HAKON'S LAY.Then Thorstein looked at Hakon, where he sate,Mute as a cloud amid the stormy hall,And said: "O, Skald, sing now an olden song,Such as our fathers heard who led great lives;And, as the bravest on a shield is borneAlong the waving host that shouts him king,So rode their thrones upon the thronging seas!"Then the old man arose: white-haired he stood,White-bearded, and with eyes that looked afarFrom their still region of perpetual snow,Over the little smokes and stirs of men:His head was bowed with gathered flakes of years,As winter bends the sea-foreboding pine,But something triumphed in his brow and eye,Which whoso saw it, could not see and crouch:Loud rang the emptied beakers as he mused,Brooding his eyried thoughts; then, as an eagleCircles smooth-winged above the wind-vexed woods,So wheeled his soul into the air of songHigh o'er the stormy hall; and thus he sang:"The fletcher for his arrow-shaft picks outWood closest-grained, long-seasoned, straight as light;And, from a quiver full of such as these,The wary bow-man, matched against his peers,Long doubting, singles yet once more the best.Who is it that can make such shafts as Fate?What archer of his arrows is so choice,Or hits the white so surely? They are men,The chosen of her quiver; nor for herWill every reed suffice, or cross-grained stickAt random from life's vulgar fagot plucked:Such answer household ends; but she will haveSouls straight and clear, of toughest fibre, soundDown to the heart of heart; from these she stripsAll needless stuff, all sapwood, hardens them,From circumstance untoward feathers plucksCrumpled and cheap, and barbs with iron will:The hour that passes is her quiver-boy;When she draws bow, 'tis not across the wind,Nor 'gainst the sun, her haste-snatched arrow sings,For sun and wind have plighted faith to her:Ere men have heard the sinew twang, behold,In the butt's heart her trembling messenger!"The song is old and simple that I sing:Good were the days of yore, when men were triedBy ring of shields, as now by ring of gold;But, while the gods are left, and hearts of men,And the free ocean, still the days are good;Through the broad Earth roams OpportunityAnd knocks at every door of hut or hall,Until she finds the brave soul that she wants."He ceased, and instantly the frothy tideOf interrupted wassail roared along;But Leif, the son of Eric, sate apartMusing, and, with his eyes upon the fire,Saw shapes of arrows, lost as soon as seen;But then with that resolve his heart was bent,Which, like a humming shaft, through many a strifeOf day and night across the unventured seas,Shot the brave prow to cut on Vinland sandsThe first rune in the Saga of the West.
OUT OF DOORS.'Tis good to be abroad in the sun,His gifts abide when day is done;Each thing in nature from his cupGathers a several virtue up;The grace within its being's reachBecomes the nutriment of each,And the same life imbibed by allMakes each most individual:Here the twig-bending peaches seekThe glow that mantles in their cheek—Hence comes the Indian-summer bloomThat hazes round the basking plum,And, from the same impartial light,The grass sucks green, the lily white.Like these the soul, for sunshine made,Grows wan and gracile in the shade,Her faculties, which God decreedVarious as Summer's dædal breed,With one sad color are imbued,Shut from the sun that tints their blood;The shadow of the poet's roofDeadens the dyes of warp and woof;Whate'er of ancient song remainsHas fresh air flowing in its veins,For Greece and eldest Ind knew wellThat out of doors, with world-wide swellArches the student's lawful cell.Away, unfruitful lore of books,For whose vain idiom we rejectThe spirit's mother-dialect,Aliens among the birds and brooks,Dull to interpret or believeWhat gospels lost the woods retrieve,Or what the eaves-dropping violetReports from God, who walketh yetHis garden in the hush of eve!Away, ye pedants city-bred,Unwise of heart, too wise of head,Who handcuff Art withthus and so,And in each other's footprints tread,Like those who walk through drifted snow;Who, from deep study of brick wallsConjecture of the water-falls,By six square feet of smoke-stained skyCompute those deeps that overlieThe still tarn's heaven-anointed eye,And, in your earthen crucible,With chemic tests essay to spellHow nature works in field and dell!Seek we where Shakspeare buried gold?Such hands no charmed witch-hazel hold;To beach and rock repeats the seaThe mysticOpen Sesame;Old Greylock's voices not in vainComment on Milton's mountain strain,And cunningly the various windSpenser's locked music can unbind.
A REVERIE.In the twilight deep and silentComes thy spirit unto mine,When the moonlight and the starlightOver cliff and woodland shine,And the quiver of the riverSeems a thrill of joy benign.Then I rise and wander slowlyTo the headland by the sea,When the evening star throbs settingThrough the cloudy cedar tree,And from under, mellow thunderOf the surf comes fitfully.Then within my soul I feel theeLike a gleam of other years,Visions of my childhood murmurTheir old madness in my ears,Till the pleasance of thy presenceCools my heart with blissful tears.All the wondrous dreams of boyhood—All youth's fiery thirst of praise—All the surer hopes of manhoodBlossoming in sadder days—Joys that bound me, griefs that crowned meWith a better wreath than bays—All the longings after freedom—The vague love of human kind,Wandering far and near at randomLike a winged seed in the wind—The dim yearnings and fierce burningsOf an undirected mind—All of these, oh best belovèd,Happiest present dreams and past,In thy love find safe fulfilment,Ripened into truths at last;Faith and beauty, hope and dutyTo one centre gather fast.How my nature, like an ocean,At the breath of thine awakes,Leaps its shores in mad exultingAnd in foamy thunder breaks,Then downsinking, lieth shrinkingAt the tumult that it makes!Blazing Hesperus hath sunkenLow within the pale-blue west,And with golden splendor crownethThe horizon's piny crest;Thoughtful quiet stills the riotOf wild longing in my breast.Home I loiter through the moonlight,Underneath the quivering trees,Which, as if a spirit stirred them,Sway and bend, till by degreesThe far surge's murmur mergesIn the rustle of the breeze.
IN SADNESS.There is not in this life of oursOne bliss unmixed with fears,The hope that wakes our deepest powersA face of sadness wears,And the dew that showers our dearest flowersIs the bitter dew of tears.Fame waiteth long, and lingerethThrough weary nights and morns—And evermore the shadow DeathWith mocking finger scornsThat underneath the laurel wreathShould be a wreath of thorns.The laurel leaves are cool and green,But the thorns are hot and sharp,Lean Hunger grins and stares betweenThe poet and his harp;Though of Love's sunny sheen his woof have been,Grim want thrusts in the warp.And if beyond this darksome climeSome fair star Hope may see,That keeps unjarred the blissful chimeOf its golden infancy—Where the harvest-time of faith sublimeNot always is to be—Yet would the true soul rather chooseIts home where sorrow is,Than in a sated peace to loseIts life's supremest bliss—The rainbow hues that bend profuseO'er cloudy spheres like this—The want, the sorrow and the pain,That are Love's right to cure—The sunshine bursting after rain—The gladness insecureThat makes us fain strong hearts to gain,To do and to endure.High natures must be thunder-scarredWith many a searing wrong;From mother Sorrow's breasts the bardSucks gifts of deepest song,Nor all unmarred with struggles hardWax the Soul's sinews strong.Dear Patience, too, is born of woe,Patience that opes the gateWherethrough the soul of man must goUp to each nobler state,Whose voice's flow so meek and lowSmooths the bent brows of Fate.Though Fame be slow, yet Death is swift,And, o'er the spirit's eyes,Life after life doth change and shiftWith larger destinies:As on we drift, some wider riftShows us serener skies.And though naught falleth to us hereBut gains the world counts loss,Though all we hope of wisdom clearWhen climbed to seems but dross,Yet all, though ne'er Christ's faith they wear,At least may share his cross.
FAREWELL.Farewell! as the bee round the blossomDoth murmur drowsily,So murmureth round my bosomThe memory of thee;Lingering, it seems to go,When the wind more full doth flow,Waving the flower to and fro,But still returneth, Marian!My hope no longer burneth,Which did so fiercely burn,My joy to sorrow turneth,Although loath, loath to turn—I would forget—And yet—and yetMy heart to thee still yearneth, Marian!Fair as a single star thou shinest,And white as lilies areThe slender hands wherewith thou twinestThy heavy auburn hair;Thou art to meA memoryOf all that is divinest:Thou art so fair and tall,Thy looks so queenly are,Thy very shadow on the wall,Thy step upon the stair,The thought that thou art nigh,The chance look of thine eyeAre more to me than all, Marian,And will be till I die!As the last quiver of a bellDoth fade into the air,With a subsiding swellThat dies we know not where,So my hope melted and was gone:I raised mine eyes to bless the starThat shared its light with me so farBelow its silver throne,And gloom and chilling vacancyWere all was left to me,In the dark, bleak night I was alone!Alone in the blessed Earth, Marian,For what were all to me—Its love, and light, and mirth, Marian,If I were not with thee?My heart will not forget theeMore than the moaning brineForgets the moon when she is set;The gush when first I met theeThat thrilled my brain like wine,Doth thrill as madly yet;My heart cannot forget thee,Though it may droop and pine,Too deeply it had set theeIn every love of mine;No new moon ever cometh,No flower ever bloometh,No twilight ever gloomethBut I'm more only thine.Oh look not on me, Marian,Thine eyes are wild and deep,And they have won me, Marian,From peacefulness and sleep;The sunlight doth not sun me,The meek moonshine doth shun me,All sweetest voices stun me—There is no restWithin my breastAnd I can only weep, Marian!As a landbird far at seaDoth wander through the sleetAnd drooping downward wearilyFinds no rest for her feet,So wandereth my memoryO'er the years when we did meet:I used to say that everythingPartook a share of thee,That not a little bird could sing,Or green leaf flutter on a tree,That nothing could be beautifulSave part of thee were there,That from thy soul so clear and fullAll bright and blessèd things did cullThe charm to make them fair;And now I knowThat it was so,Thy spirit through the earth doth flowAnd face me wheresoe'er I go—What right hath perfectness to giveSuch weary weight of woeUnto the soul which cannot liveOn anything more low?Oh leave me, leave me, Marian,There's no fair thing I seeBut doth deceive me, Marian,Into sad dreams of thee!A cold snake gnaws my heartAnd crushes round my brain,And I should glory but to partSo bitterly again,Feeling the slow tears startAnd fall in fiery rain:There's a wide ring round the moon,The ghost-like clouds glide by,And I hear the sad winds croonA dirge to the lowering sky;There's nothing soft or mildIn the pale moon's sickly light,But all looks strange and wildThrough the dim, foreboding night:I think thou must be deadIn some dark and lonely place,With candles at thy head,And a pall above thee spreadTo hide thy dead, cold face;But I can see thee underneathSo pale, and still, and fair,Thine eyes closed smoothly and a wreathOf flowers in thy hair;I never saw thy face so clearWhen thou wast with the living,As now beneath the pall, so drear,And stiff, and unforgiving;I cannot flee thee, Marian,I cannot turn away,Mine eyes must see thee, Marian,Through salt tears night and day.
A DIRGE.Poet! lonely is thy bed,And the turf is overhead—Cold earth is thy cover;But thy heart hath found release,And it slumbers full of peace'Neath the rustle of green treesAnd the warm hum of the bees,Mid the drowsy clover;Through thy chamber, still as death,A smooth gurgle wandereth,As the blue stream murmurethTo the blue sky over.Three paces from the silver strand,Gently in the fine, white sand,With a lily in thy hand,Pale as snow, they laid thee;In no coarse earth wast thou hid,And no gloomy coffin-lidDarkly overweighed thee.Silently as snow-flakes drift,The smooth sand did sift and siftO'er the bed they made thee;All sweet birds did come and singAt thy sunny burying—Choristers unbidden,And, beloved of sun and dew,Meek forget-me-nots upgrewWhere thine eyes so large and blue'Neath the turf were hidden.Where thy stainless clay doth lie,Blue and open is the sky,And the white clouds wander by,Dreams of summer silentlyDarkening the river;Thou hearest the clear water run;And the ripples every one,Scattering the golden sun,Through thy silence quiver;Vines trail down upon the stream,Into its smooth and glassy dreamA green stillness spreading,And the shiner, perch, and breamThrough the shadowed waters gleam'Gainst the current heading.White as snow, thy winding sheetShelters thee from head to feet,Save thy pale face only;Thy face is turned toward the skies,The lids lie meekly o'er thine eyes,And the low-voiced pine-tree sighsO'er thy bed so lonely.All thy life thou lov'dst its shade:Underneath it thou art laid,In an endless shelter;Thou hearest it forever sighAs the wind's vague longings dieIn its branches dim and high—Thou hear'st the waters gliding bySlumberously welter.Thou wast full of love and truth,Of forgiveness and ruth—Thy great heart with hope and youthTided to o'erflowing.Thou didst dwell in mysteries,And there lingered on thine eyesShadows of serener skies,Awfully wild memories,That were like foreknowing;Through the earth thou would'st have gone,Lighted from within alone,Seeds from flowers in Heaven grownWith a free hand sowing.Thou didst remember well and longSome fragments of thine angel-song,And strive, through want of woe and wrong,To win the world unto it;Thy sin it was to see and hearBeyond To-day's dim hemisphere—Beyond all mists of hope and fear,Into a life more true and clear,And dearly thou didst rue it;Light of the new world thou hadst won,O'erflooded by a purer sun—Slowly Fate's ship came drifting on,And through the dark, save thou, not oneCaught of the land a token.Thou stood'st upon the farthest prow,Something within thy soul said "Now!"And leaping forth with eager brow,Thou fell'st on shore heart-broken.Long time thy brethren stood in fear;Only the breakers far and near,White with their anger, they could hear;The sounds of land, which thy quick earCaught long ago, they heard not.And, when at last they reached the strand,They found thee lying on the sandWith some wild flowers in thy hand,But thy cold bosom stirred not;They listened, but they heard no soundSave from the glad life all aroundA low, contented murmur.The long grass flowed adown the hill,A hum rose from a hidden rill,But thy glad heart, that knew no illBut too much love, lay dead and still—The only thing that sent a chillInto the heart of summer.Thou didst not seek the poet's wreathBut too soon didst win it;Without 'twas green, but underneathWere scorn and loneliness and death,Gnawing the brain with burning teeth,And making mock within it.Thou, who wast full of nobleness,Whose very life-blood 'twas to bless,Whose soul's one law was giving,Must bandy words with wickedness,Haggle with hunger and distress,To win that death which worldlinessCalls bitterly a living."Thou sow'st no gold, and shalt not reap!"Muttered earth, turning in her sleep;"Come home to the Eternal Deep!"Murmured a voice, and a wide sweepOf wings through thy soul's hush did creep,As of thy doom o'erflying;It seem'd that thy strong heart would leapOut of thy breast, and thou didst weep,But not with fear of dying;Men could not fathom thy deep fears,They could not understand thy tears,The hoarded agony of yearsOf bitter self-denying.So once, when high above the spheresThy spirit sought its starry peers,It came not back to face the jeersOf brothers who denied it;Star-crowned, thou dost possess the deepsOf God, and thy white body sleepsWhere the lone pine forever keepsPatient watch beside it.Poet! underneath the turf,Soft thou sleepest, free from morrow,Thou hast struggled through the surfOf wild thoughts and want and sorrow.Now, beneath the moaning pine,Full of rest, thy body lieth,While far up is clear sunshine,Underneath a sky divine,Her loosed wings thy spirit trieth;Oft she strove to spread them here,But they were too white and clearFor our dingy atmosphere.Thy body findeth ample roomIn its still and grassy tombBy the silent river;But thy spirit found the earthNarrow for the mighty birthWhich it dreamed of ever;Thou wast guilty of a rhymeLearned in a benigner clime,And of that more grievous crime,An ideal too sublimeFor the low-hung sky of Time.The calm spot where thy body liesGladdens thy soul in Paradise,It is so still and holy;Thy body sleeps serenely there,And well for it thy soul may care,It was so beautiful and fair,Lily white so wholly.From so pure and sweet a frameThy spirit parted as it came,Gentle as a maiden;Now it lieth full of rest—Sods are lighter on its breastThan the great, prophetic guestWherewith it was laden.
FANCIES ABOUT A ROSEBUD,PRESSED IN AN OLD COPY OF SPENSER.Who prest you here? The Past can tell,When summer skies were bright above,And some full heart did leap and swellBeneath the white new moon of love.Some Poet, haply, when the worldShowed like a calm sea, grand and blue,Ere its cold, inky waves had curledO'er the numb heart once warm and true;When, with his soul brimful of morn,He looked beyond the vale of Time,Nor saw therein the dullard scornThat made his heavenliness a crime;When, musing o'er the Poets olden,His soul did like a sun upstartTo shoot its arrows, clear and golden,Through slavery's cold and darksome heart.Alas! too soon the veil is liftedThat hangs between the soul and pain,Too soon the morning-red hath driftedInto dull cloud, or fallen in rain!Or were you prest by one who nurstBleak memories of love gone by,Whose heart, like a star fallen, burstIn dark and erring vacancy?To him you still were fresh and greenAs when you grew upon the stalk,And many a breezy summer sceneCame back—and many a moonlit walk;And there would be a hum of bees,A smell of childhood in the air,And old, fresh feelings cooled the breezeThat, like loved fingers, stirred his hair!Then would you suddenly be blastedBy the keen wind of one dark thought,One nameless woe, that had outlastedThe sudden blow whereby 'twas brought.Or were you prest here by two loversWho seemed to read these verses rare,But found between the antique coversWhat Spenser could not prison there:Songs which his glorious soul had heard,But his dull pen could never write,Which flew, like some gold-wingèd bird,Through the blue heaven out of sight?My heart is with them as they sit,I see the rosebud in her breast,I see her small hand taking itFrom out its odorous, snowy nest;I hear him swear that he will keep it,In memory of that blessed day,To smile on it or over-weep itWhen she and spring are far away.Ah me! I needs must droop my head,And brush away a happy tear,For they are gone, and, dry and dead,The rosebud lies before me here.Yet is it in no stranger's hand,For I will guard it tenderly,And it shall be a magic wandTo bring mine own true love to me.My heart runs o'er with sweet surmises,The while my fancy weaves her rhyme,Kind hopes and musical surprisesThrong round me from the olden time.I do not care to know who prest you:Enough for me to feel and knowThat some heart's love and longing blest you,Knitting to-day with long-ago.
NEW YEAR'S EVE, 1844.A FRAGMENT.The night is calm and beautiful; the snowSparkles beneath the clear and frosty moonAnd the cold stars, as if it took delightIn its own silent whiteness; the hushed earthSleeps in the soft arms of the embracing blue,Secure as if angelic squadrons yetEncamped about her, and each watching starGained double brightness from the flashing armsOf wingèd and unsleeping sentinels.Upward the calm of infinite silence deepens,The sea that flows between high heaven and earth,Musing by whose smooth brink we sometimes findA stray leaf floated from those happier shores,And hope, perchance not vainly, that some flowerWhich we had watered with our holiest tears,Pale blooms, and yet our scanty garden's best,O'er the same ocean piloted by love,May find a haven at the feet of God,And be not wholly worthless in his sight.O, high dependence on a higher Power,Sole stay for all these restless facultiesThat wander, Ishmael-like, the desert bareWherein our human knowledge hath its home,Shifting their light-framed tents from day to day,With each new-found oasis, wearied soon,And only certain of uncertainty!O, mighty humbleness that feels with awe,Yet with a vast exulting feels, no less,That this huge Minster of the Universe,Whose smallest oratories are glorious worlds,With painted oriels of dawn and sunset;Whose carvèd ornaments are systems grand,Orion kneeling in his starry niche,The Lyre whose strings give music audibleTo holy ears, and countless splendors more,Crowned by the blazing Cross high-hung o'er all;Whose organ music is the solemn stopsOf endless Change breathed through by endless Good;Whose choristers are all the morning stars;Whose altar is the sacred human heartWhereon Love's candles burn unquenchably,Trimmed day and night by gentle-handed Peace;With all its arches and its pinnaclesThat stretch forever and forever up,Is founded on the silent heart of God,Silent, yet pulsing forth exhaustless lifeThrough the least veins of all created things.Fit musings these for the departing year;And God be thanked for such a crystal nightAs fills the spirit with good store of thoughts,That, like a cheering fire of walnut, crackleUpon the hearthstone of the heart, and castA mild home-glow o'er all Humanity!Yes, though the poisoned shafts of evil doubtsAssail the skyey panoply of Faith,Though the great hopes which we have had for man,Foes in disguise, because they based beliefOn man's endeavor, not on God's decree—Though these proud-visaged hopes, once turned to fly,Hurl backward many a deadly Parthian dartThat rankles in the soul and makes it sickWith vain regret, nigh verging on despair—Yet, in such calm and earnest hours as this,We well can feel how every living heartThat sleeps to-night in palace or in cot,Or unroofed hovel, or which need hath knownOf other homestead than the arching sky,Is circled watchfully with seraph fires;How our own erring will it is that hangsThe flaming sword o'er Eden's unclosed gate,Which gives free entrance to the pure in heart,And with its guarding walls doth fence the meek.Sleep then, O Earth, in thy blue-vaulted cradle,Bent over always by thy mother Heaven!We all are tall enough to reach God's hand,And angels are no taller: looking backUpon the smooth wake of a year o'erpast,We see the black clouds furling, one by one,From the advancing majesty of Truth,And something won for Freedom, whose least gainIs as a firm and rock-built citadelWherefrom to launch fresh battle on her foes;Or, leaning from the time's extremest prow,If we gaze forward through the blinding spray,And dimly see how much of ill remains,How many fetters to be sawn asunderBy the slow toil of individual zeal,Or haply rusted by salt tears in twain,We feel, with something of a sadder heart,Yet bracing up our bruisèd mail the while,And fronting the old foe with fresher spirit,How great it is to breathe with human breath,To be but poor foot-soldiers in the ranksOf our old exiled king, Humanity;Encamping after every hard-won fieldNearer and nearer Heaven's happy plains.Many great souls have gone to rest, and sleepUnder this armor, free and full of peace:If these have left the earth, yet Truth remains,Endurance, too, the crowning facultyOf noble minds, and Love, invincibleBy any weapons; and these hem us roundWith silence such that all the groaning clankOf this mad engine men have made of earthDulls not some ears for catching purer tones,That wander from the dim surrounding vast,Or far more clear melodious prophecies,The natural music of the heart of man,Which by kind Sorrow's ministry hath learnedThat the true sceptre of all power is loveAnd humbleness the palace-gate of truth.What man with soul so blind as sees not hereThe first faint tremble of Hope's morning-star,Foretelling how the God-forged shafts of dawn,Fitted already on their golden string,Shall soon leap earthward with exulting flightTo thrid the dark heart of that evil faithWhose trust is in the clumsy arms of Force,The ozier hauberk of a ruder age?Freedom! thou other name for happy Truth,Thou warrior-maid, whose steel-clad feet were neverOut of the stirrup, nor thy lance uncouched,Nor thy fierce eye enticèd from its watch,Thou hast learned now, by hero-blood in vainPoured to enrich the soil which tyrants reap;By wasted lives of prophets, and of thoseWho, by the promise in their souls upheld,Into the red arms of a fiery deathWent blithely as the golden-girdled beeSinks in the sleepy poppy's cup of flameBy the long woes of nations set at war,That so the swollen torrent of their wrathMay find a vent, else sweeping off like strawsThe thousand cobweb threads, grown cable-hugeBy time's long gathered dust, but cobwebs still,Which bind the Many that the Few may gainLeisure to wither by the drought of easeWhat heavenly germs in their own souls were sown;—By all these searching lessons thou hast learnedTo throw aside thy blood-stained helm and spearAnd with thy bare brow daunt the enemy's front,Knowing that God will make the lily stalk,In the soft grasp of naked Gentleness,Stronger than iron spear to shatter throughThe sevenfold toughness of Wrong's idle shield.