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POEMS WRITTEN AT 15 AND 16.
MISFORTUNE.
See how the sun is melting into goldThe autumn leaves; and under them behold
A lingering flower—how richly clothed with light!
Yet half the hue by a leaf's shade from sight
Concealed: what pity darkly thus to hide
This fair terrestrial beauty's sunlight pride!
But lo! the leaf that shades it, struck with light,
Flashes back red and gold upon the sight
Of the great sun. Thus is Misfortune here;
The flower our life, the leaf's dark shade the sphere
Of sorrow; and could we but know the source
From whence it comes, we should not care to force
Away from us that shade which is perchance
Our glory, like the leaf which doth enhance
The beauty of the flower. E'en as we see,
Nature unfolds, in part, her greatest mystery.
DESTINY—A DREAM.
I seemed to walk into a land of night
Filled with the drifting cries of wind, where hands,
Waste hands, imploring for the lost, were strained
With the last moan on desolate lips; the breath,
Breathed in the midnight, of departing life,
The mother's cursing cry to GOD for breath,
Snatched from her darling boy, and the strange light
Of eyes that saw Hell, lurid through the dark,
Grow hot upon them dying, till they died.
And there the snow fell slowly, flake by flake,
Cold through the straining hands and wicked forms
And a low wind beat up and down with spray.
And as I stood a shape came creeping up,
Muffling its face, and seemed to peer at me
With wicked rolling eyes, yet seemed as tho'
It would avoid my gaze and shadowy grew
Like Death; and then I said “'Tis Destiny!”
And with a wild agony I rushed at it
And tore the air with all my force and clutched
And caught at it and, in a wild desire,
Cast the dark from me, and the shade had fled!
Filled with the drifting cries of wind, where hands,
Waste hands, imploring for the lost, were strained
With the last moan on desolate lips; the breath,
Breathed in the midnight, of departing life,
The mother's cursing cry to GOD for breath,
Snatched from her darling boy, and the strange light
Of eyes that saw Hell, lurid through the dark,
Grow hot upon them dying, till they died.
And there the snow fell slowly, flake by flake,
Cold through the straining hands and wicked forms
And a low wind beat up and down with spray.
And as I stood a shape came creeping up,
Muffling its face, and seemed to peer at me
With wicked rolling eyes, yet seemed as tho'
It would avoid my gaze and shadowy grew
And with a wild agony I rushed at it
And tore the air with all my force and clutched
And caught at it and, in a wild desire,
Cast the dark from me, and the shade had fled!
Brake the grey dawn! and with the dawn a Voice!
“That shadow was thy Destiny, thyself,
Thyself art thine own Fate; for what hath man,
Passionate man, of hate and love, to do
With Destiny? Man's love, whose altar-fires
Are kindled with the fuel of slain self.
Love is no love save challenged with the thoughts
And fears of death; and therefore death was given
To make a trial and a proof of love,
To strengthen or to shatter it for aye
That man's love may grow likest heaven's; coin
Stamped with the image of eternity.
So slay the self, for thus thou slayest Fate
Slaying the self, thus thou art free of worlds
Slaying the self, thou art most nobly thou”.
“That shadow was thy Destiny, thyself,
Thyself art thine own Fate; for what hath man,
Passionate man, of hate and love, to do
With Destiny? Man's love, whose altar-fires
Are kindled with the fuel of slain self.
Love is no love save challenged with the thoughts
And fears of death; and therefore death was given
To make a trial and a proof of love,
To strengthen or to shatter it for aye
That man's love may grow likest heaven's; coin
Stamped with the image of eternity.
So slay the self, for thus thou slayest Fate
Slaying the self, thus thou art free of worlds
Slaying the self, thou art most nobly thou”.
ELEGY.
What can a painted portrait do?
Will that her memory guard?
I must remember—to forget—
GOD knows that would be hard!
'Tis winter with her—on her cheek
And brow there's not a rose,
Yet winter has its snow, and see
Like untouched mountain snows
Her brow above the sable bier
Pale as a star-beam shows.
As o'er a midnight sea of foam
A ray from a higher sphere
Shines, so she beamed upon my heart
Surging with grief and fear.
As one who looks upon a tree
Whose leaves are falling fast
When all are fallen—he sees the moon
Stand grand above the blast;
So shall her soul rise high and clear
When earth's decay is o'er—
Not dust to dust but flower to flowers,
So she for evermore
Shall blossom in the earth we tread,
In which we lay her stilly,
May she make rosier the rose
And lovelier the lily,
More vivid all the violets
And when the swinging trees
Moan, let her voice be heard still, soft
And in the evening breeze
Let her sweet tones, companionless
As nightingales in song,
Flood moonlit lattices and soothe
A breast that burns with wrong.
So may she soothe my troubled heart
With air from calmer sphere.
Will that her memory guard?
I must remember—to forget—
GOD knows that would be hard!
'Tis winter with her—on her cheek
And brow there's not a rose,
Yet winter has its snow, and see
Like untouched mountain snows
Her brow above the sable bier
Pale as a star-beam shows.
As o'er a midnight sea of foam
A ray from a higher sphere
Shines, so she beamed upon my heart
Surging with grief and fear.
As one who looks upon a tree
Whose leaves are falling fast
Stand grand above the blast;
So shall her soul rise high and clear
When earth's decay is o'er—
Not dust to dust but flower to flowers,
So she for evermore
Shall blossom in the earth we tread,
In which we lay her stilly,
May she make rosier the rose
And lovelier the lily,
More vivid all the violets
And when the swinging trees
Moan, let her voice be heard still, soft
And in the evening breeze
Let her sweet tones, companionless
As nightingales in song,
Flood moonlit lattices and soothe
A breast that burns with wrong.
So may she soothe my troubled heart
With air from calmer sphere.
This lock which never now can fade
I'll keep, nor shed a tear.
I'll keep, nor shed a tear.
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