Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

The childhood of our race is o'er,
Its youghful prime hath faded long;
Man's ripening mind delights no more
In dream and vision, tale and song.
The dawning hope, the fond belief,
The novelty of life are fled;

And all is sober, joy and grief,
And phantasy and faith are dead.

II

The rites which pleased our Nature's youth,
While heart and mind were childish still—
The earthly types of heavenly truth,—
The altars of the grove and hill,—
The saintly pomp—the annual feast—
The sounds of sacred dance and hymn,—
The sacrifice of bird and beast—
These rites are o'er—these splendours dim.

III

Our reason, disenthrall'd at length
From youthful fancies, fond and vain,
Comes forth, released by manhood's strength,
From governor's and tutor's reign.
The shadowy types of mystic lore
Content not now our mental eye,
Whose quenchless gaze would fain explore
All wonders of all worlds on high.

IV

And must man's spirit vainly pant
For purest truth to learn and love?
Still groan beneath its earthly want
Of fellowship with things above?
—Not so!—the teeming womb of Time
Hath travail'd with a wondrous birth;
God's Son hath come, in love sublime,
His brethren to redeem on earth.

V

And for that we, through sin subdued,
Are sons of God and heirs of heaven,

Our Father, to each heart renew'd,
The spirit of a son hath given.
The soul's long servitude hath ceased,—
Not now, like slaves, we crouch and cower,
But on our Father's bounty feast,—
Enjoy His love, adore His power.

FROM THE GOSPEL.

I

“Thou wast to me the brightest dream
That e'er upon my spirit shone;
Alas! and is that heavenly gleam
For ever lost and gone?
And do I live?—and can it be
That thou a shameless wanton art,
Who wast the type of purity
To this fond, foolish heart?

II

“I thought, ere yet I dared to love,
That thou wast scarce an earth-born thing;
Thy mortal grace so tower'd above
Earth's best imagining.
Almost it seem'd profane to press
The ground on which thy feet had trod,—
Their path was mark'd with holiness,
As by the steps of God.

III

“And when my heart grew bold at last,
And perfect love had banish'd fear,
And gentle hope grew fair and fast
For many a pleasant year—

It was a joy I may not tell
The beauty of thy soul to see,
And, in my fondest thought, to dwell
On its pure harmony.

IV

“Ah me!—how like a glimpse of Heaven
The day of our betrothal seem'd,
When first a pledge to love was given
Of all that hope had dream'd!
And I thenceforth might think of thee
When to my daily toil I went,
As doom'd in after years to be
My star of home content!

V

“Can she, (I thought) so fair and good,
Partake a base mechanic's lot,
The light of loveliest womanhood
Diffusing through his cot?
Can she, whose heart is all above,
A poor man's bride consent to be,
And rear, with meek and patient love,
His lowly progeny?

VI

“But thou didst so benignly smile,
And speak with such a gentle tone—
Ah! me—that voice might sure beguile
An angel from his throne!
And all thy words, and all thy ways,
And all thy looks so heavenly were;
'Twas heaven into thine eyes to gaze—
Thy mortal love to share!

VII

“And wast thou then a sensual thing,—
A heartless wanton, light and vain?—

Such thoughts o'erwhelm my heart, and fling
Distraction on my brain.
No, no—it must not, cannot be—
Thy looks bespeak a virgin heart,
The wanton's gestures suit not thee,
Nor yet the wanton's art.

VIII

“Thou dost not quail before my glance—
And yet thine own is modest still;
Thy calm and radiant countenance
Betrays no thought of ill.
I cannot scan thy secret soul,
Nor read the unfathom'd depths within;
But ne'er did looks like those controul
The restless pulse of sin.

IX

“And yet—those fatal proofs of guilt!—
Alas! too plain a tale they tell;—
O! that my life-blood had been spilt
Ere thus my loved one fell!
And I!—shall I that fall proclaim?
Make public all her guilty deeds?
Consigning Her to scorn and shame
For whom my spirit bleeds?

X

“No, Mary—my crush'd heart may break,
But thou shalt still uninjured be;
If vengeance e'er thy faults o'ertake,
It shall not come from me.
Thou wast my hope—my pride—my bliss,
I will not now divulge thy shame,
Nor point the common scoffer's hiss
At thy beloved name.”

XI

Such thoughts, perchance, in turbid stream
O'er Joseph's burden'd spirit crept;
But that same night a blessed dream
Came to him as he slept:—
And when he from his sleep arose,
With steadfast heart and cheerful brow,
Like one whose hopes on God repose,
He pledged his nuptial vow.

XII

In pure and reverent love he dwelt
With her his own, his chosen bride;
Nor all a bridegroom's fervour felt,
Nor slumber'd by her side.
He shared with her his peasant's cot,
He watch'd her fondly night and morn,
But still approach'd her chamber not
Until her babe was born.