TO A GODDESS

O Holy Place, we know not where thou art!Though one by one our well-beloved deadFrom our close claspings to thy bliss have fled,They send no word back to the breaking heart;And if, perchance, their angels fly athwartThe silent reaches of the abyss wide-spread,The swift white-wings we see not, but insteadOnly the dark void keeping us apart.Where did he set thee, O thou Holy Place?Made he a new world in the heavens high hung,So far from this poor earth that even yetIts first glad rays have traversed not the spaceThat lies between us, nor their glory flungOn the old home its sons can ne’er forget?

But what if on some fair, auspicious night,Like that on which the shepherds watched of old,Down from far skies, in burning splendor rolled,Shall stream the radiance of a star more brightThan ever yet hath shone on mortal sight—Swift shafts of light, like javelins of gold,Wave after wave of glory manifold,From zone to zenith flooding all the height?And what if, moved by some strange inner sense,Some instinct, than pure reason wiser far,Some swift clairvoyance that annulleth space,All men shall cry, with sudden joy intense,“Behold, behold this new resplendent star—Our heaven at last revealed!—the Place! the Place!”

Then shall the heavenly host with one accordVeil their bright faces in obeisance meet,While swift they haste the Glorious One to greet.Then shall Orion own at last his Lord,And from his belt unloose the blazing sword,While pale proud Ashtaroth with footsteps fleet,Her jewelled crown drops humbly at his feet,And Lyra strikes her harp’s most rapturous chord.O Earth, bid all your lonely isles rejoice!Break into singing, all ye silent hills;And ye, tumultuous seas, make quick reply!Let the remotest desert find a voice!The whole creation to its centre thrills,For the new light of Heaven is in the sky!

Lift up thy torch, O Goddess, grand and fair!Let its light stream across the waiting seasAs banners float upon the yielding breezeFrom the king’s tent, his presence to declare.And as his heralds haste to do their share,Shouting his praise and sounding his decrees,So let the waves in loftiest symphoniesProclaim thy glory to the listening air!Thou star-crowned one, the nations watch for thee,For thee the patient earth has waited long—To thee her toiling millions stretch their handsFrom the far hills and o’er the rolling sea.Lift up thy torch, O beautiful and strong,A beacon-light to earth’s remotest lands.

“How shall I crown this child?” fair Summer cried.“May wasted all her violets long ago;No longer on the hills June’s roses glow,Flushing with tender bloom the pastures wide.My stately lilies one by one have died:The clematis is but a ghost—and lo!In the fair meadow-lands no daisies blow;How shall I crown this Summer child?” she sighed.Then quickly smiled. “For him, for him,” she said,“On every hill my golden-rod shall flame,Token of all my prescient soul foretells.His shall be golden song and golden fame—Long golden years with love and honor wed—And crowns, at last, of silver immortelles!”

What good gifts can we bring to thee, O King,O royal poet, on this day of days?No golden crown, for thou art crowned with bays;No jewelled sceptre, and no signet ring,O’er distant realms far-flashing rays to fling;For well we know thy beckoning finger swaysA mightier empire, and the world obeys.No lute, for thou hast only need to sing;No rare perfumes, for thy pure life makes sweetThe air about thee, even as when the roseSwings its bright censer down the garden-path.Love drops its fragrant lilies at thy feet;Fame breathes thy name to each sweet wind that blows.What can we bring to him who all things hath?

Who was the first to bid thee glad all-hail,O friend and master? Who with wingèd feetOver the heavenly hills flew, fast and fleet,To bring thee welcome from beyond the veil?The mighty bards of old?—Thy Dante, paleWith high thoughts even yet, Virgil the sweet,Old Homer, trumpet-tongued, and Chaucer, meetTo clasp thy stainless hand? What nightingaleOf all that sing in heaven sang first to thee?Through all the hallelujahs didst thou hearSpencer still pouring his melodious lays,Majestic Milton’s clarion, strong and free,Or, golden link between the far and near,Bryant’s clear chanting of the eternal days?

Nay, but not these! not these! Even though apace,Long rank on rank, with swift yet stately treadThey came to meet thee—the immortal dead—Yet Love ran faster! All the lofty place,All the wide, luminous, enchanted spaceGlistened with Shining Ones who thither sped—The countless host thy song had comforted!What light, what love illumed each radiant face!The Rachels thou hadst sung to in the dark,The Davids who for Absaloms had wept,The fainting ones who drank thy balm and wine,High souls that soared with thee as soars the lark,Children who named thee, smiling, ere they slept—These gave thee first the heavenly countersign!

Nay, Master, dare we speak? O mighty shade,Sitting enthroned where awful splendors are,Beyond the light of sun, or moon, or star,How shall we breathe thy high name undismayed?Poet, in royal majesty arrayed,Walking with mute gods through the realms afar—Seer, whose wide vision time nor death can bar,We would but kiss thy feet, abashed, afraid!But yet we love thee, and great love is bold.Love, O our master, with his heart of flameAnd eye of fire, dares even to look on thee,For whom the ages lift their gates of gold;And his glad tongue shall syllable thy nameTill time is lost in God’s unsounded sea!

On hoary Conway’s battlemented height,O poet-heart, I pluck for thee a rose!Through arch and court the sweet wind wandering goes;Round each high tower the rooks, in airy flight,Circle and wheel, all bathed in amber light;Low at my feet the winding river flows;Valley and town, entranced in deep repose,War doth no more appall, nor foes affright!Thou knowest how softly on the castle walls,Where mosses creep, and ivys far and freeFling forth their pennants to the freshening breeze,Like God’s own benizon this sunshine falls.Therefore, O friend, across the sundering seasFair Conway sends this sweet wild rose to thee!

I wake at midnight from a slumber deep.Hark! are the clear stars singing? Sweet and low,As from far skies, floats music’s liquid flow,Waking earth’s happy children from their sleep.Now, from the bells a myriad voices leap,And all the brazen lilies are aglowWith rapturous heart-beats, swinging to and froAs the glad chimes their rhythmic pulsing keep.O soul of mine, join thou the high refrainThat rings from shore to shore, from sea to sea,Like song of birds that do but soar and sing!O heart of mine, what room hast thou for pain?With love and joy make holy symphony,And keep to-day the birthday of thy King!

The city woke. Down the long market-placeHer sad eyes wandered, but no tears they shed.In her bare home a little child lay dead;Yet she was here, with white, impassive face,And hands that had no beauty and no grace,Selling her small wares for a bit of bread!Since they who live must eat though sore besteadWhat time had she to weep—what breathing space?Poor even in words, she had no fitting phraseWherein to tell the story of her dole,But stood, like Niobe, a thing of stone,Or mutely went on her accustomed ways,Or counted her small gains, while her dumb soul,Shut in with grief, could only make its moan!

O Earth, that had so long in darkness lain,Waiting and listening for the Voice that cried,“Let there be light!”—on thy first eventideWhat woe, what fear, wrung thy dumb soul with pain!In darkling space down dropt the red sun, slain,With all his banners drooping. Far and wideSpread desolation’s vast and blackening tide.How couldst thou know that day would dawn again?But the long hours wore on, till lo! pale gleamsOf faint, far glory lit the eastern skies,Broadening and reddening till the sun’s full beamsBroke in clear, golden splendor on thine eyes.Darkness and brooding anguish were but dreams,Lost in a trembling wonder of surprise!

Even so, O Life, all tremulous with woe,Thou too didst cower when, without sound or jar,From the high zenith sinking fast and far,Thy sun went out of heaven! How couldst thou knowIn that dark hour, that never tide could flowSo ebon-black, nor ever mountain-barBreast night so deep, without or moon or star,But that the morning yet again must glow?God never leaves thee in relentless dark.Slowly the dawn on unbelieving eyesBreaketh at last. Day brightens—and, oh hark!A flood of bird-song from the tender skies!From storm and darkness thou hast found an ark,Shut in with this great marvel of surprise!

In what wide Wonderland, or near, or far,Press on to-day thy swift adventurous feet—Thou who wert wont the Orient skies to greetWith song and laughter, and to climb the barOf mountain ranges where the Cloud-gods are,With brave, glad steps, as eager and as fleetAs a young lover’s, who, on errand sweet,Seeks the one face that is his guiding star?The far blue seas engulfed thee, oh! my brother,But could not quench thy spirit’s lofty fire,Nor daunt the soul that knew not how to quail.Earth-quest thou didst but barter for another,Where Alps on Alps before thee still aspire,And where, in God’s name, thou shalt yet prevail!

“A new beatitude I write for thee,‘Blessed are they who are not sure of things,’Nor strive to mount on feeble, finite wingsTo heights where God’s strong angels, soaring free,Halt and are silent.” Ah, the mystery!To-day, O friend, beyond earth’s reckoningsOf time and space, beyond its jars and stings,Thou enterest where the eternal secrets be!Ay, thou art sure to-day! No more the barsOf earth’s poor limitations hold thee back,Setting their bounds to thine advancing feet.Soar, lofty soul, beyond the farthest stars,Where hope nor yearning e’er shall suffer lack,Nor knowledge fail to any that entreat!

Life of my life, do you remember how,At our fair pleasance gate, a stately treeKept silent watch and ward? Majestic, free,Its head reached heaven, while its lowest boughSwept the green turf, and all between was rowOn row of crested waves—a sleeping sea—Or heaving billows tossed tumultuously,When the fierce winds that smote the mountain’s browLashed it to sudden passion. It was old.Storm-rocked for many centuries, it had grownOne with the hills, the river and the sod;Yet young it was, with largess of red goldFor every autumn, and from stores unknownBringing each springtime treasure-trove to God.

Then came a night of terror and dismay,Uproar and lightning, with the furious sweepOf mighty winds, that raged from steep to steep,And ere it passed the great tree prostrate lay!Sleepless I mourned until the morning gray;Then forth I crept, as one who goes to keepWatch by his dead, too heartsick even to weep,And hardly daring to behold the day.Lo! what vast splendor met my startled eyes,What unimagined space, what vision wide!Turrets and domes, now blue, now softest green,In one unbroken circuit kissed the skies;While, veiled in soft clouds, radiant as a bride,Shone one far sapphire peak till then unseen!

Forth from earth’s councils thou hast passed, O friend,To those high circles where God’s angels are,Angels that need no light of sun or star!No eye may follow thee as thou dost wendThy lofty way where heaven’s pure heights ascend—Above the reach of earthly fret or jar,Where no rude touch the blissful peace can mar,Where all harsh sounds in one soft concord blend.What have ye seen, O beauty-loving eyes?What have ye heard, O ears attuned to hearAnd to interpret heaven’s high harmonies?What problems hast thou solved, thou who with clearUndaunted gaze didst search the farthest skies?And dost thou still love on, O heart most dear?

I do remind me how, when, by a bier,I looked my last on an unanswering faceSerenely waiting for the grave’s embrace,One who would fain have comforted said: “Dear,This is the worst. Life’s bitterest drop is here.Impartial fate has done you this one grace,That till you go to your appointed place,Or soon or late, there is no more to fear.”It was not true, my soul! it was not true!“Thou art not lost while I remember thee,Lover and friend!” I cry, with bated breath.What if the years, slow-creeping like the blue,Resistless tide, should blot that face from me?Not to remember would be worse than death!

Safe in the high tower of thy love I wait,Secure and still whatever winds may blow,Although no more thy banners, bending low,Salute me from afar, when, all elate,I haste to meet thee at the postern-gate.No more I hear thy trumpet’s eager flowThrough the far, listening silence come and goTo greet me where I bide in lonely state.Thy King hath sent thee on some high emprise,Some lofty embassage, some noble quest,To a strange land whence cometh sound nor sign.Yet evermore I lift my tranquil eyes,Knowing that Love but doeth Love’s behest—Afar or near, my dear lord still is mine![292]

[294]

It is mid-afternoon. Long, long agoEach morning-glory sheathed the slender hornIt blew so gayly on the hills of morn,And fainted in the noontide’s fervid glow.Gone are the dew-drops from the rose’s heart—Gone with the freshness of the early hours,The songs that filled the air with silver showers,The lovely dreams that were of morn a part.Yet still in tender light the garden lies;The warm, sweet winds are whispering soft and low;Brown bees and butterflies flit to and fro;The peace of heaven is in the o’erarching skies.And here be four-o’clocks, just opening wideTheir many colored petals to the sun,As glad to live as if the evening dunWere far away, and morning had not died!

It is mid-afternoon. Long, long agoEach morning-glory sheathed the slender hornIt blew so gayly on the hills of morn,And fainted in the noontide’s fervid glow.

Gone are the dew-drops from the rose’s heart—Gone with the freshness of the early hours,The songs that filled the air with silver showers,The lovely dreams that were of morn a part.

Yet still in tender light the garden lies;The warm, sweet winds are whispering soft and low;Brown bees and butterflies flit to and fro;The peace of heaven is in the o’erarching skies.

And here be four-o’clocks, just opening wideTheir many colored petals to the sun,As glad to live as if the evening dunWere far away, and morning had not died!

Whence it came I did not know,How it came I could not tell,But I heard the music flowLike the pealing of a bell;Up and down the wild-wood arches,Through the sombre firs and larches,Long I heard it rise and swell;Long I lay, with half-shut eyes,Wrapped in dreams of Paradise!Then the wondrous music pouredYet a fuller, stronger strain,Till my soul in rapture soaredOut of reach of toil and pain!Then, oh then, I know not how,Then, oh then, I know not where,I was borne, serene and slow,Through the boundless fields of air—Past the sunset’s golden bars,Past long ranks of glittering stars,To a realm where time was not,And its secrets were forgot!Land of shadows, who may knowWhere thy golden lilies blow?Land of shadows, on what starIn the blue depths shining far,Or in what appointed placeIn the unmeasured realms of space,High as heaven, or deep as hell,Thou dost lie what tongue can tell?Send from out thy mystic portalsWith the holy chrism to-day,One of all thy high immortalsWho shall teach me what to say!O beloveds, all the airWas a faint, ethereal mistTouched with rose and amethyst—Glints of gold, and here and therePurple splendors that were gone,Like the glory of the dawn,Ere one caught them. Soft and gray,Lit by many a pearly ray,Were the low skies bending dimTo the far horizon’s rim;And the landscape stretched away,Fair, illusive, like a dreamWherein all things do but seem!There were mountains, but they roseO’er the subtile vale’s repose,Light as clouds that far and highSoar to meet the untroubled sky.There were trees that overheadWide their sheltering branches spread,Yet were empty as the shadeBy the quivering vine-leaves made.There were roses, rich with bloom,Swinging censers of perfumeSweet as fragrant winds of MayBlowing through spring’s secret bowers;Yet so phantom-like were theyThat they seemed the ghosts of flowers.Oh, the music sweet and strangeIn that land’s enchanted range!Like the pealing of the bellsWhen the brazen flowers are swingingAnd the angelus is ringing,Soaring, echoing, far and near,Through the vales and up the dells—Softly on the enraptured earA melodious murmur swells!As the rhythm of the riverDay and night goes on forever,So that pulsing stream of songRolls its silver waves along.Even silence is but sound,Deeper, softer, more profound!All the portals were thrown wide!Stretching far on either sideRan the streets, like silver mist,By the moon’s pale splendor kissed;And adown the shadowy way,Forth from many a still retreat,One by one, and two by two,Or in goodly companies;Gliding on in long array,Light and fleet, with silent feet,One by one, and two by two,Phantoms that I could not number,Countless as the wraiths of slumber,Passed before my wondering eyes!Then I grew aware of oneStanding by me in the dun,Gray half-twilight. All the placeGrew softly radiant; but his face,Albeit unveiled, I could not seeFor the awe that compassed me.Swift I spoke, by longings swayedDeeper than my words betrayed:“Master,” with clasped hands I prayed,“Who are these? Are they the dead?”“Nay, they never lived,” he said;“Whence art thou? How camest thou here?”Low I answered, then, in fear:“Sir, I know not; as I layDreaming at the close of day,Wondrous music, thrilling through me,To this land of phantoms drew me,Though I knew not how or why,Even as instinct draws the birdWhere Spring’s far-off voice is heard.Tell me, Master, where am I?”“Thou art in the border-land,On the farthest, utmost strandOf the sea that lies betweenAll that is and is not seen.Thou art where the wraiths of songCome and go, a phantom throng.’Tis their heart’s melodious beatFills the air with whispers sweet!These, O child, are songs unsung—Songs unbreathed by human tongue;These are they that all in vainMightiest masters wooed amain—Children of their heart and brainThat they could not warm to lifeBy their being’s utmost strife.Every bard that ever sungSince the hoary earth was youngKnew the song he could not singWas his soul’s best blossoming,Knew the thought he could not holdShrined his spirit’s purest gold.Look!”Where rose the city’s gateIn majestic, sculptured state,From a far-off battle-plain,Through the javelins’ silver rainBearing buckler, lance, and shield,And their standard’s glittering field,Eager, yet with shout nor din,Came a great host trooping in.Burned their eyes with martial fire,And the glow of proud desire,Such as gods and hero’s filledWhen their mighty souls were thrilledBy old Homer’s golden lyre!Under dim cathedral archesPacing sad, pacing slow,As to beat of funeral marchesOr to music’s rhythmic flow—With their solemn brows uplifted,And their hands upon their breasts,Where the deepest shadows drifted,One by one pale phantoms pressed.Lost in dreams of heights supernal,Mystic dreams of Paradise,Or of woful depths infernal,Slow they passed before mine eyes.Oh, the vision’s pallid splendor!Oh, the grandeur of their mien—Kin, by birthright proud and tender,To the matchless Florentine!In stately solitude,Whereon might none intrude—Majestic, grand and calm,And bearing each the palm;Dwelling, serene and fair,In most enchanted air,Where softest music creptO’er harp-strings deftly swept,And organ-thunders rolledLike storm-winds through the wold,They stood in strength sublimeBeyond the bounds of time—They who had been a partOf Milton’s mighty heart!And where, mysterious ones,Are Shakespeare’s princely sons,Bearing in lavish handsThe spoil of many lands?From castles lifted farAgainst the evening star,Where royal banners floatO’er rampart, tower, and moat,And the white moonlight sleepsUpon the Donjon keeps;From fairy-haunted dellsAmong the lonely fells;From banks where wild thyme growsAnd the blue violet blows;From caverns grim, and cavesLashed by the deep sea-waves;From darkling forest shade,From busy haunts of trade,From market, court, and camp,Where folly rings her bells,Or sorrow tolls her knells,Or where in cloister cellsThe scholar trims his lamp—Wearing the sword, the gown,The motley of the clown,The beggar’s rags, the doleOf the remorseful soul,The wedding-robe, the ring,The shroud’s white blossoming,O myriad-minded man,Thus thine immortal clanPassed down the endless waysOf the eternal days!Then said I to my spirit:“These are they who wore the crown;Well the king’s sons may inheritAll his glory and renown.Where are they—the songs unsungBy the humbler bards whose lyresThrough earth’s lowly vales have rung,Like the notes of woodland choirs?They whose silver-sandalled feetNever climbed the clouds to meet?”Where?—The air grew full of laughterLow and sweet, and following afterCame the softest breath of singingAs if lily bells were ringing;And from all the happy closes,Crowned with daisies, crowned with roses,Bearing woodland ferns for palm-boughs in their hands,From the dim secluded places,Through the wide enchanted spaces,With their song-illumined facesSwept the shadowy minstrel bands!Songs unsung, the high and lowly,Songs, the holy and unholy,In that purest air grown whollyClean from every spot and stain!And I knew as endless agesStill were turning life’s full pages,Each should find his own again—Find the song he could not sing,As his soul’s best blossoming!

Then the wondrous music pouredYet a fuller, stronger strain,Till my soul in rapture soaredOut of reach of toil and pain!Then, oh then, I know not how,Then, oh then, I know not where,I was borne, serene and slow,Through the boundless fields of air—Past the sunset’s golden bars,Past long ranks of glittering stars,To a realm where time was not,And its secrets were forgot!

Land of shadows, who may knowWhere thy golden lilies blow?Land of shadows, on what starIn the blue depths shining far,Or in what appointed placeIn the unmeasured realms of space,High as heaven, or deep as hell,Thou dost lie what tongue can tell?Send from out thy mystic portalsWith the holy chrism to-day,One of all thy high immortalsWho shall teach me what to say!

O beloveds, all the airWas a faint, ethereal mistTouched with rose and amethyst—Glints of gold, and here and therePurple splendors that were gone,Like the glory of the dawn,Ere one caught them. Soft and gray,Lit by many a pearly ray,Were the low skies bending dimTo the far horizon’s rim;And the landscape stretched away,Fair, illusive, like a dreamWherein all things do but seem!There were mountains, but they roseO’er the subtile vale’s repose,Light as clouds that far and highSoar to meet the untroubled sky.There were trees that overheadWide their sheltering branches spread,Yet were empty as the shadeBy the quivering vine-leaves made.There were roses, rich with bloom,Swinging censers of perfumeSweet as fragrant winds of MayBlowing through spring’s secret bowers;Yet so phantom-like were theyThat they seemed the ghosts of flowers.

Oh, the music sweet and strangeIn that land’s enchanted range!Like the pealing of the bellsWhen the brazen flowers are swingingAnd the angelus is ringing,Soaring, echoing, far and near,Through the vales and up the dells—Softly on the enraptured earA melodious murmur swells!As the rhythm of the riverDay and night goes on forever,So that pulsing stream of songRolls its silver waves along.Even silence is but sound,Deeper, softer, more profound!

All the portals were thrown wide!Stretching far on either sideRan the streets, like silver mist,By the moon’s pale splendor kissed;And adown the shadowy way,Forth from many a still retreat,One by one, and two by two,Or in goodly companies;Gliding on in long array,Light and fleet, with silent feet,One by one, and two by two,Phantoms that I could not number,Countless as the wraiths of slumber,Passed before my wondering eyes!

Then I grew aware of oneStanding by me in the dun,Gray half-twilight. All the placeGrew softly radiant; but his face,Albeit unveiled, I could not seeFor the awe that compassed me.Swift I spoke, by longings swayedDeeper than my words betrayed:“Master,” with clasped hands I prayed,“Who are these? Are they the dead?”“Nay, they never lived,” he said;“Whence art thou? How camest thou here?”Low I answered, then, in fear:“Sir, I know not; as I layDreaming at the close of day,Wondrous music, thrilling through me,To this land of phantoms drew me,Though I knew not how or why,Even as instinct draws the birdWhere Spring’s far-off voice is heard.Tell me, Master, where am I?”“Thou art in the border-land,On the farthest, utmost strandOf the sea that lies betweenAll that is and is not seen.Thou art where the wraiths of songCome and go, a phantom throng.’Tis their heart’s melodious beatFills the air with whispers sweet!These, O child, are songs unsung—Songs unbreathed by human tongue;These are they that all in vainMightiest masters wooed amain—Children of their heart and brainThat they could not warm to lifeBy their being’s utmost strife.Every bard that ever sungSince the hoary earth was youngKnew the song he could not singWas his soul’s best blossoming,Knew the thought he could not holdShrined his spirit’s purest gold.Look!”Where rose the city’s gateIn majestic, sculptured state,From a far-off battle-plain,Through the javelins’ silver rainBearing buckler, lance, and shield,And their standard’s glittering field,Eager, yet with shout nor din,Came a great host trooping in.Burned their eyes with martial fire,And the glow of proud desire,Such as gods and hero’s filledWhen their mighty souls were thrilledBy old Homer’s golden lyre!

Under dim cathedral archesPacing sad, pacing slow,As to beat of funeral marchesOr to music’s rhythmic flow—With their solemn brows uplifted,And their hands upon their breasts,Where the deepest shadows drifted,One by one pale phantoms pressed.Lost in dreams of heights supernal,Mystic dreams of Paradise,Or of woful depths infernal,Slow they passed before mine eyes.Oh, the vision’s pallid splendor!Oh, the grandeur of their mien—Kin, by birthright proud and tender,To the matchless Florentine!In stately solitude,Whereon might none intrude—Majestic, grand and calm,And bearing each the palm;Dwelling, serene and fair,In most enchanted air,Where softest music creptO’er harp-strings deftly swept,And organ-thunders rolledLike storm-winds through the wold,They stood in strength sublimeBeyond the bounds of time—They who had been a partOf Milton’s mighty heart!

And where, mysterious ones,Are Shakespeare’s princely sons,Bearing in lavish handsThe spoil of many lands?From castles lifted farAgainst the evening star,Where royal banners floatO’er rampart, tower, and moat,And the white moonlight sleepsUpon the Donjon keeps;From fairy-haunted dellsAmong the lonely fells;From banks where wild thyme growsAnd the blue violet blows;From caverns grim, and cavesLashed by the deep sea-waves;From darkling forest shade,From busy haunts of trade,From market, court, and camp,Where folly rings her bells,Or sorrow tolls her knells,Or where in cloister cellsThe scholar trims his lamp—Wearing the sword, the gown,The motley of the clown,The beggar’s rags, the doleOf the remorseful soul,The wedding-robe, the ring,The shroud’s white blossoming,O myriad-minded man,Thus thine immortal clanPassed down the endless waysOf the eternal days!

Then said I to my spirit:“These are they who wore the crown;Well the king’s sons may inheritAll his glory and renown.Where are they—the songs unsungBy the humbler bards whose lyresThrough earth’s lowly vales have rung,Like the notes of woodland choirs?They whose silver-sandalled feetNever climbed the clouds to meet?”

Where?—The air grew full of laughterLow and sweet, and following afterCame the softest breath of singingAs if lily bells were ringing;And from all the happy closes,Crowned with daisies, crowned with roses,Bearing woodland ferns for palm-boughs in their hands,From the dim secluded places,Through the wide enchanted spaces,With their song-illumined facesSwept the shadowy minstrel bands!

Songs unsung, the high and lowly,Songs, the holy and unholy,In that purest air grown whollyClean from every spot and stain!And I knew as endless agesStill were turning life’s full pages,Each should find his own again—Find the song he could not sing,As his soul’s best blossoming!

It was fair, it was sweet,And it blossomed at my feet.“O thou peerless rose!” I said,“Art thou heir to roses dead—Roses that their petals shedIn the winds of long ago?Who bequeathed to thee the glowOf thy perfect, radiant heart?What proud queen of fire and snowLived to make thee what thou art?Who gave thee thy nameless graceAnd the beauty of thy face,Touched thy lips with fragrant wine,Pledging thee in cups divine?On some long-forgotten day,When earth kept glad holiday,One bright rose was born, I think,Dewy, sweet, and soft and pink—Born, more blest than others are,To be thy progenitor!Oh, the roses that have diedIn the unremembered Junes!Oh, the roses that have sighedUnto long-forgotten runes!Dost thou know their secrets dear?Have they whispered in thine earMysteries of the rain and dew,And the sunshine that they knew?Have they told thee how the breezeWooed them, and the amorous bees?Silent, art thou? Thy reposeMocks me, yet I fain would knowArt thou kin to one rare roseOf a summer long ago?It was sweet, it was fair;Someone twined it in my hair,When my young cheek, blushing red,Shamed the roses, someone said.Dust and ashes though it be,Still its soul lives on in thee.”

Who gave thee thy nameless graceAnd the beauty of thy face,Touched thy lips with fragrant wine,Pledging thee in cups divine?On some long-forgotten day,When earth kept glad holiday,One bright rose was born, I think,Dewy, sweet, and soft and pink—Born, more blest than others are,To be thy progenitor!

Oh, the roses that have diedIn the unremembered Junes!Oh, the roses that have sighedUnto long-forgotten runes!Dost thou know their secrets dear?Have they whispered in thine earMysteries of the rain and dew,And the sunshine that they knew?Have they told thee how the breezeWooed them, and the amorous bees?

Silent, art thou? Thy reposeMocks me, yet I fain would knowArt thou kin to one rare roseOf a summer long ago?It was sweet, it was fair;Someone twined it in my hair,When my young cheek, blushing red,Shamed the roses, someone said.Dust and ashes though it be,Still its soul lives on in thee.”

The sun comes up and the sun goes down;The night mist shroudeth the sleeping town;But if it be dark or if it be day,If the tempests beat or the breezes play,Still here on this upland slope I lie,Looking up to the changeful sky.Naught am I but a fallow field;Never a crop my acres yield.Over the wall at my right handStately and green the corn-blades stand,And I hear at my left the flying feetOf the winds that rustle the bending wheat.Often while yet the morn is redI list for our master’s eager tread.He smiles at the young corn’s towering height,He knows the wheat is a goodly sight,But he glances not at the fallow fieldWhose idle acres no wealth may yield.Sometimes the shout of the harvestersThe sleeping pulse of my being stirs,And as one in a dream I seem to feelThe sweep and the rush of the swinging steel,Or I catch the sound of the gay refrainAs they heap their wains with the golden grain.Yet, O my neighbors, be not too proud,Though on every tongue your praise is loud.Our mother Nature is kind to me,And I am beloved by bird and bee,And never a child that passes byBut turns upon me a grateful eye.Over my head the skies are blue;I have my share of the rain and dew;I bask like you in the summer sunWhen the long bright days pass, one by one,And calm as yours is my sweet reposeWrapped in the warmth of the winter snows.For little our loving mother caresWhich the corn or the daisy bears,Which is rich with the ripening wheat,Which with the violet’s breath is sweet,Which is red with the clover bloom,Or which for the wild sweet-fern makes room.Useless under the summer skyYear after year men say I lie.Little they know what strength of mineI give to the trailing blackberry vine;Little they know how the wild grape grows,Or how my life-blood flushes the rose.Little they think of the cups I fillFor the mosses creeping under the hill;Little they think of the feast I spreadFor the wild wee creatures that must be fed:Squirrel and butterfly, bird and bee,And the creeping things that no eye may see.Lord of the harvest, thou dost knowHow the summers and winters go.Never a ship sails east or westLaden with treasures at my behest,Yet my being thrills to the voice of GodWhen I give my gold to the golden-rod.

Naught am I but a fallow field;Never a crop my acres yield.Over the wall at my right handStately and green the corn-blades stand,And I hear at my left the flying feetOf the winds that rustle the bending wheat.

Often while yet the morn is redI list for our master’s eager tread.He smiles at the young corn’s towering height,He knows the wheat is a goodly sight,But he glances not at the fallow fieldWhose idle acres no wealth may yield.

Sometimes the shout of the harvestersThe sleeping pulse of my being stirs,And as one in a dream I seem to feelThe sweep and the rush of the swinging steel,Or I catch the sound of the gay refrainAs they heap their wains with the golden grain.

Yet, O my neighbors, be not too proud,Though on every tongue your praise is loud.Our mother Nature is kind to me,And I am beloved by bird and bee,And never a child that passes byBut turns upon me a grateful eye.

Over my head the skies are blue;I have my share of the rain and dew;I bask like you in the summer sunWhen the long bright days pass, one by one,And calm as yours is my sweet reposeWrapped in the warmth of the winter snows.

For little our loving mother caresWhich the corn or the daisy bears,Which is rich with the ripening wheat,Which with the violet’s breath is sweet,Which is red with the clover bloom,Or which for the wild sweet-fern makes room.

Useless under the summer skyYear after year men say I lie.Little they know what strength of mineI give to the trailing blackberry vine;Little they know how the wild grape grows,Or how my life-blood flushes the rose.

Little they think of the cups I fillFor the mosses creeping under the hill;Little they think of the feast I spreadFor the wild wee creatures that must be fed:Squirrel and butterfly, bird and bee,And the creeping things that no eye may see.

Lord of the harvest, thou dost knowHow the summers and winters go.Never a ship sails east or westLaden with treasures at my behest,Yet my being thrills to the voice of GodWhen I give my gold to the golden-rod.

A ship went sailing out to sea,A gallant ship and gay,When skies were bright as skies could be,One sunny morn in May.The light winds blew,The white sails flew,The pennants floated far;No stain I saw,Nor any flaw,From deck to shining spar!And from the prow, with eager eyes,Hope gazed afar—to Paradise.A ship came laboring in from sea,One wild December night;Ah! never ship was borne to leeIn sadder, sorrier plight!Rent were her sailsBy furious gales,No pennants floated far;Twisted and tornAnd all forlornWere shuddering mast and spar!But from the prow Faith’s steady eyesCaught the near light of Paradise!

A ship came laboring in from sea,One wild December night;Ah! never ship was borne to leeIn sadder, sorrier plight!Rent were her sailsBy furious gales,No pennants floated far;Twisted and tornAnd all forlornWere shuddering mast and spar!But from the prow Faith’s steady eyesCaught the near light of Paradise!

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