A MYSTICAL BALLAD.I.The sunset scarce had dimmed awayInto the twilight's doubtful gray;One long cloud o'er the horizon lay,'Neath which, a streak of bluish white,Wavered between the day and night;Over the pine trees on the hillThe trembly evening-star did thrill,And the new moon, with slender rim,Through the elm arches gleaming dim,Filled memory's chalice to the brim.II.On such an eve the heart doth growFull of surmise, and scarce can knowIf it be now or long ago,Or if indeed it doth exist;—A wonderful enchanted mistFrom the new moon doth wander out,Wrapping all things in mystic doubt,So that this world doth seem untrue,And all our fancies to take hueFrom some life ages since gone through.III.The maiden sat and heard the flowOf the west wind so soft and lowThe leaves scarce quivered to and fro;Unbound, her heavy golden hairRippled across her bosom bare,Which gleamed with thrilling snowy whiteFar through the magical moonlight:The breeze rose with a rustling swell,And from afar there came the smellOf a long-forgotten lily-bell.IV.The dim moon rested on the hill,But silent, without thought or will,Where sat the dreamy maiden still;And now the moon's tip, like a star,Drew down below the horizon's bar;To her black noon the night hath grown,Yet still the maiden sits alone,Pale as a corpse beneath a streamAnd her white bosom still doth gleamThrough the deep midnight like a dream.V.Cloudless the morning came and fair,And lavishly the sun doth shareHis gold among her golden hair,Kindling it all, till slowly soA glory round her head doth glow;A withered flower is in her hand,That grew in some far distant land,And, silently transfigurèd,With wide calm eyes, and undrooped head,They found the stranger-maiden dead.VI.A youth, that morn, 'neath other skies,Felt sudden tears burn in his eyes,And his heart throng with memories;All things without him seemed to winStrange brotherhood with things within,And he forever felt that heWalked in the midst of mystery,And thenceforth, why, he could not tell,His heart would curdle at the smellOf his once-cherished lily-bell.VII.Something from him had passed away;Some shifting trembles of clear day,Through starry crannies in his clay,Grew bright and steadfast, more and more,Where all had been dull earth before;And, through these chinks, like him of old,His spirit converse high did holdWith clearer loves and wider powers,That brought him dewy fruits and flowersFrom far Elysian groves and bowers.VIII.Just on the farther bound of sense,Unproved by outward evidence,But known by a deep influenceWhich through our grosser clay doth shineWith light unwaning and divine,Beyond where highest thought can flyStretcheth the world of Mystery—And they not greatly overweenWho deem that nothing true hath beenSave the unspeakable Unseen.IX.One step beyond life's work-day things,One more beat of the soul's broad wings,One deeper sorrow sometimes bringsThe spirit into that great VastWhere neither future is nor past;None knoweth how he entered there,But, waking, finds his spirit whereHe thought an angel could not soar,And, what he called false dreams before,The very air about his door.X.These outward seemings are but showsWhereby the body sees and knows;Far down beneath, forever flowsA stream of subtlest sympathiesThat make our spirits strangely wiseIn awe, and fearful bodings dimWhich, from the sense's outer rim,Stretch forth beyond our thought and sight,Fine arteries of circling light,Pulsed outward from the Infinite.
opening poem toA YEAR'S LIFE.Hope first the youthful Poet leads,And he is glad to follow her;Kind is she, and to all his needsWith a free hand doth minister.But, when sweet Hope at last hath fled,Cometh her sister, Memory;She wreathes Hope's garlands round her head,And strives to seem as fair as she.Then Hope comes back, and by the handShe leads a child most fair to see,Who with a joyous face doth standUniting Hope and Memory.So brighter grew the Earth around,And bluer grew the sky above;The Poet now his guide hath found,And follows in the steps of Love.
DEDICATIONto volume of poems entitledA YEAR'S LIFE.The gentle Una I have loved,The snowy maiden, pure and mild,Since ever by her side I roved,Through ventures strange, a wondering child,In fantasy a Red Cross Knight,Burning for her dear sake to fight.If there be one who can, like her,Make sunshine in life's shady places,One in whose holy bosom stirAs many gentle household graces—And such I think there needs must be—Will she accept this book from me?
THE SERENADE.Gentle, Lady, be thy sleeping,Peaceful may thy dreamings be,While around thy soul is sweeping,Dreamy-winged, our melody;Chant we, Brothers, sad and slow,Let our song be soft and lowAs the voice of other years,Let our hearts within us melt,To gentleness, as if we feltThe dropping of our mother's tears.Lady! now our song is bringingBack again thy childhood's hours—Hearest thou the humbee singingDrowsily among the flowers?Sleepily, sleepilyIn the noontide swayeth he,Half rested on the slender stalksThat edge those well-known garden walks;Hearest thou the fitful whirringOf the humbird's viewless wings—Feel'st not round thy heart the stirringOf childhood's half-forgotten things?Seest thou the dear old dwellingWith the woodbine round the door?Brothers, soft! her breast is swellingWith the busy thoughts of yore;Lowly sing ye, sing ye mildly,House her spirit not so wildly,Lest she sleep not any more.'Tis the pleasant summertide,Open stands the window wide—Whose voices, Lady, art thou drinking?Who sings the best belovèd tuneIn a clear note, rising, sinking,Like a thrush's song in June?Whose laugh is that which rings so clearAnd joyous in thine eager ear?Lower, Brothers, yet more lowWeave the song in mazy twines;She heareth now the west wind blowAt evening through the clump of pines;O! mournful is their tune,As of a crazèd thingWho, to herself alone,Is ever murmuring,Through the night and through the day,For something that hath passed away.Often, Lady, hast thou listened,Often have thy blue eyes glistened,Where the summer evening breezeMoaned sadly through those lonely trees,Or with the fierce wind from the northWrung their mournful music forth.Ever the river flowethIn an unbroken stream,Ever the west wind bloweth,Murmuring as he goeth,And mingling with her dream;Onward still the river sweepethWith a sound of long-agone;Lowly, Brothers, lo! she weepeth,She is now no more alone;Long-loved forms and long-loved facesRound about her pillow throng,Through her memory's desert placesFlow the waters of our song.Lady! if thy life be holyAs when thou wert yet a child,Though our song be melancholy,It will stir no anguish wild;For the soul that hath lived well,For the soul that child-like is,There is quiet in the spellThat brings back early memories.
SONG.I.Lift up the curtains of thine eyesAnd let their light outshine!Let me adore the mysteriesOf those mild orbs of thine,Which ever queenly calm do roll,Attunèd to an ordered soul!II.Open thy lips yet once againAnd, while my soul doth hushWith awe, pour forth that holy strainWhich seemeth me to gush,A fount of music, running o'erFrom thy deep spirit's inmost core!III.The melody that dwells in theeBegets in me as wellA spiritual harmony,A mild and blessèd spell;Far, far above earth's atmosphereI rise, whene'er thy voice I hear.
THE DEPARTED.Not they alone are the departed,Who have laid them down to sleepIn the grave narrow and lonely,Not for them only do I vigils keep,Not for them only am I heavy-hearted,Not for them only!Many, many, there are manyWho no more are with me here,As cherished, as beloved as anyWhom I have seen upon the bier.I weep to think of those old faces,To see them in their grief or mirth;I weep—for there are empty placesAround my heart's once crowded hearth;The cold ground doth not cover them,The grass hath not grown over them,Yet are they gone from me on earth;—O! how more bitter is this weeping,Than for those lost ones who are sleepingWhere sun will shine and flowers blow,Where gentle winds will whisper low,And the stars have them in their keeping!Wherefore from me who loved you so,O! wherefore did ye go?I have shed full many a tear,I have wrestled oft in prayer—But ye do not come again;How could anything so dear,How could anything so fair,Vanish like the summer rain?No, no, it cannot be,But ye are still with me!And yet, O! where art thou,Childhood, with sunny browAnd floating hair?Where art thou hiding now?I have sought thee everywhere,All among the shrubs and flowersOf those garden-walks of ours—Thou art not there!When the shadow of Night's wingsHath darkened all the Earth,I listen for thy gambolingsBeside the cheerful hearth—Thou art not there!I listen to the far-off bell,I murmur o'er the little songsWhich thou didst love so well,Pleasant memories come in throngsAnd mine eyes are blurred with tears,But no glimpse of thee appears:Lonely am I in the Winter, lonely in the Spring,Summer and Harvest bring no trace of thee—Oh! whither, whither art thou wandering,Thou who didst once so cleave to me?And Love is gone;—I have seen him come,I have seen him, too, depart,Leaving desolate his home,His bright home in my heart.I am alone!Cold, cold is his hearth-stone,Wide open stands the door;The frolic and the gentle oneShall I see no more, no more?At the fount the bowl is broken,I shall drink it not again,All my longing prayers are spoken,And felt, ah, woe is me, in vain!Oh, childish hopes and childish fancies,Whither have ye fled away?I long for you in mournful trances,I long for you by night and day;Beautiful thoughts that once were mine,Might I but win you back once more,Might ye about my being twineAnd cluster as ye did of yore!O! do not let me pray in vain—How good and happy I should be,How free from every shade of pain,If ye would come again to me!O, come again! come, come again!Hath the sun forgot its brightness,Have the stars forgot to shine,That they bring not their wonted lightnessTo this weary heart of mine?'Tis not the sun that shone on thee,Happy childhood, long ago—Not the same stars silentlyLooking on the same bright snow—Not the same that Love and ITogether watched in days gone by!No, not the same, alas for me!Would God that those who early wentTo the house dark and low,For whom our mourning heads were bent,For whom our steps were slow;O, would that these alone had left us,That Fate of these alone had reft us,Would God indeed that it were so!Many leaves too soon must wither,Many flowers too soon must die,Many bright ones wandering hither,We know not whence, we know not why,Like the leaves and like the flowers,Vanish, ere the summer hours,That brought them to us, have gone by.O for the hopes and for the feelings,Childhood, that I shared with thee—The high resolves, the bright revealingsOf the soul's might, which thou gav'st me,Gentle Love, woe worth the day,Woe worth the hour when thou wert born,Woe worth the day thou fled'st away—A shade across the wind-waved corn—A dewdrop falling from the leavesChance-shaken in a summer's morn!Woe, woe is me! my sick heart grieves,Companionless and anguish-worn!I know it well, our manly yearsMust be baptized in bitter tears;Full many fountains must run dryThat youth has dreamed for long hours by,Choked by convention's siroc blastOr drifting sands of many cares;Slowly they leave us all at last,And cease their flowing unawares.
THE BOBOLINK.Anacreon of the meadow,Drunk with the joy of spring!Beneath the tall pine's voiceful shadowI lie and drink thy jargoning;My soul is full with melodies,One drop would overflow it,And send the tears into mine eyes—But what car'st thou to know it?Thy heart is free as mountain air,And of thy lays thou hast no care,Scattering them gayly everywhere,Happy, unconscious poet!Upon a tuft of meadow grass,While thy loved-one tends the nest,Thou swayest as the breezes pass,Unburthening thine o'erfull breastOf the crowded songs that fill it,Just as joy may choose to will it.Lord of thy love and liberty,The blithest bird of merry May,Thou turnest thy bright eyes on me,That say as plain as eye can say—"Here sit we, here in the summer weather,I and my modest mate together;Whatever your wise thoughts may be,Under that gloomy old pine tree,We do not value them a feather."Now, leaving earth and me behind,Thou beatest up against the wind,Or, floating slowly down before it,Above thy grass-hid nest thou flutterestAnd thy bridal love-song utterest,Raining showers of music o'er it,Weary never, still thou trillest,Spring-gladsome lays,As of moss-rimmed water-brooksMurmuring through pebbly nooksIn quiet summer days.My heart with happiness thou fillest,I seem again to be a boyWatching thee, gay, blithesome lover,O'er the bending grass-tops hover,Quivering thy wings for joy.There's something in the apple-blossom,The greening grass and bobolink's song,That wakes again within my bosomFeelings which have slumbered long.As long, long years ago I wandered,I seem to wander even yet,The hours the idle school-boy squandered,The man would die ere he'd forget.O hours that frosty eld deemed wasted,Nodding his gray head toward my books,I dearer prize the lore I tastedWith you, among the trees and brooks,Than all that I have gained since thenFrom learnèd books or study-withered men!Nature, thy soul was one with mine,And, as a sister by a younger brotherIs loved, each flowing to the other,Such love for me was thine.Or wert thou not more like a loving motherWith sympathy and loving power to heal,Against whose heart my throbbing heart I'd layAnd moan my childish sorrows all away,Till calm and holiness would o'er me steal?Was not the golden sunset a dear friend?Found I no kindness in the silent moon,And the green trees, whose tops did sway and bend,Low singing evermore their pleasant tune?Felt I no heart in dim and solemn woods—No loved-one's voice in lonely solitudes?Yes, yes! unhoodwinked then my spirit's eyes,Blind leaders had nottaught meto be wise.Dear hours! which now again I over-live,Hearing and seeing with the ears and eyesOf childhood, ye were bees, that to the hiveOf my young heart came laden with rich prize,Gathered in fields and woods and sunny dells, to beMy spirit's food in days more wintery.Yea, yet again ye come! ye come!And, like a child once more at homeAfter long sojourning in alien climes,I lie upon my mother's breast,Feeling the blessedness of rest,And dwelling in the light of other times.O ye whose living is notLife,Whose dying is but death,Song, empty toil and petty strife,Rounded with loss of breath!Go, look on Nature's countenance,Drink in the blessing of her glance;Look on the sunset, hear the wind,The cataract, the awful thunder;Go, worship by the sea;Then, and then only, shall ye find,With ever-growing wonder,Man is not all in all to ye;Go with a meek and humble soul,Then shall the scales of self unrollFrom off your eyes—the weary packsDrop from your heavy-laden backs;And ye shall see,With reverent and hopeful eyes,Glowing with new-born energies,How great a thing it is tobe!
FORGETFULNESS.There's a haven of sure restFrom the loud world's bewildering stressAs a bird dreaming on her nest,As dew hid in a rose's breast,As Hesper in the glowing West;So the heart sleepsIn thy calm deeps,Serene Forgetfulness!No sorrow in that place may be,The noise of life grows less and less:As moss far down within the sea,As, in white lily caves, a bee,As life in a hazy reverie;So the heart's waveIn thy dim cave,Hushes, Forgetfulness!Duty and care fade far awayWhat toil may be we cannot guess:As a ship anchored in the bay,As a cloud at summer-noon astray,As water-blooms in a breezeless day;So,'neath thine eyes,The full heart lies,And dreams, Forgetfulness!
SONG.I.What reck I of the stars, when IMay gaze into thine eyes,O'er which the brown hair flowinglyIs parted maidenwiseFrom thy pale forehead, calm and bright,Over thy cheeks so rosy white?II.What care I for the red moon-rise?Far liefer would I sitAnd watch the joy within thine eyesGush up at sight of it;Thyself my queenly moon shall be,Ruling my heart's deep tides for me!III.What heed I if the sky be blue?So are thy holy eyes,And bright with shadows ever newOf changeful sympathies,Which in thy soul's unruffled deepRest evermore, but never sleep.
THE POET.He who hath felt Life's mysteryPress on him like thick night,Whose soul hath known no historyBut struggling after light;—He who hath seen dim shapes ariseIn the soundless depths of soul,Which gaze on him with meaning eyesFull of the mighty whole,Yet will no word of healing speak,Although he pray night-long,"O, help me, save me! I am weak,And ye are wondrous strong!"—Who, in the midnight dark and deep,Hath felt a voice of mightCome echoing through the halls of sleepFrom the lone heart of Night,And, starting from his restless bed,Hath watched and wept to knowWhat meant that oracle of dreadThat stirred his being so;He who hath felt how strong and greatThis Godlike soul of man,And looked full in the eyes of Fate,Since Life and Thought began;The armor of whose moveless trustKnoweth no spot of weakness,Who hath trod fear into the dustBeneath the feet of meekness;—He who hath calmly borne his cross,Knowing himself the kingOf time, nor counted it a lossTo learn by suffering;—And who hath worshipped woman stillWith a pure soul and lowly,Nor ever hath in deed or willProfaned her temple holy—He is the Poet, him untoThe gift of song is given,Whose life is lofty, strong, and true,Who never fell from Heaven;He is the Poet, from his lipsTo live forevermore,Majestical as full-sailed ships,The words of Wisdom pour.
FLOWERS."Hail be thou, holie hearbe,Growing on the ground,All in the mount CalvaryFirst wert thou found;Thou art good for manie a sore,Thou healest manie a wound,In the name of sweete JesusI take thee from the ground."—Ancient Charm-verse.I.When, from a pleasant ramble, homeFresh-stored with quiet thoughts, I come,I pluck some wayside flowerAnd press it in the choicest nookOf a much-loved and oft-read book;And, when upon its leaves I lookIn a less happy hour,Dear memory bears me far awayUnto her fairy bower,And on her breast my head I lay,While, in a motherly, sweet strain,She sings me gently back againTo by-gone feelings, until theySeem children born of yesterday.II.Yes, many a story of past hoursI read in these dear withered flowers,And once again I seem to beLying beneath the old oak tree,And looking up into the sky,Through thick leaves rifted fitfully,Lulled by the rustling of the vine,Or the faint low of far-off kine;And once again I seemTo watch the whirling bubbles flee,Through shade and gleam alternately,Down the vine-bowered stream;Or 'neath the odorous linden trees,When summer twilight lingers long,To hear the flowing of the breezeAnd unseen insects' slumberous song,That mingle into one and seemLike dim murmurs of a dream;Fair faces, too, I seem to see,Smiling from pleasant eyes at me,And voices sweet I hear,That, like remembered melody,Flow through my spirit's ear.III.A poem every flower is,And every leaf a line,And with delicious memoriesThey fill this heart of mine:No living blossoms are so clearAs these dead relics treasured here;One tells of Love, of friendship one,Love's quiet after-sunset time,When the all-dazzling light is gone,And, with the soul's low vesper-chime,O'er half its heaven doth out-flowA holy calm and steady glow.Some are gay feast-songs, some are dirges,In some a joy with sorrow merges;One sings the shadowed woods, and one the roarOf ocean's everlasting surges,Tumbling upon the beach's hard-beat floor,Or sliding backward from the shoreTo meet the landward waves and slowly plunge once more.O flowers of grace, I bless ye allBy the dear faces ye recall!IV.Upon the banks of Life's deep streamsFull many a flower groweth,Which with a wondrous fragrance teems,And in the silent water gleams,And trembles as the water floweth,Many a one the wave upteareth,Washing ever the roots away,And far upon its bosom beareth,To bloom no more in Youth's glad May;As farther on the river runs,Flowing more deep and strong,Only a few pale, scattered onesAre seen the dreary banks along;And where those flowers do not grow,The river floweth dark and chill,Its voice is sad, and with its flowMingles ever a sense of ill;Then, Poet, thou who gather dostOf Life's best flowers the brightest,O, take good heed they be not lostWhile with the angry flood thou fightest!V.In the cool grottos of the soul,Whence flows thought's crystal river,Whence songs of joy forever rollTo Him who is the Giver—There store thou them, where fresh and greenTheir leaves and blossoms may be seen,A spring of joy that faileth never;There store thou them, and they shall beA blessing and a peace to thee,And in their youth and purityThou shalt be young forever!Then, with their fragrance rich and rare,Thy living shall be rife,Strength shall be thine thy cross to bear,And they shall be a chaplet fair,Breathing a pure and holy air,To crown thy holy life.VI.O Poet! above all men blest,Take heed that thus thou store them;Love, Hope, and Faith shall ever rest,Sweet birds (upon how sweet a nest!)Watchfully brooding o'er them.And from those flowers of ParadiseScatter thou many a blessèd seed,Wherefrom an offspring may ariseTo cheer the hearts and light the eyesOf after-voyagers in their need.They shall not fall on stony ground,But, yielding all their hundred-fold,Shall shed a peacefulness around,Whose strengthening joy may not be told,So shall thy name be blest of all,And thy remembrance never die;For of that seed shall surely fallIn the fair garden of Eternity.Exult then in the noblenessOf this thy work so holy,Yet be not thou one jot the lessHumble and meek and lowly,But let thine exultation beThe reverence of a bended knee;And by thy life a poem write,Built strongly day by day—And on the rock of Truth and RightIts deep foundations lay.VII.It is thyduty! Guard it well!For unto thee hath much been given,And thou canst make this life a Hell,Or Jacob's-ladder up to Heaven.Let not thy baptism in Life's waveMake thee like him whom Homer sings—A sleeper in a living grave,Callous and hard to outward things;But open all thy soul and senseTo every blessèd influenceThat from the heart of Nature springs:Then shall thy Life-flowers be to thee,When thy best years are told,As much as these have been to me—Yea, more, a thousand-fold!
THE LOVER.I.Go from the world from East to West,Search every land beneath the sky,You cannot find a man so blest,A king so powerful as I,Though you should seek eternally.II.For I a gentle lover be,Sitting at my loved-one's side;She giveth her whole soul to meWithout a wish or thought of pride,And she shall be my cherished bride.III.No show of gaudiness hath she,She doth not flash with jewels rare;In beautiful simplicityShe weareth leafy garlands fair,Or modest flowers in her hair.IV.Sometimes she dons a robe of green,Sometimes a robe of snowy white,But, in whatever garb she's seen,It seems most beautiful and right,And is the loveliest to my sight.V.Not I her lover am alone,Yet unto all she doth suffice,None jealous is, and every oneReads love and truth within her eyes,And deemeth her his own dear prize.VI.And so thou art, Eternal Nature!Yes, bride of Heaven, so thou art;Thou, wholly lovest every creature,Giving to each no stinted part,But filling every peaceful heart.
TO E. W. G."Dear Child! dear happy Girl! if thou appearHeedless—untouched with awe or serious thought,Thy nature is not therefore less divine:Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year;And worship'st at the Temple's inner shrine,God being with thee when we know it not."—Wordsworth.As through a strip of sunny lightA white dove flashes swiftly on,So suddenly before my sightThou gleamed'st a moment and wert gone;And yet I long shall bear in mindThe pleasant thoughts thou left'st behind.Thou mad'st me happy with thine eyes,And happy with thine open smile,And, as I write, sweet memoriesCome thronging round me all the while;Thou mad'st me happy with thine eyes—And gentle feelings long forgotLooked up and oped their eyes,Like violets when they see a spotOf summer in the skies.Around thy playful lips did glitterHeat-lightnings of a girlish scorn;Harmless they were, for nothing bitterIn thy dear heart was ever born—That merry heart that could not lieWithin its warm nest quietly,But ever from each full, dark eyeWas looking kindly night and morn.There was an archness in thine eyes,Born of the gentlest mockeries,And thy light laughter rang as clearAs water-drops I loved to hearIn days of boyhood, as they fellTinkling far down the dim, still well;And with its sound come back once moreThe feelings of my early years,And half aloud I murmured o'er—"Sure I have heard that sound before,It is so pleasant in mine ears."Whenever thou didst look on meI thought of merry birds,And something of spring's melodyCame to me in thy words;Thy thoughts did dance and bound alongLike happy children in their play,Whose hearts run over into songFor gladness of the summer's day;And mine grew dizzy with the sight,Still feeling lighter and more light,Till, joining hands, they whirled away,As blithe and merrily as they.I bound a larch-twig round with flowers,Which thou didst twine among thy hair,And gladsome were the few, short hoursWhen I was with thee there;So now that thou art far away,Safe-nestled in thy warmer clime,In memory of a happier dayI twine this simple wreath of rhyme.Dost mind how she, whom thou dost loveMore than in light words may be said,A coronal of amaranth woveAbout thy duly-sobered head,Which kept itself a moment stillThat she might have her gentle will?Thy childlike grace and purityO keep forevermore,And as thou art, still strive to be,That on the farther shoreOf Time's dark waters ye may meet,And she may twine around thy browA wreath of those bright flowers that growWhere blessèd angels set their feet!