
And with red nostrils fly the headlong steeds,
In the light harness panting to escape.
In his white, floating robe the charioteer
Bends forward eager, for behind the train
Rush whirling on him, as if their fierce speed
Would swallow the swift conqueror in front.
To that sweet Temple, in slow march, proceeds
A group of lovely Maidens, to the shrine
Of sea-born Venus bear some offerings fine,—
Branches, and wreaths of myrtle, and far more,
Pulsing most tenderly their virgin hearts.
Near this fair band, I see a youth advance,
Like an Apollo in his noble form.
As the soft train of maidens fill the door,
And with slow motion, graceful as a stream,
Then quietly flow through and o'er the porch,
He silently approaches, with light steps
Retreats behind the pillars, nor in vain;
As if the Goddess favors, in the train
He sees that modest form he long has loved,
A maiden, with a snowy fillet bound
Upon her low, white brow, beneath whose shade
The large dark eyes slowly excite his soul
Who gazes on them to celestial hope.

902

As if in sport, her playful head she bends
Upon the column of her marble neck,
Until he sees her face, and the round form
Hid in her robe of early Womanhood.
It is not long before she idles there,
Behind the column; now have gone the twain,
Pass in the open space, and so away.
I see them turning, where the surface falls,
And look back, laughing at their sweet escape.

Figures of Beauty! who in the old days,
Ruled by some laws that influenced your lives,
Worshipped the delicacies of your dreams,
And kept the rites that later times disown,
How are you only flitting o'er these plains,
Where man once dwelt, now this wide solitude?
Was something blighting in the fevered eye
Of Christian martyrs that befooled old Rome,
And brought the second dear delusion in,
Than worship of old Gods more difficult,
The reverence for something past belief?
I love the Ruins more, be as it may,
Than all thy pomp, and worship, and gay shows.
'T is like the prostrate forest, where we touch
The trunks of giants who for ages past
Had stretched their tall tops to the arms of Heaven,
And in some hissing whirlwind toppled down,
Tearing a path among the lesser growths,
With earnest rush and roar of branches breaking,
To serve content the riches of that soil.

903

No melancholy voice whispers from thee,
Once the home of men, mighty Campagna!
Along thy graceful swells no sorrow steals,
Though there Malaria fastens his wolf-tusks
Upon the Shepherd's throat, and sends him home
To scale his mountains, yellow as the leaf
That on the ash flutters in autumn frosts.
Shall not the forests of Humanity,
Like the thick pines that load the ravine's side,
After their blossoms, fruits, and leaves have done
Whatever duty fitted them to do,
Gracefully droop, and to the earth rush down,
Tearing away a place for them to grow
Who live in after ages, while their boughs,
And all of them that was, fattens the soil,
In which those Nations who come after thrive?
Of old times these ruins are mementos,
Proverbs, and saws, and Bibles of their art,
Which like the necessary seeds have slept,
Safe covered in the dew, and frost, and snow
Of twenty centuries, for the Planter's hand.

We rapidly rush downward to our graves,
Time, and the storms, and winters are upon us,
Yet let us meet them with an equal heart,
Secure in the old laws which bind the race,
Secure in Heaven, that never was yet false.
In Nature's hand, why should not we delight,
E'en if she paints the plain and silent fields,
Or like a mother softly parts the locks

904

Of whispering verdure on the column's crown?
Is not her hand still perfect as of old?
Has she yet lost one string from all her lyre?
The nations crumble, down sinks tower and town,
The Greeks are fancies in a dreamer's eye,
The Romans live in song that few may read,—
'Tis all man leaves behind him, his decay.
And Nature, with a song of even sweetness,
And Love's caresses, twines the landscape round,
And ere the Greek is buried in his grave,
Or ere the Roman's cuirass rusts away,
With a light, soft, and graceful depth of shade,
She veils the downfall of these human walls,
So soothingly she touches them with rain,
So tenderly her frost strikes through their joints.

Come to these fields, ye rash, deluded tribe,
Who in thick cities, or in crowded towns,
Inflate your lungs, or with well-sharpened pen
Drive out a swarm of serious sentences,
That well declare the moral of our day,
How it alone is Age majestical,
And it alone for evermore shall last!—
Come to these fields, and sit upon these stones.
The stern old Romans are beneath thy feet,
Above thy head the soft Italian skies,
Pulsates the sweet wind like the fire of morn,—
Come to these fields, and listen to their voice.
O shallow host! O vain and idle band!
Here, on the relics of a master tribe,

905

Confess your vanities, and sit rebuked!
For ye are like the critic, whose wise head
Weighs most exactly in its shining scales
That work of Art, whose faintest line his hand
Never might sculpture; in whose soul no voice
Of linked sweetness from some subtler life
Draws out for him the meaning of the lines;
Who makes the mischief of the thing he scolds.
So would ye weigh golden Antiquity,
Balance the deeds of men by centuries,
Erase the bad, and shape a perfect Good,
That for the perfect state should firmly stand,
Decent, and true, and lovely as a hope.
'Tis like the sculptor, who, with cunning hand,
Embalmed in marble a dear mistress' form,
Until he thought she lived, and clasped her charms;
Alas! how cold, how still, and too resigned!
So mould you at your statue, and then say,—
“Live thou for ever by this perfect rule
We have decided for thee; it is just.”
And Nature comes, and with a breath of wind
Scatters them o'er thy levels, green Campagna!

Farewell! farewell for ever to thee, Rome!
Fade the last circles of thy mountain dome,
Through rosy twilight's intermingling ray.
Farewell to thee! farewell the southern day!

From a cold region sorrowful I came;
Thou kindled in my heart a searching flame;
The golden orange shone, the vineyards gay,—
My life was all festooned with lovely May.

906

Farewell to Rome! farewell, ye ruins high,
Whose shattered arches float upon the sky!
Farewell, ye giant Baths, where grandeur dwells!
Farewell, beneath the ground, the Martyr-cells!

Thou, Rome! art centred in my inmost heart,—
Palace of Kings, great storehouse of fine art,
Where Virgil sang his mellow summer hymn,
Where Cæsar made all lesser fortunes dim,
Where Raphael with his pencil moulded men,
Where Michel with his chisel lived again.

Farewell to Rome! a long, a last Farewell!
I shall not hear again the Vesper bell,
Nor stand among the courteous multitudes;
Farewell!—now for the sea's green solitudes!

They rocked me in my dreams, those hissing storms;
I saw a circle of divinest forms
Around the cottage where my Ellen dwelt,
My children's kisses on my lips I felt,
And yet the ambitious surge walled out the sky,
And merry sprays hissed at our fore-top high.

Yet on we sped, and, in the calmer time,
Went o'er the blue sea in a mood sublime,
Watching the lazy drift-weed on its course,
Its thousand leagues sailing by inward force.
So blue those summer days, that Heaven seemed
As if it only slept, or idly dreamed.

907

Then boiled across our decks the Gulf's hot blast,
And weighed the sails, till bent the lofty mast,
And dizzy waves menaced our headlong flight;
But on we sped, like Sea-bird small and light,
Still in the foaming current shot the bow,
We fed the ocean with unceasing prow;—
Away, nor slacks the motion of the steed,
Through rushing waters, and the whirlwind's speed.

Farewell to Rome! farewell the painted mask
Called life or friendship!—Lethe's all I ask,
To steep my soul in draughts of murmuring wine
And sing to Gods and men a mystic line.
Farewell to Rome! good-by to cant and show!
He who may love me gives me blow for blow;
Farewell to rule and order! for the Muse
She does all things but bravery refuse.
New England, homestead, friend or hope shall fly,
This plaything for a moment, earth and sky,
Like swift rack driven by the western breeze,
Swift o'er the land, and swifter o'er the seas.
Go, lonely, sad, to men a Hermit seem,
Outrun your life, outdream your subtlest dream,
Live on dry pulse, and quench thy thirst in brooks,
Thy only friendship how the bottom looks,
The world, the day, their Aims, their Thoughts refuse,—
Farewell to Rome!—there's greater for thy use.

908

THE AMERICAN SLAVE TO KOSSUTH.

BY W. E. CHANNING.

Where the dark Danube proudly runs,
Mayhap your heart, your hope may be;
There live your brothers,—noble ones,—
For whom you crossed the rolling sea.

And many a vine-clad cottage stands,
And peasant hearts throb aching there;
You pray, you weep, you lift your hands
To God,—for life, for light, your prayer.

You think of your dear sister's form,
Crushed by the impious Haynau's blow;
Your feelings true, your heart so warm,
Feel, then, for us, feel for our wo!

Slaves in the land of Freedom bright,
Slaves on the wild Missouri's side,
And Texan vales in sunny light,
Slaves on the old Potomac's tide!

The lash we feel, the chains we wear,—
God of the Free! shall Kossuth come,
Nor strike for us, and empty air
Pour from his mouth for his lost home?

909

Awake! thou burning Magyar soul!
Strike for thy brother slaves in view!
Then calmly shall the ocean roll,
Nor vex thy heart so warm and true.

Where are our wives?—to torture sold!
Kidnapped our children,—love disgraced!
Hope, home, affection, all for gold
At once torn out, and life effaced.

O Kossuth! Magyar! Man, at last!
Betray us not, nor let there be
Our curses lingering on thy past,
Our hate a household thing for thee.

Are we not men?—are we not slaves?
By the dark Danube there's no more:
Thy brothers found right glorious graves
Along his wild, romantic shore:

And we would die—but galls the chain;
Die—but in prison foul our lot:
By inches killed, the wretch's pain,
Who, dying, lives by all forgot.

Strike, then, for us, with thought and prayer,
God give thee power, most noble heart!
Nor waste thy words on empty air,
But, flying slave, take the slave's part!

910

TO KOSSUTH.

BY W. E. CHANNING.

Spurn! spurn the bribe! ford not the Southron river!
Death courses in its crimson tide for ever;
A flood of sin too strong for man's recalling,
Where slavery reigns, and breeds its crimes appalling.

What freezing mockery to make slavery's speeches,
And waft thy blessing o'er its bloody reaches!
That soil wide streaming with the negro's anguish;
Their fetters clank, in prisons still they languish.

Spurned, scorned and branded, they survive, half dying—
Wives sold, child sold—the scourge, the scourge replying—
Our brother-men—true rulers of this nation,
Victims of what? but thee and thy ovation!

On thee their deathless scorn as traitor hanging,
Around thy neck their chains of horror clanging,
Thou dar'st not meddle with domestic duties,
And will accept fell slavery and its beauties.

Our bragging land will wreck, and Freedom perish;
God has some heart, nor doth Hell's statutes cherish;
Soon shall the States be lashed by dread commotion—
One fate to all, one flood, one vengeful ocean.

Those tortured hearts to Heaven for life are crying;
God's angel to their thirsty hopes replying,
“The day shall dawn, this terror dark abated,
I am not spoused with Sin, with Satan mated.”

911

From dismal swamps of Carolina's planting,
From Georgia's hills, the volleyed hymn is chanting,
“Give back our freedom! slaves all past describing;
Hungarian martyr, spurn their loathsome bribing!

“Demand our prompt deliverance! cry in thunder,
And stir the torpid soul to joy and wonder!
Burst off these chains, our freedom just demanding,—
Then ford yon stream, each heart thine own commanding!”

THE BLUEBERRY SWAMP.

BY W. M. CHANNING.

Orange groves mid-tropic lie,
Festal for the Spaniard's eye,
And the red pomegranate grows
Where the luscious Southwest blows
Myrrh and spikenard in the East
Multiply the Persian's feast,
And our Northern wilderness
Boasts its fruits our lips to bless.
Wouldst enjoy a magic sight,
And so heal vexation's spite?
Hasten to my Blueberry swamp,—
Green o'erhead the wild bird's camp;
Here in thickets bending low,
Thickly piled the blueberries grow,
Freely spent on youth and maid,
In the deep swamp's cooling shade.

912

Pluck the clusters plump and full,
Handful after handful pull!
Choose which path, the fruitage hangs,—
Fear no more the griping fangs
Of the garden's spaded stuff,—
This is healthy, done enough.
Pull away! the afternoon
Dies beyond the meadow soon.
Art thou a good citizen?
Move into a Blueberry fen.
Here are leisure, wealth and ease,
Sure thy taste and thought to please,
Drugged with Nature's spicy tunes,
Hummed upon the summer noons.

Rich is he that asks no more
Than of Blueberries a store,
Who can snatch the clusters off,
Pleased with himself and than enough
Fame?—the chickadee is calling,—
Love?—the fat pine cones are falling,
Heaven?—the berries in the air,—
Eternity?—their juice so rare.
And if thy sorrows will not fly,
Then get thee down and softly die.
In the eddy of the breeze,
Leave the world 'neath those high trees.
Only some admiring fly
Will buzz about thee left to dry,
And the purple runnel's tune
Melodize thy mossy swoon.

913

O golden green

O golden green on autumn's breast
Thou wilt not bring my sorrows rest;
Console the distant azure hill,
The muse of cloud and tree and rill.

My heart was sad, I walked alone
Around the lake with shadows sown;
For me no sunny vista smiled,
No friends no love my doom beguiled.

And all I had was memory's shrine
Of withered hopes, no longer mine,
O golden green on autumns breast,
Thou wilt not bring my sorrows rest.

W. E. Channing Concord, Mass (1850)

914

LASHED TO THE MAST.

BY W. E. CHANNING.

It was the brave old Farragut,
And he these words did say,—
“Now lash me to the foremast fast,
And then boys fire away;
They robbed our forts, our arms, our ships,
Our sailors' hearts remain,
Take back your own and break their whips,
And free the doomed from pain.”

Then boldly up for Mobile Bay,
Lashed to the mast he steered,
“Sail for the forts,” cheerful he cried,
As they the passage neared;
Push near and pour your shots within,
And see if Gaines will stand,
The traitors robbed our forts and arms,
We pay them over hand.”

Then sank a faithful heart in death,—
Our Craven, in Tecumsch's hold,
A noble soul, a hero, brave,
Like Farragut both sweet and bold.
While flew the shot and shell amain,
No shelter on the open mast,—
They poured their rebel fire like rain,
But Farragut ne'er cried avast.

“Make for the ram and run her down,
All, all my fleet, speed on speed fast,
Tear out her sides and spoil her bows,
Our wooden fleet else her repast.
And deadly was the foe that day,
The iron monster Tennessee,
An insult to the patriots bold,
Who keep their volleys for the free,

And Farragut now cried again,—
“She yields, I see the white flag wave,
The forts are ours, the traitors fall,
And Mobile Bay again is brave;
One hope, one heart, one home for all
Shall yet our guilty sons recall,
And from the pain and peril past,
Thank God they lashed me to the mast.”

915

Homeward.

A far-off shore
And a beating tide,
With a rustling breeze
Away we ride,—
Sing for the sea,
Sing, sing cheerily.

Swift our painted bow
Cuts the hissing foam,
Swift fly the eddies behind,
Swift we rush towards home,
Sing for the sea,
Sing, sing cheerily.

On the white beach stands
My love with her flowing hair.
She waves her small hands
For love, not despair;
Sing for the sea,
Sing, sing, cheerily.

O! blow heavy breeze,
Bend our mast, load our sail,
Rush and dash onward fast,
And roll to the gale;—
Sing for the sea,
Sing, sing merrily.

916

DEDICATION.

Silent and serene,
The plastic soul emancipates her kind.
She leaves the generations to their fate,
Uncompromised by grief. She cannot weep:
She sheds no tears for us,—our mother, Nature!
She is ne'er rude nor vexed, not rough or careless;
Out of temper ne'er, patient as sweet, though winds
In winter brush her leaves away, and time
To human senses breathes through frost.
My friend!
Learn, from the joy of Nature, thus to be:
Not only all resigned to thy worst fears,
But, like herself, superior to them all!
Nor merely superficial in thy smiles;
And through the inmost fibres of thy heart
May goodness flow, and fix in that
The ever-lapsing tides, that lesser depths
Deprive of half their salience. Be, throughout,
True as the inmost life that moves the world,
And in demeanor show a firm content,
Annihilating change.
Thus Henry lived,
Considerate to his kind. His love bestowed
Was not a gift in fractions, half-way done;
But with some mellow goodness, like a sun,
He shone o'er mortal hearts, and taught their buds
To blossom early, thence ripe fruit and seed.
Forbearing too oft counsel, yet with blows
By pleasing reason urged he touched their thought
As with a mild surprise, and they were good,
Even if they knew not whence that motive came;
Nor yet suspected that from Henry's heart—
His warm, confiding heart—the impulse flowed.

917

MEMORIAL VERSES

I
TO HENRY

Hear'st thou the sobbing breeze complain
How faint the sunbeams light the shore?—
Thy heart, more fixed than earth or main,
Henry! thy faithful heart is o'er.

Oh, weep not thou thus vast a soul,
Oh, do not mourn this lordly man,
As long as Walden's waters roll,
And Concord river fills a span.

For thoughtful minds in Henry's page
Large welcome find, and bless his verse,
Drawn from the poet's heritage,
From wells of right and nature's source.

Fountains of hope and faith! inspire
Most stricken hearts to lift this cross;
His perfect trust shall keep the fire,
His glorious peace disarm the loss!

II
WHITE POND

Gem of the wood and playmate of the sky,
How glad on thee we rest a weary eye,
When the late ploughman from the field goes home,
And leaves us free thy solitudes to roam!

918

Thy sand the naiad gracefully had pressed,
Thy proud majestic grove the nymph caressed,
Who with cold Dian roamed thy virgin shade,
And, clothed in chastity, the chase delayed,
To the close ambush hastening at high noon,
When the hot locust spins his Zendic rune.

Here might Apollo touch the soothing lyre,
As through the darkening pines the day's low fire
Sadly burns out; or Venus nigh delay
With young Adonis, while the moon's still ray
Mellows the fading foliage, as the sky
Throws her blue veil of twilight mystery.

No Greece to-day; no dryad haunts the road
Where sun-burned farmers their poor cattle goad;
The black crow caws above yon steadfast pine,
And soft Mitchella's odorous blooms entwine
These mossy rocks, where piteous catbirds scream,
And Redskins flicker through the white man's dream.
Who haunts thy wood-path?—ne'er in summer pressed
Save by the rabbit's foot; its winding best
Kept a sure secret, till the tracks, in snow
Dressed for their sleds, the lumbering woodmen plough.

How soft yon sunbeam paints the hoary trunk,
How fine the glimmering leaves to shadow sunk!
Then streams across our grassy road the line
Drawn firmly on the sward by the straight pine;
And curving swells in front our feet allure,
While far behind the curving swells endure;
Silent, if half pervaded by the hum
Of the contented cricket. Nature's sum
Is infinite devotion. Days nor time
She emulates,—nurse of a perfect prime.

919

Herself the spell, free to all hearts; the spring
Of multiplied contentment, if the ring
With which we're darkly bound.
The pleasant road
Winds as if Beauty here familiar trode;
Her touch the devious curve persuasive laid,
Her tranquil forethought each bright primrose stayed
In its right nook. And where the glorious sky
Shines in, and bathes the verdant canopy,
The prospect smiles delighted, while the day
Contemns the village street and white highway.

Creature all beauteous! In thy future state
Let beauteous Thought a just contrivance date;
Let altars glance along thy lonely shore,
Relumed; and on thy leafy forest floor
Tributes be strewn to some divinity
Of cheerful mien and rural sanctity.
Pilgrims might dancing troop their souls to heal;
Cordials, that now the shady coves conceal,
Reft from thy crystal shelves, we should behold,
And by their uses by thy charms controlled.

Naught save the sallow herdsboy tempts the shore,
His charge neglecting, while his feet explore
Thy shallow margins, when the August flame
Burns on thy edge and makes existence tame;
Naught save the blue king-fisher rattling past,
Or leaping fry that breaks his lengthened fast;
Naught save the falling hues when Autumn's sigh
Beguiles the maple to a sad reply;
Or some peculiar air a sapless leaf
Guides o'er thy ocean by its compass brief.

Save one, whom often here glad Nature found
Seated beneath yon thorn, or on the ground

920

Poring content, when frosty Autumn bore
Of wilding fruit to earth that bitter store;
And when the building winter spanned in ice
Thy trembling limbs, soft lake! then each device
Traced in white figures on thy seamed expanse
This child of problems caught in gleeful trance.
Oh, welcome he to thrush and various jay,
And echoing veery, period of the day!
To each clear hyla trilling the new spring,
And late gray goose buoyed on his icy wing;
Bold walnut-buds admire the gentle hand,
While the shy sassafras their rings expand
On his approach, and thy green forest wave,
White Pond! to him fraternal greetings gave.
The far white clouds that fringe the topmost pine
For his delight their fleecy folds decline;
The sunset worlds melted their ores for him,
And lightning touched his thought to seraphim.

Clear wave, thou wert not vainly made, I know,
Since this sweet man of Nature thee could owe
A genial hour, some hope that flies afar,
And revelations from thy guiding star.
Oh, may that muse, of purer ray, recount,
White Pond! thy glory; and, while anthems mount
In strains of splendor, rich as sky and air,
Thy praise, my Henry, might those verses share.
For He who made the lake made it for thee,
So good and great, so humble, yet so free;
And waves and woods we cannot fairly prove,
Like souls, descended from celestial Jove.

With thee he is associate. Hence I love
Thy gleams, White Pond! thy dark, familiar grove;

921

Thy deep green shadows, clefts of pasture ground;
Mayhap a distant bleat the single sound,
One distant cloud, the sailor of the sky,
One voice, to which my inmost thoughts reply.

III
A LAMENT

A wail for the dead and the dying!
They fall in the wind through the Gilead tree,
Off the sunset's gold, off hill and sea;
They fall on the grave where thou art lying,
Like a voice of woe, like a woman sighing,
Moaning her buried, her broken love,
Never more joy,—never on earth, never in heaven above!

Ah, me! was it for this I came here?
Christ! didst thou die that for this I might live?
An anguish, a grief like the heart o'er the bier,—
Grief that I cannot bury, nor against it can strive,—
Life-long to haunt me, while breath brings to-morrow,
Falling in spring and in winter, rain and sleet sorrow,
Prest from my fate that its future ne'er telleth,
Spring from the unknown that ever more welleth.

Fair, O my fields! soft, too, your hours!
Mother of Earth, thou art pleasant to see!
I walk o'er thy sands, and I bend o'er thy flowers.
There is nothing, O nothing, thou givest me,
Nothing, O nothing, I take from thee.
What are thy heavens, so blue and so fleeting?
Storm, if I reck not, no echo meeting
In this cold heart, that is dead to its beating,
Caring for nothing, parting or greeting!

922

IV
MORRICE LAKE

(Written for E. S. Hotham.)

On Morrice Lake I saw the heron flit
And the wild wood-duck from her summer perch
Scale painted by, trim in her plumes, all joy;
And the old mottled frog repeat his bass,
Song of our mother Earth, the child so dear.
There, in the stillness of the forest's night,
Naught but the interrupted sigh of the breeze,
Or the far panther's cry, that, o'er the lake,
Touched with its sudden irony and woke
The sleeping shore; and then I hear its crash,
Its deep alarm-gun on the speechless night,—
A falling tree, hymn of the centuries.

No sadness haunts the happy lover's mind,
On thy lone shores, thou anthem of the woods,
Singing her calm reflections; the tall pines,
The sleeping hill-side and the distant sky,
And thou! the sweetest figure in the scene,
Truest and best, the darling of my heart.

O Thou, the ruler of these forest shades,
And by thy inspiration who controll'st
The wild tornado in its narrow path,
And deck'st with fairy wavelets the small breeze,
That like some lover's sigh entreats the lake;
O Thou, who in the shelter of these groves
Build'st up the life of nature, as a truth
Taught to dim shepherds on their star-lit plains,
Outwatching midnight; who in these deep shades

923

Secur'st the bear and catamount a place,
Safe from the glare of the infernal gun,
And leav'st the finny race their pebbled home,
Domed with thy watery sunshine, as a mosque;
God of the solitudes! kind to each thing
That creeps or flies, or launches forth its webs,—
Lord! in thy mercies, Father! in thy heart,
Cherish thy wanderer in these sacred groves;
Thy spirit send as erst o'er Jordan's stream,
Spirit and love and mercy for his needs.
Console him with thy seasons as they pass,
And with an unspent joy attune his soul
To endless rapture. Be to him,—thyself
Beyond all sensual things that please the eye,
Locked in his inmost being; let no dread,
Nor storm with its wild splendors, nor the tomb,
Nor all that human hearts can sear or scar,
Or cold forgetfulness that withers hope,
Or base undoing of all human love,
Or those faint sneers that pride and riches cast
On unrewarded merit,—be, to him,
Save as the echo from uncounted depths
Of an unfathomable past, burying
All present griefs.
Be merciful, be kind!
Has he not striven, true and pure of heart,
Trusting in thee? Oh, falter not, my child!
Great store of recompense thy future holds,
Thy love's sweet councils and those faithful hearts
Never to be estranged, that know thy worth.

924

V
TEARS IN SPRING

The swallow is flying over,
But he will not come to me;
He flits, my daring rover,
From land to land, from sea to sea;
Where hot Bermuda's reef
Its barrier lifts to fortify the shore,
Above the surf's wild roar
He darts as swiftly o'er,—
But he who heard that cry of spring
Hears that no more, heeds not his wing.

How bright the skies that dally
Along day's cheerful arch,
And paint the sunset valley!
How redly buds the larch!
Blackbirds are singing,
Clear hylas ringing,
Over the meadow the frogs proclaim
The coming of Spring to boy and dame,
But not to me,—
Nor thee!

And golden crowfoot's shining near,
Spring everywhere that shoots 'tis clear,
A wail in the wind is all I hear;
A voice of woe for a lover's loss,
A motto for a travelling cross,—
And yet it is mean to mourn for thee,
In the form of bird or blossom or bee.

925

Cold are the sods of the valley to-day
Where thou art sleeping,
That took thee back to thy native clay;
Cold,—if above thee the grass is peeping
And the patient sunlight creeping,
While the bluebird sits on the locust-bough
Whose shadow is painted across thy brow,
And carols his welcome so sad and sweet
To the Spring that comes and kisses his feet.

VI
THE MILL BROOK

The cobwebs close are pencils of meal,
Painting the beams unsound,
And the bubbles varnish the glittering wheel
As it rumbles round and round.
Then the Brook began to talk
And the water found a tongue,
“We have danced a long dance,” said the gossip,
“A long way have we danced and sung.”

“Rocked in a cradle of sanded stone
Our waters wavered ages alone,
Then glittered at the spring
On whose banks the feather-ferns cling;
Down jagged ravines
We fled tortured,
And our wild eddies nurtured
Their black hemlock screens;
And o'er the soft meadows we rippled along,
And soothed their lone hours with a pensive song,—

926

Now at this mill we're plagued to stop,
To let our miller grind the crop.

“See the clumsy farmers come
With jolting wagons far from home;
We grind their grist,
It wearied a season to raise,
Weeks of sunlight and weeks of mist,
Days for the drudge and Holydays.
To me it fatal seems,
Thus to kill a splendid summer,
And cover a landscape of dreams
In the acre of work and not murmur.
I could lead them where berries grew,
Sweet flag-root and gentian blue,
And they will not come and laugh with me,
Where my water sings in its joyful glee;
Yet small the profit, and short-lived for them,
Blown from Fate's whistle like flecks of steam.

“The old mill counts a few short years,—
Ever my rushing water steers!
It glazed the starving Indian's red,
On despair or pumpkin fed,
And oceans of turtle notched ere he came,
Species consumptive to Latin and fame,
(Molluscous dear or orphan fry,
Sweet to Nature, I know not why).

“Thoughtful critics say that I
From yon mill-dam draw supply.—
I cap the scornful Alpine heads,
Amazons and seas have beds,
But I am their trust and lord.
Me ye quaff by bank and board,

927

Me ye pledge the iron-horse,
I float Lowells in my source.

“The farmers lug their bags and say,—
‘Neighbor, wilt thou grind the grist to-day?’
Grind it with his nervous thumbs!
Clap his aching shells behind it,
Crush it into crumbs!

“No! his dashboards from the wood
Hum the dark pine's solitude;
Fractious teeth are of the quarry
That I crumble in a hurry,—
Far-fetched duty is to me
To turn this old wheel carved of a tree.

“I like the maples on my side,
Dead leaves, the darting trout;
Laconic rocks (they sometime put me out)
And moon or stars that ramble with my tide;
The polished air, I think I could abide.

“This selfish race who prove me,
Who use, but do not love me!
Their undigested meal
Pays not my labor on the wheel.
I better like the sparrow
Who sips a drop at morn,
Than the men who vex my marrow,
To grind their cobs and corn.”

Then said I to my brook, “Thy manners mend!
Thou art a tax on earth for me to spend.”

One of the most labored pieces I ever wrote. But it was not helped by work. W. E. C.

928

VII
STILLRIVER, THE WINTER WALK

The busy city or the heated car,
The unthinking crowd, the depot's deafening jar,
These me befit not, but the snow-clad hill
From whose white steeps the rushing torrents fill
Their pebbly beds, and as I look content
At the red Farmhouse to the summit lent,
There,—underneath that hospitable elm,
The broad ancestral tree, that is the helm
To sheltered hearts,—not idly ask in vain,
Why was I born,—the heritage of pain?

The gliding trains desert the slippery road,
The weary drovers wade to their abode;
I hear the factory bell, the cheerful peal
That drags cheap toil from many a hurried meal.
How dazzling on the hill-side shines the crust,
A sheen of glory unprofaned by dust!
And where thy wave, Stillriver, glides along,
A stream of Helicon unknown in song,
The pensive rocks are wreathed in snow-drifts high
That glance through thy soft tones like witchery.

To Fancy we are sometimes company,
And Solitude's the friendliest face we see.
Some serious village slowly through I pace,
No form of all its life mine own to trace;
Where the cross mastiff growls with blood-shot eye,
And barks and growls and waits courageously;
Its peaceful mansions my desire allure

929

Not each to enter and its fate endure,—
But Fancy fills the window with its guest;
The laughing maid,—her swain who breaks the jest;
The solemn spinster staring at the fire,
Slow fumbling for his pipe, her solemn sire;
The loud-voiced parson, fat with holy cheer,
The butcher ruddy as the atmosphere;
The shop-boy loitering with his parcels dull,
The rosy school-girls of enchantment full.

Away from these the solitary farm
Has for the mind a strange domestic charm,
On some keen winter morning when the snow
Heaps roof and casement, lane and meadow through.
Yet in those walls how many a heart is beating,
What spells of joy, of sorrow, there are meeting!
One dreads the post, as much the next, delay,
Lest precious tidings perish on their way.
The graceful Julia sorrows to refuse
Her teacher's mandate, while the boy let loose
Drags out his sled to coast the tumbling hill,
Whence from the topmost height to the low rill,
Shot like an arrow from the Indian's bow,
Downward he bursts, life, limb, and all below
The maddening joy his dangerous impulse gives;
In age, how slow the crazy fact revives!

Afar I track the railroad's gradual bend,
I feel the distance, feel the silence lend
A far romantic charm to farmhouse still,
And spurn the road that plods the weary hill,—
When like an avalanche the thundering car
Whirls past, while bank and rail deplore the jar.
The wildly piercing whistle through my ear
Tells me I fright the anxious engineer;

930

I turn,—the distant train and hurrying bell
Of the far crossing and its dangers tell.
And yet upon the hill-side sleeps the farm,
Nor maid or man or boy to break the charm.

Delightful Girl! youth in that farmhouse old,
The tender darling in the tender fold,—
Thy promised hopes fulfilled as Nature sought,
With days and years, the income of thy thought;
Sweet and ne'er cloying, beautiful yet free,
Of truth the best, of utter constancy;
Thy cheek whose blush the mountain wind laid on,
Thy mouth whose lips were rosebuds in the sun;
Thy bending neck, the graces of thy form,
Where art could heighten, but ne'er spoil the charm;
Pride of the village school for thy pure word,
Thy pearls alone those glistening sounds afford;
Sure in devotion, guileless and content,
The old farmhouse is thy right element.
Constance! such maids as thou delight the eye,
In all the Nashua's vales that round me lie!

And thus thy brother was the man no less,—
Bred of the fields and with the wind's impress.
With hand as open as his heart was free,
Of strength half-fabled mixed with dignity.
Kind as a boy, he petted dog and hen,
Coaxed his slow steers, nor scared the crested wren.
And not far off the spicy farming sage,
Twisted with heat and cold, and cramped with age,
Who grunts at all the sunlight through the year
And springs from bed each morning with a cheer.
Of all his neighbors he can something tell,—
'Tis bad, whate'er, we know, and like it well!—

931

The bluebird's song he hears the first in spring,
Shoots the last goose bound South on freezing wing.

Ploughed and unploughed the fields look all the same,
White as the youth's first love or ancient's fame;
Alone the chopper's axe awakes the hills,
And echoing snap the ice-encumbered rills;
Deep in the snow he wields the shining tool,
Nor dreads the icy blast, himself as cool.
Seek not the parlor, nor the den of state
For heroes brave; make up thy estimate
From these tough bumpkins clad in country mail,
Free as their air and full without detail.

No gothic arch our shingle Pæstum boasts,—
Its pine cathedral is the style of posts,—
No crumbling abbey draws the tourist there
To trace through ivied windows pictures rare,
Nor the first village squire allows his name
From aught illustrious or debauched by fame.

That sponge profane who drains away the bar
Of yon poor inn extracts the mob's huzza;
Conscious of morals lofty as their own,
The glorious Democrat,—his life a loan.
And mark the preacher nodding o'er the creed,
With wooden text, his heart too soft to bleed.
The Æsculapius of this little State,
A typhus-sage, sugars his pills in fate,
Buries three patients to adorn his gig,
Buys foundered dobbins or consumptive pig;
His wealthy pets he kindly thins away,
Gets in their wills,—and ends them in a day.
Nor shall the strong schoolmaster be forgot,
With fatal eye, who boils the grammar-pot;

932

Blessed with large arms he deals contusions round,
While even himself his awful hits confound.

Pregnant the hour when at the tailor's store,
Some dusty Bob a mail bangs through the door.
Sleek with good living, virtuous as the Jews,
The village squires look wise, desire the news.
The paper come, one reads the falsehood there,
A trial lawyer, lank-jawed as despair.
Here, too, the small oblivious deacon sits,
Once gross with proverbs, now devoid of wits,
And still by courtesy he feebly moans,
Threadbare injunctions in more threadbare tones.
Sly yet demure, the eager babes crowd in,
Pretty as angels, ripe in pretty sin.
And the postmaster, suction-hose from birth,
The hardest and the tightest screw on earth;
His price as pungent as his hyson green,
His measure heavy on the scale of lean.

A truce to these aspersions, as I see
The winter's orb burn through yon leafless tree,
Where far beneath the track Stillriver runs,
And the vast hill-side makes a thousand suns.
This crystal air, this soothing orange sky,
Possess our lives with their rich sorcery.
We thankful muse on that superior Power
That with his splendor loads the sunset hour,
And by the glimmering streams and solemn woods
In glory walks and charms our solitudes.

O'er the far intervale that dimly lies
In snowy regions placid as the skies,
Some northern breeze awakes the sleeping field,
And like enchanted smoke the great drifts yield

933

Their snowy curtains to the restless air;
Then build again for architect's despair
The alabaster cornice or smooth scroll
That the next moment in new forms unroll.

From Groton Junction (now Ayer) to Lancaster along the railroad.

VIII
TRURO

I

Ten steps it lies from off the sea,
Whose angry breakers score the sand,
A valley of the sleeping land,
Where chirps the cricket quietly.

The aster's bloom, the copses' green,
Grow darker in the softened sun,
And silent here day's course is run,
A sheltered spot that smiles serene.

It reaches far from shore to shore,
Nor house in sight, nor ship or wave,
A silent valley sweet and grave,
A refuge from the sea's wild roar.

Nor gaze from yonder gravelly height,—
Beneath, the crashing billows beat,
The rolling surge of tempests meet
The breakers in their awful might.—

And inland birds soft warble here,
Where golden-rods and yarrow shine,
And cattle pasture—sparest kine!
A rural place for homestead dear.

934

Go not then, traveller, nigh the shore!
In this soft valley muse content,
Nor brave the cruel element,
That thunders at the valley's door.

And bless the little human dell,
The sheltered copsewood snug and warm,—
Retreat from yon funereal form,
Nor tempt the booming surges' knell.

II
THE OLD WRECKER

He muses slow along the shore,
A stooping form, his wrinkled face
Bronzed dark with storm, no softer grace
Of hope; old, even to the core.

He heeds not ocean's wild lament,
No breaking seas that sight appall,—
The storms he likes, and as they fall
His gaze grows eager, seaward bent.

He grasps at all, e'en scraps of twine,
None is too small, and if some ship
Her bones beneath the breakers dip,
He loiters on his sandy line.

Lonely as ocean is his mien,
He sorrows not, nor questions fate,
Unsought, is never desolate,
Nor feels his lot, nor shifts the scene.

Weary he drags the sinking beach,
Undaunted by the cruel strife,

935

Alive, yet not the thing of life,
A shipwrecked ghost that haunts the reach.

He breathes the spoil of wreck and sea,
No longer to himself belongs,
Always within his ear thy songs,
Unresting Ocean! bound yet free.

In hut and garden all the same,
Cheerless and slow, beneath content,
The miser of an element
Without a heart,—that none can claim.

Born for thy friend, O sullen wave,
Clasping the earth where none may stand!
He clutches with a trembling hand
The headstones from the sailor's grave.

III
OPEN OCEAN

Unceasing roll the deep green waves,
And crash their cannon down the sand,
The tyrants of the patient land,
Where mariners hope not for graves.

The purple kelp waves to and fro,
The white gulls, curving, scream along;
They fear not thy funereal song,
Nor the long surf that combs to snow.

The hurrying foam deserts the sand,
Afar the low clouds sadly hang,
But the high sea with sullen clang,
Still rages for the silent land.

936

No human hope or love hast thou,
Unfeeling Ocean! in thy might,
Away—I fly the awful sight,
The working of that moody brow.

The placid sun of autumn shines,—
The hurrying knell marks no decline,
The rush of waves, the war of brine,
Force all, and grandeur, in thy lines.

Could the lone sand-bird once enjoy
Some mossy dell, some rippling brooks,
The fruitful scent of orchard nooks,
The loved retreat of maid or boy!

No, no; the curling billows green,
The cruel surf, the drifting sand,
No flowers or grassy meadow-land,
No kiss of seasons linked between.

The mighty roar, the burdened soul,
The war of waters more and more,
The waves, with crested foam-wreaths hoar,
Rolling to-day, and on to roll.

IV
WINDMILL ON THE COAST

With wreck of ships, and drifting plank,
Uncouth and cumbrous, wert thou built,
Spoil of the sea's unfathomed guilt,
Whose dark revenges thou hast drank.

And loads thy sail the lonely wind,
That wafts the sailor o'er the deep,

937

Compels thy rushing arms to sweep,
And earth's dull harvesting to grind.

Here strides the fisher lass and brings
Her heavy sack, while creatures small,
Loaded with bag and pail, recall
The youthful joy that works in things.

The winds grind out the bread of life,
The ceaseless breeze torments the stone,
The mill yet hears the ocean's moan,
Her beams the refuse of that strife.

V
ETERNAL SEA

I hear the distant tolling bell,
The echo of the breathless sea;
Bound in a human sympathy
Those sullen strokes no tidings tell.

The spotted sea-bird skims along,
And fisher-boats dash proudly by;
I hear alone that savage cry,
That endless and unfeeling song.

Within thee beats no answering heart,
Cold and deceitful to my race,
The skies alone adorn with grace
Thy freezing waves, or touch with art.

And man must fade, but thou shalt roll
Deserted, vast, and yet more grand;
While thy cold surges beat the strand,
Thy funeral bells ne'er cease to toll.

938

VI
MICHEL ANGELO—AN INCIDENT

Hard by the shore the cottage stands,
A desert spot, a fisher's house,
There could a hermit keep carouse
On turnip-sprouts from barren sands.

No church or statue greets the view,
Not Pisa's tower or Rome's high wall;
And connoisseurs may vainly call
For Berghem's goat, or Breughel's blue.

Yet meets the eye along a shed,
Blazing with golden splendors rare,
A name to many souls like prayer,
Robbed from a hero of the dead.

It glittered far, the splendid name,
Thy letters, Michel Angelo,—
In this lone spot none e'er can know
The thrills of joy that o'er me came.

Some bark that slid along the main
Dropped off her headboard, and the sea
Plunging it landwards, in the lee
Of these high cliffs it took the lane.

But ne'er that famous Florentine
Had dreamed of such a fate as this,
Where tolling seas his name may kiss,
And curls the lonely sand-strewn brine.

These fearless waves, this mighty sea,
Old Michel, bravely bear thy name!
Like thee, no rules can render tame,
Fatal and grand and sure like thee.

939

VII
OLD OCEAN

Of what thou dost, I think, not art,
Thy sparkling air and matchless force,
Untouched in thy own wild resource,
The tide of a superior heart.

No human love beats warm below,
Great monarch of the weltering waste!
The fisher-boats make sail and haste,
Thou art their savior and their foe.

Alone the breeze thy rival proves,
Smoothing o'er thee his graceful hand,
Lord of that empire over land,
He moves thy hatred and thy loves.

Yet thy unwearied plunging swell,
Still breaking, charms the sandy reach,
No dweller on the shifting beach,
No auditor of thy deep knell;—

The sunny wave, a soft caress;
The gleaming ebb, the parting day;
The waves like tender buds in May,
A fit retreat for blessedness.

And breathed a sigh like children's prayers,
Across thy light aerial blue,
That might have softened wretches too,
Until they dallied with these airs.

Was there no flitting to thy mood?
Was all this bliss and love to last?
No lighthouse by thy stormy past,
No graveyard in thy solitude!

940

THE HILLSIDE COT.

And here the hermit sat, and told his bead,
And stroked his flowing locks, red as the fire,
Summed up his tale of moon and sun and star:
“How blest are we,” he deemed, “who so comprise
The essence of the whole, and of ourselves,
As in a Venice flask of lucent shape,
Ornate of gilt Arabic, and inscribed
With Suras from Time's Koran, live and pray,
More than half grateful for the glittering prize,
Human existence! If I note my powers,
So poor and frail a toy, the insect's prey,
Itched by a berry, festered by a plum,
The very air infecting my thin frame
With its malarial trick, whom every day
Rushes upon and hustles to the grave,
Yet raised by the great love that broods o'er all
Responsive, to a height beyond all thought.”
He ended as the nightly prayer and fast
Summoned him inward. But I sat and heard

The night-hawks rip the air above my head,
Till midnight, o'er the warm, dry, dewless rocks;
And saw the blazing dog-star droop his fire,
And the low comet, trailing to the south,
Bend his reverted gaze, and leave us free.

941

FLIGHT OF THE WILD GEESE.

Rambling along the marshes,
On the bank of the Assabet,
Sounding myself as to how it went,
Praying that I might not forget,
And all uncertain
Whether I was in the right,
Toiling to lift Time's curtain,
And if I burnt the strongest light;
Suddenly,
High in the air,
I heard the travelled geese
Their overture prepare.

Stirred above the patent ball,
The wild geese flew,
Nor near so wild as that doth me befall,
Or, swollen Wisdom, you.

In the front there fetched a leader,
Him behind the line spread out,
And waved about,
As it was near night,
When these air-pilots stop their flight.

Cruising off the shoal dominion
Where we sit,
Depending not on their opinion,
Nor hiving sops of wit;
Geographical in tact,
Naming not a pond or river,
Pulled with twilight down in fact,
In the reeds to quack and quiver,
There they go,
Spectators at the play below,
Southward in a row.

Cannot land and map the stars
The indifferent geese,
Nor taste the sweetmeats in odd jars,
Nor speculate and freeze;
Raucid weasands need be well,
Feathers glossy, quills in order,
Starts this train, yet rings no bell;
Steam is raised without recorder.

942

“Up, my feathered fowl, all,”—
Saith the goose commander,
“Brighten your bills, and flirt your pinions,
My toes are nipped,—let us render
Ourselves in soft Guatemala,
Or suck puddles in Campeachy,
Spitzbergen-cake cuts very frosty,
And the tipple is not leechy.

“Let's brush loose for any creek,
There lurk fish and fly,
Condiments to fat the weak,
Inundate the pie.
Flutter not about a place,
Ye concomitants of space!”

Mute the listening nations stand
On that dark receding land;
How faint their villages and towns,
Scattered on the misty downs!
A meeting-house
Appears no bigger than a mouse.

How long?
Never is a question asked,
While a throat can lift the song,
Or a flapping wing be tasked.

All the grandmothers about
Hear the orators of Heaven,
Then put on their woollens stout,
And cower o'er the hearth at even;
And the children stare at the sky,
And laugh to see the long black line so high!

Then once more I heard them say,—
“'Tis a smooth, delightful road,
Difficult to lose the way,
And a trifle for a load.

“'Twas our forte to pass for this,
Proper sack of sense to borrow,
Wings and legs, and bills that clatter,
And the horizon of To-morrow.”

943

THE SHOWS OF NATURE.

By WILLIAM ELLERY CHANNING.

She woos me on, never may I retreat;
Cold woods, bare fields, and you, ye winter skies,
In you my thoughts, responsive feelings meet,
Within your forms I look, and with your eyes.

And man! that curious copy of myself,
I still pursue, as tired dogs hunt the deer,—
That silent mouthpiece, that sly, subtle elf.
I oft shall seek, and rarely find, with fear!

Where roves the Nymph who smoothed the fountain's crest,
And the cold Dryad of the hazel's dell,—
Egeria's couch, where sparely she could rest,
Of its dry ferns, the gleaming icicle?

Some sprouting youth, some knowing miss instead,
The painted moral of a grandam's eye,
Or cold-complexioned adults with small head,
The sticks which our Dodonas now supply.

944

Nature! I come, fed with thy homely cheer,
Nature! I kneel, part hopeful at thy shrine,
Form of the Solitude, decline the ear,
And if considerate, then, confess me, thine!

Court the sleek herd! and hopelessly be drawn,
Into that false and slimy serpent's lair;
I long must love in mossy groves, the fawn,
And in the blue lake, bathe, my late despair.

And when the emerald pine-woods' murmuring shell
Reflects the cadence of the much-voiced sea,
As there some mournful air rings his small knell,
Or the cold sunset fades, there let me be;

Then as the dying day his saffron plume
Wafts o'er the purple of these Indian hills,
Dreaming, I mark red warriors leave their tombs,
I see their tawny columns bridge the rills.

Weird bends their tragic dance across yon mead,
Dashed on day's fleeting light gleams lance and bow,
And the young lover lifts his mystic reed
To a dark eye of sloe-like glimmering hue.

945

Then, as the day-god dies beneath the lake,
The ruby glasses of the copsewood oak
Their last Madeira promise ripely shake,
That evermore in midnight's frost is broke.

Soft thro' the east, her silver pomp I see,
The mistress of the lone romantic night,
O'er sleeping hill, bare stone and leafless tree,
She pours her careless world of dewy light.

Then, in that roof, a million lamps of spar,
Set in the brow of heaven's high azure screen,
Gleam slowly down, while some revolving star
My bark guides radiant o'er the mystic green,—

Of a serener land, than space or time,
Carve for the cold and worldly breasted man;
Compel me not to fly the foolish rhyme,
Nor to desert poor nature's secret plan.

I know that charming glows both camp and hall,
Where beauty's eye outshines its daily fire,
Too true, the poet cannot hope for all,—
Be his to creep in dust, and yet aspire;

946

For in the heart of these neglected things,
The thin, deserted field, and wood-road wild,
A virtue breathes, a cheerful patience sings,
Mother! thou never couldst forget thy child.

Original Hymn.

By W. E. Channing.

[_]

(Sung by the Choir, under the direction of Mr. Thomas Reeves, Musical Director of the Institution for the Blind.)

O'er the pall of a Hero the laurel should fall,
'Tis the love of a Father our voices recall;
With hope, like the sunshine, it paints the dark air;
O God, with thy mercy, interpret our prayer!

From isles of the Muse, over Hellas' blue wave,
From homes of the North, for the hearts of the slave,
Let swift-flashing memory his requiem be,—
Unfaltering, unfettered, unselfish as he.

Our fond hearts reëcho his cry for the race,
For himself not a wish,—speed, speed to the place
Where anguish lies wailing, there always his home,—
O God, with thy mercy, illumine his tomb.

Unseal the veiled orb, for his eye, that ne'er slept,
Unfetter the mind from the darkness he wept;
The light of the soul is the star of life's sea,—
As loving, as hoping, as constant was He.

947

CHILDREN'S SONG.

Now the trees are on the air,
Now the flowers are in the vale,
Now the earth shows sweet and fair
As our mother's tale.

Bright is every violet's eye,
Yellow-deep the cowslip hues,
Where the wide-winged butterfly
Feeds herself with dews.

But the rising wind away
Turns the flower-bells bending low,
And the thunder-clouds do say
Their sublimest now.

Leaps the flashing sword of light,
Rushes breeze and hisses rain;
Yet the trees are laughing bright
At the watery gain.

948

EDITH

Edith, the silent stars are coldly gleaming,
The night wind moans, the leafless trees are still.
Edith, there is a life beyond this seeming,
So sleeps the ice-clad lake beneath thy hill.

So silent beats the pulse of thy pure heart,
So shines the thought of thy unquestioned eyes.
O life! why wert thou helpless in thy art?
O loveliness! why seem'st thou but surprise?

Edith, the streamlets laugh to leap again;
There is a spring to which life's pulses fly;
And hopes that are not all the sport of pain,
Like lustres in the veil of that gray eye.

They say the thankless stars have answering vision,
That courage sings from out the frost-bound ways;
Edith, I grant that olden time's decision—
Thy beauty paints with gold the icy rays.

As in the summer's heat her promise lies,
As in the autumn's seed his vintage hides,
Thus might I shape my moral from those eyes,
Glass of thy soul, where innocence abides.

949

Edith, thy nature breathes of answered praying;
If thou dost live, then not my grief is vain;
Beyond the nerves of woe, beyond delaying,
Thy sweetness stills to rest the winter's pain.

TO MARJORIE—DREAMING

We must not weep, we will not moan;
Let all such things be deemed unknown.
Now for the words of livelong hope
In Marjorie's white horoscope!

Good-by to all that dims our eyes—
Welcome her, kind futurities!
Anthems of joy and hymns of gold—
All these let Marjorie infold!

Yes, for that sweet and peaceful child,
That gift of beauty undefiled,
A smile of love, a song of joy,
Shall Marjorie's dream of life employ.

I see the sunset o'er the hill,
The level meads with glory fill—
A gentle light, a heavenly balm,
Like Marjorie's soul, so clear and calm.

950

THE BYFIELD HILLS

(1836)

There is a range of little barren hills,
Skirting a dark and purely idle stream,
Which winds among the fields, as in a dream
Of weary man a heavy sorrow rills
The down-prest spirit; whoso buildeth mills
To break the grain on it? Yet never deem
These barren little hills low as they seem—
They draw away from us a host of ills.

A lone flat rock is sleeping at its ease
Upon their topmost line, beneath a wind
That oozes from the sea, nor touches trees
In that bare spot, but murmurs to the mind
A misty tune of gray felicities—
Salt Ocean's heart, thy pulse is strangely kind!

951

SUNDAY POEM

[_]

This is the strange title given in the author's manuscript to a long autobiographical poem dwelling on the sadness of the poet's childish life, the loss of an early love (a subject to which he often recurred, as will be seen), and the consolation that he drew from the beauties and protections of Nature—here typified under the Goethean name of The Earth-Spirit. This latter part was printed in 1843 as The Earth-Spirit, but without this weird, pathetic introduction. A portion of the unprinted lines are omitted.

I

Onward we float along the way
Like straws upon a rapid river.
Changeth the weather every day;
So change our human feelings ever—
Yes, most of them thus change,
And have a wider range,
But there are those no time can sever.

Withers not the sun, my love!
What of thee is mortal now
That was framed in worlds above;
Thy full-thoughted archèd brow,
And the light of those clear eyes,
Death and change and Time defies.

The immortal there hath place,
Gladly sits upon thy frame,
Lurketh in thy sunny face,
In a wildness none can tame.

952

II

Away! the night is dark and drear;
Loud howls the storm, the clouds uproar,
And chill as broken love the atmosphere.
Away! thee, Nature, I can woo no more:
Thou art at war, and naught at rest;
With thee I never can be blest.

Thy whirling seas my feelings jar,
Thy weeping winds and twilight cold;
Thy ways my seekings idly mar,
And I was in my youth-time old.
Thou didst set a glowing stone
In a golden belt alone,—
To me thou sayest: “This treasure thine—
It is the richest thing of mine.”

III

I stood amazed; my blood o'erran
Its usual channels, till my veins
Would burst; I was again a man;
Ending was here of all those pains—
Those cold, chill pains that crept about my way,
Those hidden shadows in the light of Day.
What! no more of them to see?
Chains were off and roaming free?

953

Then cried I to the corners of the Earth:
“It cannot be—ye mock at my despair!
For I was destined from my earliest birth
To be beloved by nothing sweet or fair:
And I have made my bed, and now am heir
To all that blackens and has naught of mirth.

“I tell you, sudden fates which come to me,
Ye are not faithful! Hear: my mother died
Before I clasped her, and that parent's knee
Me never knew—my tears she never dried;
But with the unknown upward then I grew,
Far from all that which was to me most true.”

That early life was bitter oft;
And like a flower whose roots are dry
I withered; for my feelings soft
Were by my brothers passèd by.
Storm-wind fell on me,
Dark clouds lowered on me;
Many ghosts swept trembling past;
Cold looks in my eyes they cast.

IV

Older I grew then, but I was not more
Joy's child than in those earlier, other hours;
It was the same unyielding penance o'er.
My crown was not of thorns, but withered flowers,

954

Dry buds, and half-blown roses dry with dust;
Thorns had been glorious, glorious by their side,
For in their frantic pain there rises trust,
While these are phantoms of what may have died.
I see ye still around me;
Why is it said? To sadden?
That there is some joy for me?
Ah! think you me to gladden?

Sang the voice sweetly: “We say what we say;
There is joy in thy cup, there is sun in thy day.”
I groaned aloud: “Alas, they mock!
Stood other form in other years,—
Her song,—then came the lightning's shock,
And the sharp fire of those wild tears;
I carry them within, on many biers.
I stand like one who came to sing with those
That sang so sweetly, all of love and joy;
Their voices yet!—while I am hung with woes;
Life comes to me, yet comes but to destroy.”

V

Then spoke the Spirit of the Earth,
Her gentle voice like gliding water's song:
“None from my loins have ever birth
But they to joy and love belong;
I faithful am, and give to thee
Blessings great—and give them free.

955

“I have woven shrouds of air
In a loom of hurrying light,
For the trees which blossoms bear,
And gilded them with sheets of bright:
I fall upon the grass like love's first kiss,
I make the golden flies and their fine bliss.

“I paint the hedgerows in the lane,
And clover white and red the pathways bear;
I laugh aloud in sudden gusts of rain
To see the Ocean lash himself in air;
I throw smooth shells and weeds along the beach,
And pour the curling waves far o'er the glassy reach;
Swing birds' nests in the elms, and shake cool moss
Along the aged beams, and hide their loss.

“The very broad rough stones I gladden, too—
Some willing seeds I drop along their sides,
Nourish the generous plant with freshening dew,
Till there where all was waste true joy abides.
The peaks of aged mountains, with my care,
Smile in the red of glowing morn, elate;
I bind the caverns of the sea with hair
Glossy and long, and rich as king's estate;
I polish the green ice, and gleam the wall
With whitening frost, and leaf the brown trees tall.

956

VI

“Thee not alone I leave—far more
Weave I for thee than for the air;
Thou art of greater worth than the sea-shore,
And yet for it how much do I prepare!
I love thee better than the trees—
Yet I give them sun and breeze;
More than rivers thou to me,
More I shall be giving thee;
Tears of thine I'll dry fore'er,
To thee joys and blisses bear.

“Believe thy Mother for her worth
(And thou art a son of Earth).
Thou hadst many years of woe;
Life was many times thy foe;
But the stars have looked from where
Hang their sparklets in the air,
And their faith is pledged to me
That they shall give joy to thee.”

VII

It came upon me in a sudden thrill,
It stood before me—'t was a thing of life.
The thoughts rushed out; I had not form nor will;
I was in hurrying trance, yet felt no strife.

957

I laughed aloud—Death had crept back awhile;
I looked abroad—the sunlight seemed to smile.
Joy, joy! was now the song,
Like a torrent crowding strong
To the endless Sea along.
She stood before me in that veil of form
(The stars' first light, dropt from an urn of air);
Within her eyes there melted sunlight warm,
Which its soft heat did with the moonbeam share;
The gushing of her smile was like a stream
Which, when all round was crisped with feathery snow,
Went surging through the drear its liquid dream,
In sweet dissolvèd style, as angels know.
The spell that dwelt within each faintest word
Was Love—the first my eager ear had heard.
She stood before me, and her life sank through
My withering heart as doth the piercing dew,
That sinks with quivering tenderness within
The moss-rose breast—till it to ope doth win.

VIII

'T was so—'t was thine! Earth, thou wert true!
I kneel—thy grateful child, I kneel;
Thy full forgiveness for my sins I sue.
O Mother! learn thy son can think and feel.
Mother dear! wilt pardon one
Who loved not the generous sun,

958

Nor thy seasons loved to hear
Chanting to the busy year;
Thee neglected, shut his heart—
In thy being had no part?
Mother! now I list thy song
In this autumn eve along,
As thy chill airs round the day,
Leaving me my time to pray.

Mother dear! the day must come
When thy child shall make his home—
My long, last home—'mid the grass
Over which thy warm hands pass.
Ah me! then do let me lie
Gently on thy breast to die!

I know my prayers will reach thine ear—
Thou art with me while I ask;
Nor thy child refuse to hear,
Who would learn his little task.
Let me take my part with thee
In the gray clouds, or the light—
Laugh with thee upon the sea,
Or idle on the land by night;
In the trees will I with thee—
In the flowers, like any bee.

959

IX

I feel it shall be so; we were not born
To sink our finer feelings in the dust;
Far better to the grave with feelings torn—
So in our step strides Truth and honest trust
In the great love of things—than to be slaves
To forms—whose ringing side each stroke we give
Stamps with a hollower void;—yes, to our graves
Hurrying or e'er we in the heavens' look live
Strangers to our best hopes, and fearing men,
Yea, fearing death—and to be born again.

960

A SONNET TO JOYCE HETH, CENTENARIAN

(1835)

Intolerable Time grasps eagerly,
With hideous Destiny, who sits him near;
Some name him Fate—it matters not to me,
So that thy awful durance shall appear.
Old ebon Heth, eternal Black! strange sight!
Strange, that thou dost not bend to Father Time,
But, rather, holdest confident thy prime,
In this quick-speeding world, where hovers Night.

Yes, bleached Anatomy! dry skin and bone!
Thou Grasshopper! thou bloodless, fleshless thing,
That still, with thin long tongue dost gayly sing!
I would not meet thee at broad noon alone;
For much I fear thee, and thy yellow fingers,
Thy cold, sepulchral eye, where moonlight lingers.

This woman was shown in Boston and elsewhere as the nurse of George Washington, and about one hundred and sixty years old; she was, in fact, over one hundred. This sonnet is one of the three earliest poems, the November Day and The Spider preceding it; all were written before Channing was seventeen.

961

CHARACTERS

A gentle eye with a spell of its own,
A meaning glance and a sudden thrill;
A voice—sweet music in every tone;
A steadfast heart and a resolute will;

A graceful form and a cheering smile,
Ever the same, and always true.
I have heard of this for a long, long while—
I have seen it, known it, loved it too.

THE CONTRAST

The gray clouds fly,—
There is war on high,—
Their pennons flying, their soldiers dying;
They fall in rain,
But they leave no stain.

But the heart's flight
In the gloomy night,
Its trusting over, its changing lover!
There falls no rain,
But tears that pain.

962

NATURE

Blue is the sky as ever, and the stars
Kindle their crystal flames at soft-fallen Eve
With the same purest lustre that the East
Worshipt; the river gently flows through fields
Wherein the broad-leaved corn spreads out and loads
Its ear, as when its Indian tilled the soil;
The dark green pine, green in the winter's cold,
Still whispers meaning emblems as of old;
The cricket chirps, and the sweet, eager birds
In the sad woods crowd their thick melodies;
But yet, to common eyes, life's poesy
Something has faded.

963

The Summer's breath, that laughed among the flowers,
Caressed the tender blades of the soft grass,
And o'er thy dear form with its joy did pass,
Has left us now. These are but Autumn-hours,

And in their melancholy vestures glass
A feeling that belongs to deeper powers
Than haunt the warm-eyed June or spring-time showers—
The destiny of them like us, alas!

Think not of Time; there is a better sphere
Rising above these cold and shadowy days—
A softer music than the gray clouds hear,
That spread their flying sails above our ways,
Where rustle in the breeze the thin leaves sere,
Or on the leaden air dance in swift maze.

964

THE SLEEPING CHILD

(WALDO EMERSON, DEAD)

(1843)

Darkness now hath overpaced
Life's swift dance; and curtained Awe
Feebly lifts a sunken eye,
Wonted to this gloomy law.
Lips are still that sweetly spoke;
Heedless Death the spell hath broke.

Weep not for him, friends so dear!
Largest measure he hath taken.
Now he roams the sun's dominion,
Our chill fortunes quite forsaken;
There his eyes have purer sight
In that calm, reflected light.

Let your tears dissolve in peace!
For he holds high company;
And he seeks, with famous men,
Statelier lines of ancestry;
He shall shame the wisest ones
In that palace of the suns.

965

ENGLAND, IN AFFLICTION

(1843)

Thou Sea of circumstance, whose waves are ages,
On whose high surf the fates of men are thrown!
Thou writing from the calm, eternal pages,
Whose letters secret unto Him alone
Who writ that scroll forever shall be known!
I deem not of thy inmost to discover,
Yet oh, forget not I am thy true lover.

Home of the Brave! deep-centred in the Ocean—
Cradle where rocked the famous bards of old,
Consummate masters of the heart's emotion,
Free, genial intellects by Heaven made bold!
My blood I should disown, and deem me cold,
If I did not revere thy matchless sons—
Of all Time's progeny the noblest ones.

What though the calm Elysium of the air
Hangs violet draperies o'er the Grecian fanes?
What though the fields of Italy are fair?
Above them England towers, with mightier gains;
Yet, tell me, are her sons bound fast in chains?
The fearful note of misery sounds so high
From her wide plains up to her clouded sky.

966

In woodland churches rising forest-free,
Network of threaded granite, textured fine,
And stamped with countenance of sanctity,—
With arches waving like the pointed pine,
Where spires and cones and rugged barks entwine,—
Their cloisters shadowy in the light of noon,
Their tall, dim steeples misty in the moon;

Thy surplice—shall it hide a purse of gold?
The smooth and roted sermon doff to Fame?
Extinguished every aspiration bold,
While only sounds some formal, empty name?
Shall her old churches make proud England tame?
Throw ashes in those hearts where once coursed blood,
And blind those streaming eyes from sight of good?

England—the name hath bulwarks in the sound,
And bids her people own the State again;
Bids them to dispossess their native ground
From out the hands of titled noblemen;
Then shall the scholar freely wield his pen,
And shepherds dwell where lords keep castle now,
And peasants cut the overhanging bough.

967

Fold not thy brawny arms as though thy toil
Was done, nor take thy drowsy path toward sleep!
There never will be leisure on thy soil,
There never will be idless on thy steep;
So long as thou sailst the unsounded deep,
New conquests shall be thine, new heritage,
Such as the world's whole wonder must engage.

THE BEGGAR'S WISH

(1843)

O spare from all thy luxury
A tear for one who may not weep!
Whose heart is like a wintry sea,
So still and cold and deep.

Nor shed that tear till I am laid
Beneath the fresh-dug turf at rest,
And o'er my grave the elm-tree's shade
That hides the robin's nest.

968

THE POET

Even in the winter's depth the Pine-tree stands
With a perpetual summer in its leaves;
So stands the Poet, with his open hands—
Nor care nor sorrow him of life bereaves.

Though others pine for piles of glittering gold,
A cloudless sunset furnishes him enough;
His garments never can grow thin or old;
His way is always smooth, though seeming rough.

For though his sorrows fall like icy rain,
Straightway the clouds do open where he goes,
And e'en his tears become a precious gain—
'T is thus the hearts of mortals that he knows.

The figures of his landscape may appear
Sordid or poor; their colors he can paint;
And, listening to the hooting, he can hear
Such harmonies as never sung the Saint.

'T is in his heart where dwells his pure desire,
Let other outward lot be dark or fair;
In coldest weather there is inward fire—
In fogs he breathes a clear, celestial air.

969

Some shady wood in summer is his room;
Behind a rock in winter he can sit;
The wind shall sweep his chamber, and his loom—
The birds and insects weave content at it.

Above his head the broad sky's beauties are;
Beneath, the ancient carpet of the earth:
A glance at that unveileth every star;
The other, joyfully it feels his birth.

So sacred is his calling that no thing
Of disrepute can follow in his path;
His destiny's too high for sorrowing;
The mildness of his lot is kept from wrath.

So let him stand, resigned to his estate;
Kings cannot compass it, nor nobles have:
They are the children of some handsome fate,
He of himself is beautiful and brave.

970

ALCOTT

Light from a better land!
Fire from a burning brand!
Though in this cold, sepulchral clime,
Chained to an unambitious time,
Thou slowly moulderest;
Yet cheer that great and lowly heart,
Prophetic eye and sovereign part!
And be thy fortune greatly blest,
And by some greater gods confest,
With a sublimer rest!

Strike on, nor still thy golden lyre,
That sparkles with Olympian fire!
And be thy word the soul's desire
Of this unthinking land!
Nor shall thy voyage of glory fail;
Its sea thou sweepest—set thy sail!
Though fiercely rave the heaviest gale,
It shall not swerve thy hand.

Born for a fate whose secret none
Hath looked upon beneath Earth's sun—
Child of the High, the Only One!
Thy glories sleep secure!
On Heaven's coast thy mounting wave
Shall dash beyond the unknown grave,
And cast its spray to warn and save
Some other barks that moor.

971

UNFAITHFUL FRIENDSHIP

You recollect our younger years, my Friend,
And rambles in the country; life could lend
No choicer volumes for the Student's eye.
You must remember that it was not I
Who brought conclusion to these rambling moods—
Our joint connection with the streams and woods:
'T was ever thou—thou who art steeped in thought,
Subtle and dexterous, wise—but good for naught.
I mean no harm; thou art not good for me—
Thou reasonest, demandest; I ask thee.

Thou didst not know that Friendship is a kiss—
Not thought, philosophy,—some Sage's bliss,—
But a strange fire that falleth from above;
The gods have named this star-shower Human Love.
No—thou wert blinded; thou saidst, “Friend, forbear!
Do not come nigh—my heart thou canst not share.”
(My heart, alas! I gave that all away.)
“I do not love thee near me; bide thy day!
Fashion I seek, and whirling gayety,
Not thou, sad Poet! what art thou to me?

972

More—I have married an angelic wife,
Who wreathes with roses my enchanted life;
Thou art superfluous—come not thou too near!
Let us be distant friends, and no more dear.

“What were thy eager fancies, running o'er
Half of the world? I anchor near the shore:
Thy silly jests for idlers' ears are fit,
And only silence complements thy wit.
I love thee at arm's-length; my quarantine
Declares pacific measures, and divine.
I would it were not so—poor, helpless thing,
That like a blue jay can but shriek or sing
Those lamentable ditties that refuse
To call themselves productions of the Muse!
Nay! walk not with me in the curling wood!
I stride abroad in quest of solitude.
I love my friends far off; when they come near,
Too warm! too warm the crowded atmosphere.”

973

THE POET'S DEJECTION

There are no tears to shed; the heart is dry,
And the thin leaves of hope fall from the bough,
Rustling and sere—all winter in the tree.
Some smarting pain, some swiftly shooting ill,
Needless alarm or interrupted fear,
Chances and changes, and the soul's despair,
All we can suffer—all that we deplore
Were happier far than these unmoving hours,
When I sit silent on the sandy shore,
Silent, uncomforted, hapless, and lone.
Why are ye bright, why are ye sunny, days,
With the blue sky that arches over all,
And the sweet wind that with a breath of love
Touches the golden hilltops till they smile?
I murmur from my soul its cherished thoughts,
All I have known or suffered; and I ask
The friends I love to come and sit with me,
And call to memory for their cheerful smiles.
They cannot answer me; no visions rise;
And in such ebbing hours life passes as
A faint and burdened man, whose aching feet
Support him tottering o'er the sandy wastes
In the unlidded blaze of Afric's eye.

974

Yet let me suffer with a patient thought;
'T is but another turning of the tide
That from the far-off ocean of our fate
So slowly murmurs through its rock-bound cave.
Oh, little feel the gay, remorseless crowd,
Intent on pleasures, of the poet's care;
The path he treads must be by them untrod;
His destiny a veil, his heart—unsealed;
While all around him swims dancing in joy,
And smiling faces and soft azure skies,
Tantalus-like that he shall never touch,
Look in across the dead sea of his life,
Like goblin masks, fleshless and cold and pale.

Would that the heart might break, the mind decease,
Or ever these dark hours that do not move,
Sullen and stagnant as the marshy pool
Whose side the rank sedge crowds, while the green ooze
Spreads o'er the shallows its soft, slimy veil!
Will the prevented waters ne'er o'erflow,
Burst down their muddy dams, and, leaping clear,
Dance through the valleys like a song of joy?
Is there imprisoned winter through my heart,
Frozen to its centre like an icy shroud?
Am I embraced in stone or filled with dust?
Tell me, kind destinies, who rule our days!
In vain; ye ne'er reveal it. There's no soul
Within us that applauds these sullen hours.

975

Ever the tide returns; but now at ebb,
When the white sands gleam bare and nothing stirs
Save the salt seaweed fringe of little streams
That trickle from lone pools o'er the dented sand.
Cannot I, as the mariner, recline,
Waiting the longed-for hour when with a stir
Of soft, delicious fragrance from the deep,
And heavenly alternations in the kiss
Of the sea-breeze, elastic as young hopes,
The swelling waters hasten, and his bark
At last floats off, rising so steadily,
Her sails all filling with that sweet surprise,
Till her bright keel cuts sharply the green floor,
And tosses off the billows till they laugh.

Yet must we wait, whose voyage knows no content,
Whose compass turns within the eternal stars—
A voyage beyond illimitable worlds;
Yet must I pause upon this earthly ebb,
And play and smile at care and soothe the pain,
Until the raven hair of misery shines.

Brave be thy heart, O sailor of the world!
Erect thy vision, strong and resolute.
Let disappointments strike, and leaden days
Visit thee like a snowdrift across flowers;
Be calm and truthful, and outcheer thy pangs.

976

And, when thou sufferest, learn from all thy woes,
Those faithful teachers who shall spell thee all
Hope's alphabet and Bible lore. Be calm—
Even in a little this rude voyage is done.
Then heave the time-stained anchor, trim thy sails,
And o'er the bosom of the untrammelled deep
Ride in the heavenly boat and touch new stars.

MURILLO'S MAGDALEN

Her eyes are fixed; they seek the skies.
Was earth so low? Was life so vain?
Was Time such weary sacrifice?
This hopeless task, this eating pain?

Smooth, smooth the tresses of thy hair;
Release that cold, contracted brow!
I have not lived without despair;
Look down on me—some mercy show!

977

I cannot bear those silent skies;
The weight is pressing in my heart;
Life is eternal sacrifice,
The livelong hour, the selfish smart.

I wake to tears, in tears I close
The weary eyes so fixed above;
I cannot see the skies of rose,
My heavy tresses will not move.

Hope cannot heal my breaking heart,
Heaven will not lift my dread despair;
I need another soul to part
These brows of steel and join in prayer.

Sails there no bark on life's wild sea
That bears a soul whose faith has set,
Who may renew my light in me,
And both shall thus the past forget?

978

SLEEPY HOLLOW

(1855)

[_]

This poem was written at Mr. Emerson's request, for singing at the consecration of the Concord cemetery where his ashes now repose. But finding it could not easily be sung by the village choir, Mr. Emerson desired me to write an ode that could be sung—which was done.—

F. B. S.

No abbeys gloom, no dark cathedral stoops,
No winding torches paint the midnight air;
Here the green pine delights, the aspen droops
Along the modest pathways—and those fair,
Pale asters of the season spread their plumes
Around this field, fit garden for our tombs.

Here shalt thou pause to hear the funeral bell
Slow stealing o'er thy heart in this calm place;
Not with a throb of pain, a feverish knell,
But in its kind and supplicating grace
It says: “Go, Pilgrim, on thy march! be more
Friend to the friendless than thou wast before.”

Learn from the loved one's rest, serenity;
To-morrow that soft bell for thee shall sound,
And thou repose beneath the whispering tree,
One tribute more to this submissive ground.
Prison thy soul from malice—bar out pride—
Nor these pale flowers nor this still field deride!

979

Rather to those ascents of Being turn
Where a ne'er-setting sun illumes the year
Eternal; and the incessant watch-fires burn
Of unspent holiness and goodness clear;
Forget man's littleness—deserve the best—
God's mercy in thy thought and life confest.

THE NEW ENGLAND FARM-HOUSE

IN CANTON, MASSACHUSETTS

Methinks I see the hilltops round me swell,
And meadow vales that kiss their tawny brooks,
And fawn the glittering sands that hug the grass,
Old valleys shorn by farmers numerous years,
Some mossy orchards murmuring with perfume,
And our red farm-house. What a wreck that was!—
Its rotten shingles peeling 'fore the winds
When roaring March fell in the offshore breeze;
The kitchen, with its salt-box full of eggs,
And Taylor's Holy Living on the lid.
Our parlor kept its buffet rarely oped—
Much did I wonder at yon glassy doors,
And stacks of crockery sublimely piled—
Hills of blue plates, and teapots sere with age;
And spoons, old silver, tiniest of that breed.

980

It was a sacred place, and, save I whisked
Sometimes a raisin or a seed-cake thence,
With furtive glance I scanned the curious spot.
The curtains at the windows kept all dark;
Green paper was the compound; and the floor,
Well scrubbed, showed its vacuities, content
With modest subterfuge of mats (the work
Of some brave aunt, industrious as a fly),
And interwove of rags, yet such to me
I hardly dared intrude on them my shoe.

TRURO, ON CAPE COD

Oft would I tread that far-off, quiet shore,
And sit allayed with its unnoticed store.
What though nor fame nor hope my fancy fired,
Nor aught of that to which my youth aspired,
Nor woman's beauty, nor her friendly cheer,
That nourish life like some soft atmosphere?
For here I found I was a welcome guest
At generous Nature's hospitable feast.
The barren moors no fences girdled high,—
These endless beaches planting might defy,—
And the blue sea admitted all the air—
A cordial draught, so sparkling and so rare.

981

While there I wandered,—far and wide between,—
Proud of my salt expanse and country clean.
A few old fishers seemed my only men,
Some aged wives their queens, not seen till then;
Those had outsailed the wild, o'er-heaving seas,
These closely nestled in their old roof-trees.
Too dull to mark, they eyed me without harm;
Careless of alms, I was not their alarm.
The aged widow in her cottage lone,
Of solitude and musing patient grown,
Could let me wander o'er her scanty fields,
And pick the flower that contemplation yields.
Oft had she sat the winter storms away,
And feared the sea, and trembled at its play;
Noticed the clouds, and guessed when storms were nigh;
Like me, alone, far from humanity.

Her straw all plaited and her day's work done,
There as she sat she saw the reddening sun
Drop o'er the distant cape, and felt that May
Had outbid April for a sweeter day,
And dreamed of flowers and garden-work to do,
And half resolved, and half it kept in view.

This census o'er, and all the rest was mine.
The gliding vessel on the horizon's line,
That left the world wherein my fancy strayed,
Yet long enough her soft good-by delayed

982

To let my eye engross her beauty rare,
Kissed by the seas and mistress of the air.
That, too, was mine—the green and curling wave,
Child of the sand—a playful child and brave;
Urged by the breeze, the crashing surges fall—
Let zephyrs dance—and silken bubbles all;
But let the gale lift from yon Eastern realm—
No more the ship perceives the patient helm;
Tranced in the tumbling roar she whirls away,
A shattered ghost, a chip for thy dread play.
Wild ocean wave! some eyes look out o'er thee
And fill with tears, and ask, Could such things be?
Why slept the All-seeing Eye when death was near?
Be hushed each doubt, assuage each troubled fear!
Think One who made the sea and made the wind
May also feel for our poor humankind;
And they who sleep amid the surges tall
Summoned great Nature to their funeral,
And she obeyed. We fall not far from shore;
The seabird's wail, the skies our fates deplore;
The melancholy main goes sounding on
His world-old anthem o'er our horizon.

983

TRURO

A REGRET

The vain regret, the foolish, wasted tear,
Old memories, and most my thought of thee—
Why will they rise and darkly haunt me here,
Whilst the gay blackbird whistles o'er the lea,
And water-lilies shine, and the blue sea
I little dream of, yonder o'er the hill?
Alas for Hope! since not again to me
Thy form shall rise, thy life my being thrill—
Gone as thou art—gone and forever still.

Forgive this weak lament! and still forgive
In our past days a foolish, erring man!
And yet that I was true thou must believe—
An empty heart that with thy life o'erran,
Creature of beauty—Nature's rarest plan!
So beautiful, who would not love thee near?
We are not carved in stone. The day that ran
Our passion into form why should we fear?
Nor more that silent Past, closed save to some cold tear.

Then bloomed the flowers along Life's sandy waste,
The waters sparkled in the glancing sun,

984

And Fate for thee prepared with eager haste
The festive measure—sorrowful to one
Who on thy beauty gazed, but could not run
To slake his thirst at that unfathomed spring;
But feverish looked, and only looked upon,
While Nature hastened with her queenly ring
And crowned thee fairest—her most charming thing.

Why must we live? why pause upon this shore?
Its cold despair our flying souls must chill;
And, sitting lone, I hear the ocean's roar,
While most subdued my heart and wish and will—
Like its unsounded depths my hopes are still;
A moment I may pause, and ask the Past,
Since in the Present frozen is Life's rill,
Had she no joys that might their sunshine cast
On these Siberian wastes and slippery glaciers vast?

Though beauty smile not on a wasted heart,
And with the years I must my lot deplore,
Though Love be distant,—Life an actor's part,
One moment moored, then sailing off the shore,—
Still, while thy thought remains, I weep no more;
For in thy sweet yet artless dignity,
Thy polished mind, in Youth's unlearned lore,

985

There yet remains a happiness for me,
And thee I still remember, Rosalie!
Where went thou straying, when the heart was young,
And green the leaf swayed on Life's bending tree?
When the eye saw, and nimbly sped the tongue
To tell of stream and bird and heaving sea—
And human fate glowed for eternity?
Then Hope on high poised her romantic scroll
Where poets' years are writ—not the cold plea
For having lived: as the long surges roll
Across my years, now but my knell they toll.

986

JULIA

Julia—at her name my mind
Throws its griefs and cares behind:
She, the love of early years,
Smiling through her childish tears—
Julia! child of love and pain,
One I ne'er shall see again.

And forgive me, Julia dear,
For the sins of that long year!
Think of me with kindly thought,
And condemn me not for naught.

By thine eyes, so softly brown,
By the light and glistening crown
That so gently o'er thy head
Did its shining lustre shed;
By that sad yet loving mouth,
Rose of fragrance from the South;
By thy form, oh, lovelier far
Than a seraph's from a star;
By that ankle small and neat,
And thy little twinkling feet;—

987

I must still thy loss deplore,
Since the fatal hour sped o'er
When we parted, ne'er to meet,
On the silent noontide street.

Should I live a thousand years,
I cannot forget thee,—never,—
Nor the hot and weary tears
That I shed, from thee to sever;
Never will thy truthful eyes
Leave me, in this world of lies.

Girl of love and graceful youth,
Girl all beauty, girl all truth!
Spirit clad in purer air
Than Time's hateful fashions wear!
Angel, shining through my dreams
When Youth, Hope, and Joy were themes!
Dead seems all Youth's memory,
Save one thought—the thought of thee.

From the blossoms of the Spring
Beauty wreathed thee in her ring;
From the airs of dewy skies
Melted sadness in those eyes—
Speechless, soft and fearful glances,
Maidenhood's enamoured trances—
Faintly trembling, dimly felt,
With a name not aptly spelt.

988

Now, the moods of passion over,
I am loved by none, nor lover;
'T was not thus when Julia's eye
To my own made sweet reply.
Orphan from her earliest years,
Cradled on a couch of tears,
Dark as Winter's dreariest night
Was her lot—yet she was light;
Never closed her feeling's spring,
Faithful life's best offering.

“Time shall never wile me more
On its dark, its frowning shore.”
So felt I for Julia's fate,
Like my own, most desolate;
Years of pain, those years all sorrow,
To-day wretched as to-morrow;
Never finished, never fast,
Falling slowly to the Past—
What a youth was this to me,
Born for love and sympathy!

There was sorrow in her air,
Sweetness married to despair,
In her mouth, that would have laughed
And Love's ruby vintage quaffed;
In her softly shaded cheek,
Where Love could his vengeance wreak;

In her sweet, entrancing eye,
Whence Love's arrows sought to fly:

989

Could, then, Fortune frame a creature
Perfect so in every feature?
Beauteous as the dove's soft wing,
Or a fountain of the Spring,
Or the sunset as it sinks,
While the Night its radiance drinks
For a glowing beverage,
Nectar of Day's purple age:
Could Fortune, mocking her, declare
Lovely Julia to despair?
Such dark mystery is life,
This debate 'twixt sleep and strife.

But thy heart grew never old!
Naught was there save sunset's gold,
Crimson evenings, blushing mornings,
And all Nature's wise adornings.

Where art fled ne'er have I heard;
In this earthly state? No word.
Art still near the wide blue river
That beyond the meads doth quiver?
Or beneath yon mountain's shade,
By the murmuring chestnut glade?
Shadow of departed years,
Draped in Beauty, draped in Tears,
Where, across life's shadowy main,
Child of sweetness, child of pain!
Art thou drifting, then, to-day?
Dearest Julia, to me say!

990

GRACE

Grace was perfect, fresh, and fair,
Cheerful as a mountain air;
Blithely fearless, glad and free,
Pouting lips, with hazel ee.
O'er her firm-set figure played
Charms to make a saint afraid;
To this magnet strong and sweet
Swift my willing steps must fleet.
Grace was all a paragon—
Oh, she drew me like a sun!

Round about her valley lie
Purple mountains on the sky,
And within her valley's fold
Lakes that set no price in gold,
Tracks that climb the crag and glen,
And a race of frugal men.

Buoyant, wilful, frank, and gay,
Grace ne'er lived a wretched day—
Joy of parents, loved by all,
Warmed and cheered her father's hall.
Years of sadness now thrown over,
Once again was I a lover;
Laughed again the lake's low shore,
Laughed the hilltops ten times more,
And the birches in the wood

991

Fluttered midst the solitude.
“Grace was lovely, Grace was fine—
Could not Grace, dear Grace, be mine?”

Many times around my light,
Darting at the centre bright,
Have I viewed a wretched moth
Singe his feather, by my troth.
I had wept and I had loved—
Frail and fatal all it proved;
Might have known it ne'er could be—
Might have guessed she hated me!

Girl of Life's determined hours,
Clad in glory as the flowers,
Virginal as Venus came
From the sea at Morning's flame,
All a sunny, fond surprise,
With her wealth of hazel eyes—
She was not, if I was, poor,—
Parents prudent,—life in store,—
Could I sing her virtues more?

Grace had beauty, Grace had truth—
Well I loved her in my youth!
And she taught me a fine word—
This (I might have elsewhere heard):
That not all I wish is mine—
What I have should seem divine.

992

MADELINE

Many days have never made
Me forget that oak's green shade
Under which, in Autumn fair,
While October gilt the air,
Madeline was musing lone
On a cold and mossy stone.
Below her feet the river ran
Like the fleeting hopes of Man;
Around, the unshorn grasses high,
O'er her head the deep blue sky;
Best of all was Madeline,
Gypsy figure, tall and fine.
Yes, and she was Nature's child:
Airs and skies to her were mild;
Never breeze her thoughts perturbed,
Never storm her cheek disturbed.

In her skiff she glided o'er
Foaming crests that swiftly bore
Her to the many-wooded shore;
In her bark, far o'er the tide,
Madeline would smoothly glide
On the wild and whirling wave,

993

In blasts that 'gainst the islands rave,
Madeline swept 'neath the sky—
Born of Nature, but more high.

Child of grace, to Nature dear,
Be the sky her broad compeer!
Lists her song the sighing wood,
Where she like a statue stood,
But with low and heartfelt voice
That could bid my soul rejoice;
Be her light yon star so keen,
Pure and distant, Heaven's Queen;
Let the sea, the boundless sea,
Her perpetual anthem be,
While the gray gull wets his wing
To the green waves' murmuring,
And the white beach lines the shore
In its sandy curvature.

Sinful cities not in her
Could a feeble passion stir;
Filled with love, her lyric eye
Gave its figure to the sky;
Like a lyre, her heart obeyed
Whispers of the forest shade,
Buds she sang, and fresh spring flowers,
Birds that carolled in her bowers,
And the lonely, sorrowing sea,
Still she sang its lullaby.

994

Slave to each impulsive hour,
How could I resist her power?
Or not kneel and worship there,
When she tinged the Autumn air
With her joy or with her pain—
Lit the chill October rain
O'er the low and sullen hill
(Outlined, if the hour were still,
By some leaden cloud behind)
With its scanty grasses lined,
Serely russet, as the day,
Hermit-like, went out in gray.

Muse of the Island, pure and free!
Spirit of the sapphire sea!
How can I forget the time
We went wandering in our prime,
And beneath the tall pine-trees
Felt the tearful Autumn breeze?

Hope had I of lofty fame
To embalm a poet's name,
In some grandly festive measure
Fitliest for a nation's pleasure:

995

Thus it was I dreamed at first—
Madeline! thy beauty nursed
In me finer thought and feeling,
To myself my heart revealing.

Ghost of wishes dead and gone,
Haunting hopes still limping on,—
Echoes from a sunken land
Falling on a desert strand,—
Cold content and broken plan—
Still the boy lives in the man!

This passage shows a clear reminiscence of the happy days at Curzon's Mill, and that region where young Channing spent so much time, and where the best of his early poems were written. These portraits are much idealized, but traces of several of his youthful friends may be found in them. The Julia afterward mentioned as buried in Plymouth was a different person; but possibly an earlier Julia was the Sibylla of The Wanderer.

CONSTANTIA

Best of all Constantia proved—
Best of all her truth I loved;
Free as air and fixed as Fate,
Fitted for a hero's mate.
Beauty dear Constantia had,
Fit to make a lover mad;
Every grace she'd gently turn
Strong to do and swift to learn;
Truthful as the twilight sky
Was her melting, lustrous eye—

996

Full of sweetness as the South
Was her firm and handsome mouth.

Child of conscience, child of truth,—
Treasures far outlasting youth,—
Would my verse had but the power
Again to shape that brightest hour
When beneath the shadowy tree
First I pressed the hand of thee!
While the sighing summer wind
Toned its murmur through the mind,
And the moon shined clear above,
Smiling chaste, like those we love.

I can ne'er be loved again
As I was on that sweet plain,
Though I sigh for fourscore years,
Watering all Earth's sands with tears.
I am old—my life is sere;
Beauty never can appear
As it was when I was young,
Love and joy upon my tongue.
Give me Passion, give me Youth!
More than all, oh, give me Truth!
Let the beauties steal my heart
In their deep, entrancing art—
Yet the safer shalt thou prove,
Dear Constantia! in my love.

997

How the feverish glances fly
Off the dark, the laughing eye!
Mark the brown and braided hair,
To weak hearts a fearful snare.
I have seen the Southern skies
Shut their soft, love-laden eyes,
Seen the floor of those calm seas
Rippled by the orange-breeze;
But I fled such azure dreams
For thy frozen Northern streams.

If my heart is growing old,
Thine is neither worn nor cold;
If my life has lost its flower,
Thine still wears its crimson dower,
And the early morning beam
Pulsates on its golden stream.

May a cold, sepulchral breeze
Every feeling in me freeze,
Stab me through and through with pain,
If I ever love again!
More—let all the Graces go,
And the Muses thickly sow
Harsh and crabbèd seed all o'er
Helicon's harmonious shore,—
Subtle Venus snap her zone,
Phœbus carve me into stone,—
If I leave Constantia's side!
My joy and hope, my peace, my pride.

998

EMERSON

(1857)

Here sometimes gliding in his peaceful skiff
Climéné sails, heir of the world, and notes
In his perception, that no thing escapes,
Each varying pulse along Life's arteries—
Both what she half resolves and half effects,
As well as her whole purpose. To his eye
The silent stars of many a midnight heaven
Have beamed tokens of love, types of the Soul,
And lifted him to more primeval natures.
In those far-moving barks on heaven's sea
Radiates of force he saw; and while he moved
From man, on the eternal billow, still his heart
Beat with some natural fondness for his race.

In other lands they might have worshipped him;
Nations had stood and blocked their chariot wheels
At his approach—towns stooped beneath his foot!
But here, in our vast wilderness, he walks
Alone—if't is to be alone when stars
And breath of summer mountain airs and morn
And the wild music of the untempered sea
Consort with human genius.

999

Oh, couldst not thou revere, bold stranger (prone
Inly to smile and chide at human power),
Our humble fields and lowly stooping hills,
When thou shalt learn that here Climéné trod?

ROSALBA

With thee, fathomless Ocean, that dear child
I link—a summer child, flower of the world,
Rosalba! for, like thee, she has no bound
Or limit to her beauty; Venus-zoned,
She rather, like thy billows, bends with grace.
Nor deem the Grecian fable all a myth,
That Aphrodite from a shell appeared,
Soft spanned upon the wave; for o'er thy heart,
Unheeding stranger! thus Rosalba falls,
And by one entrance on thy privacy
Unrolls the mysteries and gives them tongue.

Child of the poet's thought! if ever God
Made any creature that could thee surpass,—
The lightest sunset cloud that purpling swims
Across the zenith's lake,—the foam of seas,—
The roses when they paint the green sand-wastes

1000

Of our remotest Cape,—or the hour near dawn,—
I cannot fathom it; nor how thou art made:
How these attempered elements in the mass
Run to confusion and exhale in fault,—
Begetting monstrous passions and dark thoughts,
Or slow contriving malice, or cold spite,
Or leagues of dulness, self-persuaded rare,—
But rise in thee like the vast Ocean's grace,
Ne'er to be bounded by my heart or hope,
Yet ever decorous, modest, and complete.

Rose on her cheeks, are roses in her heart,
And softer on the earth her footstep falls
Than earliest twilight airs across the wave;
While in her heart the unfathomed sea of love
Its never-ceasing tide pours onward.

1001

A HOUSEHOLD FRIEND

(December 15, 1866)

If the winter skies be o'er us,
And the winter months before us,
When the tempest, Boreal falling,
Hurls his icy bolts appalling,
Let us yet thy soul inherit,
Equable and nice in spirit!
Whom in turbulent December
With still peace we can remember.

Muses should thy birthday reckon
As to one their foretastes beckon;
Who in thought and action never
Could the right from self dissever;
Taken with no serpent charming,
By no tyranny's alarming;
In thy sure conviction better
Than in blurred Tradition's fetter;
Would the State such souls might cherish,
And her liberties ne'er perish!

Age must dart no frost to harm thee,
Fell reverses ne'er alarm thee,
Having that within thy being
Still the good in evil seeing;
Faithful heart and faithful doing
Bring Life's forces humbly suing.

1002

Now we bid the dear Penates
(Inward guardians with whom Fate is)
And the Lar, whose altar flaming
From thy household merits naming,
And Vertumnus we solicit,
Whose return brings no deficit,
Bacchus with his ivy thyrses,
And Pomona's friendly verses,
Or what other joys may be
Pouring from Antiquity:

Let them o'er thy roof, displaying
Happiest stars, stand brightly raying!

In thy thought poetic splendor
This late age spontaneous render,
Shed o'er acts of love divine,
Fit for thee and fit for thine!

1003

SYBILLA

In the proud mansion on the city street,
Strewed with the loans of luxury, that Time
Wafts down o'erpowering from the burdened Past—
Homeless and hopeless in those cruel walls
Sybilla went—her heart long since bereaved.
She heard the footfalls sear the crowded streets,—
Her fatal birthright,—where no human pulse
To hers was beating; there she shunned the day!

Tall churches and rich houses draped in flowers,
And lovely maids tricked out with pearls and gold,
Barbaric pomp! and crafty usurers bent—
All passed she by, the terror in her soul;
Then sped she on her flight—a reindeer-course.
Day's dying light painted the quiet fields,
The pale green sky reflected in their pools,—
A soft, clear light,—and in that heaven afar
O'er emerald waters glowed the evening star.
Oh, why was Earth so fair? was love so fond
Ever consumed within its ring of fire?

1004

EPITHALAMIUM

(1862)

Friend! in thy new relation
There is no provocation
For Thought's demise;
Be all more nobly brave!
Assist each slave,
And yet more share
Thy hours and thoughts and care
With others,
Thy kinsmen and thy brothers!
And more a patriot be
Through Love's wise chemistry!

Long have I watched thee rule
Thyself; and if a still
And lustrous guardian school
Thee to a stiller patience now,
In this dear vow,
And nearer to the stars
(Save that all-reddening Mars),
More consonant with the train
Of evening and sweet Hesperus,
And her who walks the night,
In blushing radiance strayed,

1005

A well-proportioned light,
A sea-born maid,
Who from old Ocean's foam
Laughed, and made men at home;

In truth, if this prove so,—
If her soft beams
Silver the rushing streams,
And gild the moss
Where the ancestral brothers toss—
Dark oaks and murmuring pines,
Stags of a thousand tines;
These rocks so grave, if they
Smile with humected day,
And silken zephyrs thrill
The maple's foliage, where the bird
Rose-breasted rings
With Music's clearest springs,—
What then?
Though softer, we're still men!

1006

MEMORIES OF FANNY MCGREGOR

[_]

This poem recalls a voyage down Boston Harbor in company with Miss McGregor during the Civil War. She was, not long after, accidentally shot near Franconia, in the New Hampshire mountain-land. A person of great beauty and wit, perhaps exalted poetically in this tribute.

We felt the shadows build the Fort,
And touch Cohassett's withering hills;
The breeze that cooled our Boston port
Ran fresh, as leap the mountain rills
Down gray Franconia's hoary woods,
Saved from the axe, dear solitudes.

The sky's deep blue adorned the Flag,
That pathos of our nation's cause,
Battled in blood from sea to crag,
For home and hearth, for life and laws:
Lovelier than all, a woman's heart,
Reflecting all, and taking part.

How void the play still Nature makes
Where thrills no breast with human fear!
Dull sets that sun—no wavelet breaks
Till woman's loveliness appear;
Heat of the light we coldly bear,
The radiant of Time's atmosphere.

1007

O lovely day that died so soon,
Live long in Her, more fairly planned!
And like the sea when shines the moon,
Reflecting in its ebb the hand
Inscrutable that flings the star,
Thy beauty leads my thoughts afar.

To thee respond the dancing waves,
To thee the grace-encircled shore,
Whose lonely sands old Ocean laves
And pebbles bright flows lisping o'er;
Thy tranquil heart was ever bent
In beauty to be eloquent.

From envious skies thy star shines down,
Not unacquainted with its place;
They wreathe for thee an angel's crown,
And gem the virtues of thy face.
Ah, fated shot! devoid of power
O'er her whose beauty was her dower!

Called from the voice of life, the tasks of pain,
Thine eye no more the rounding day shalt see
In sunlit hours or chill and sobbing rain;
Nor we hear trace of old-time melody
That told in music of another shore,
Where rests Time's mournful wave, ne'er breaking more.

1008

THE LATE-FOUND FRIEND

(1901)

All, all had long-time gone;
On Earth's wide bound I wandered lone,
By sweeping waves, whose glittering tides
Once safely o'er, no sailor rides—
When out of that soft greensward shore
I saw a vessel steer once more,
And at her prow a tall, straight form;
'T was Margaret, poised so high above Earth's storm!

Simple and sweet she surely is
As opening dawn or day's last look;
Within her heart, within her eyes,
Meet all the charms of mead and brook,
When rings amid the open fields
That dear, delightful strain along—
Great Nature's heart in little birds,
Piping their unmaterial song.

Late in the deep and dying night,
When sounds are still, and frozen the moor,
There echoes, far from human plight,
The cottage curs' unceasing roar;

1009

Then, in that strange funereal pall
That veils the Earth and hides the skies,
I seem to hear a note that falls
Sweeter than tidings of surprise.

I need not ask—I do not stay;
'T is Margaret's voice—no other sound
Could ever wake a rondelai
Within this heart by Sorrow bound.

“Wanderer of pain! I am a truth to be
For those I stoop to, mercy to implore;
A certain lighthouse on Earth's murky shore;
O God! I kneel and ask that those in me
May trust their heart's best love implicitly—
Trust and believe—see in my soul their own,
As one sweet viol clears another's tone.”

So from the drooping skies
The quicker lightning flies,
And makes our shadowed hearts bright 'neath those lovely eyes.
For whom now would you raise the tower of Scorn?
Now when yon azure distances, upborne
In their far-shadowed folds of ruby light,
Pale and grow gloomy as the wondrous Night
Pours forth her stream of stars o'er Heaven's deep sea,
And mocks our wandering, far Futurity.

1010

THE SAGE

(EMERSON)

(1897)

When I was young I knew a sage—
A man he was of middle age;
Clear was his mind as forest brooks,
And reams of wisdom in his looks.

But if I asked this sage-like man
Questions of wisdom in my plan,
Faintly the smile shed o'er his face,
A beam of joy, a smile of grace.

The answer that I needed bad
Ne'er reached my ear, nor gay nor sad;
“That might be so,” the sage would say,
Exactly flat as mere “Good day.”

Within his mind there seemed to be
A fixed reserve, a pleasant lea:
“Not I—I cannot mend your state,”
To Yes, to No, inveterate.

1011

To all alike he charming was;
His words were wise in Virtue's cause;
Distinct, clear-minded—old and young
Upon his words in rapture hung.

“Come to my woods, come to my fields!
There Nature her revision yields;
These things were made to be enjoyed—
Great is the pleasure, great the reward.

“Unnumbered shine the nightly flowers,
To man the wonder of his hours;
The heavens themselves invite his gaze,
Those actors in their native plays.”

Forth went he, armed, to see the world;
Love was his weapon—joy it hurled;
Yet ne'er a word he spoke of them—
Silent, yet shining like a gem.

1012

WELCOME TO THEE NOT GONE

(A TRIBUTE TO MARSTON WATSON, WRITTEN IN 1899)

Friend of my early years! friend of my hours
Fast fading from these shores, from Time's dim bowers!
The same to-day,—e'er living in my mind,—
Sweet, thoughtful, tender, patient to thy kind—
Marston, I would not weep that thou art gone,
Leaving me hapless on these shores alone;
Dear Heart, I will not grieve, since God allowed
So vast a tribute and a soul so proud;
Since thou wert sent to teach me to forget,
By these low shores where my poor voyage was set,
These steep obliquities that shade my path,
While thy far-reaching view o'ergoes their wrath.

Marston! I see thee still—that far-off look
Away, across the skies, the ever-rolling brook,
Or that dark, troubled Sea among the isles;
The breeze blows up; the flowers, the heavens, all smiles.
Smiling we take our way across the tombs,
Stand on the hilltop, hear the rushing looms

1013

In the long valley nestling at our feet;
Scan the vast basin where the heavens meet
Their own blue pageant, sent from skies to greet;
Marston delights in all—or sandy reach,
Or sparkling billows on the Gurnet beach;
The poorest weed, the smallest fly that waves,
To him the same as the great Heroes' graves.

“I am not gone; I live—I'm with thee still!
I stand off-looking from the windy hill
With thee; 't is just the same; weep not for me!
I murmur in the breeze, I sail upon the sea;
I see with far-off look the westering sun
Play o'er the oak-groves when the day is done.
No, not a tear! let us be cheerful now!
I am not dead—why, what a thought! my vow
Was always sped to life; in Death's lone camp
I do not walk alone; I have my lamp,
My steadfast light, burning from ancient shades,
Eternal remnants from prophetic glades.

“The breezes fan my cheek; I am not dead;
My soul has only waved its wings and fled
From these low-hanging equinoctial storms;
Hail, Heaven and life! hail, gods and sempiternal forms!”

1014

PRIMAVERA, THE BREATH OF SPRING

With the rush and whirl of the fleet wild brook,
And the leap of the dear thro' the deep wild wood,
And the eyes of the flowers with that gentle look
That shines in the hearts of the truly good,
Dost thou refresh my weary mood.

And chantest thy hymn in the forest old,
Where the buds of the trees and their hearts of fire
Start to the song of thy harps of gold
As the maiden with a timid desire
At the thrill of her love's soft lyre.

Thou passest thy hand o'er the yellow fields
With a light caress like a mother's smile,
And the bright, soft grass to thy impulse yields
The green of its life that has slept the while;
Sweet Spring! Thou knowest many a wile.

1015

And joyfully, Spring, I welcome thee down
To the heavy hearts of my fellow-men;
To the windows dark of the thick-built town,
And the scholar who sits with his tiresome pen,
In the shadow of his den.

Frolic, sweet flowers, along the wall-side,
Along the roadway where the foot-path goes,
And, ferns, in the pines where the rivers glide,
Be as cheerful as where the musk-rose blows,
And gay as a child each thing that grows.

University of Virginia Library

UNCOLLECTED POEMS

WILLINGNESS.

TORMENTS.

THEME FOR A WORLD-DRAMA.

THE MAIDEN—THE ADOPTED FATHER—THE ADOPTED MOTHER—THE LOVER.

SONG.

PRAYER.

AFTER-LIFE.

TO SHAKSPEARE.

THE POET.

LIFE.

[Sweet Love, I cannot show thee in this guise]

SPRING.

THE SONG OF BIRDS IN SPRING.

AN OLD MAN.

AUTUMN.

THE MOTHER'S GRIEF.

ALLSTON'S FUNERAL.

TO THE MUSE.

WILLIAM TELL'S SONG.

THE FATAL PASSION,—A DRAMATIC SKETCH.

ACT I.

—Scene I.

SCENE II.

SCENE III.

ACT II.

Scene I.

SCENE II.

SCENE III.

SCENE IV.

TO READERS.

THE DEATH OF SHELLEY.

A SONG OF THE SEA.

SONNET.

CHRISTIAN SONG OF THE MIDDLE AGES.

THE FUTURE.

SOLDIERS' GRAVES.

TO MY WIFE

TO HESTER.

THE RETREATING ARMY.

TO THE READER.

THE CAMPAGNA.

THE AMERICAN SLAVE TO KOSSUTH.

TO KOSSUTH.

THE BLUEBERRY SWAMP.

O golden green

LASHED TO THE MAST.

Homeward.

DEDICATION.

MEMORIAL VERSES

I TO HENRY

II WHITE POND

III A LAMENT

IV MORRICE LAKE

V TEARS IN SPRING

VI THE MILL BROOK

VII STILLRIVER, THE WINTER WALK

VIII TRURO

I

II THE OLD WRECKER

III OPEN OCEAN

IV WINDMILL ON THE COAST

V ETERNAL SEA

VI MICHEL ANGELO—AN INCIDENT

VII OLD OCEAN

THE HILLSIDE COT.

FLIGHT OF THE WILD GEESE.

THE SHOWS OF NATURE.

Original Hymn.

CHILDREN'S SONG.

EDITH

TO MARJORIE—DREAMING

THE BYFIELD HILLS

(1836)

SUNDAY POEM

I

II

III

IV

I
TO HENRY

II
WHITE POND

III
A LAMENT

IV
MORRICE LAKE

V
TEARS IN SPRING

VI
THE MILL BROOK

VII
STILLRIVER, THE WINTER WALK

VIII
TRURO

II
THE OLD WRECKER

III
OPEN OCEAN

IV
WINDMILL ON THE COAST

V
ETERNAL SEA

VI
MICHEL ANGELO—AN INCIDENT

VII
OLD OCEAN