MARY.Dark hair, dark eyes—not too dark to be deepAnd full of feeling, yet enough to glowWith fire when angered; feelings never slow,But which seem rather watching to forthleapFrom her full breast; a gently-flowing sweepOf words in common talk, a torrent-rush,Whenever through her soul swift feelings gush,A heart less ready to be gay than weep,Yet cheerful ever; a calm matron-smile,That bids God bless you; a chaste simpleness,With somewhat, too, of "proper pride," in dress;—This portrait to my mind's eye came, the whileI thought of thee, the well-grown woman Mary,Whilome a gold-haired, laughing little fairy.
CAROLINE.A staidness sobers o'er her pretty face,Which something but ill-hidden in her eyes,And a quaint look about her lips denies;A lingering love of girlhood you can traceIn her checked laugh and half-restrainèd pace;And, when she bears herself most womanly,It seems as if a watchful mother's eyeKept down with sobering glance her childish grace:Yet oftentimes her nature gushes freeAs water long held back by little hands,Within a pump, and let forth suddenly,Until, her task remembering, she standsA moment silent, smiling doubtfully,Then laughs aloud and scorns her hated bands.
ANNE.There is a pensiveness in quiet Anne,A mournful drooping of the full gray eye,As if she had shook hands with misery,And known some care since her short life began;Her cheek is seriously pale, nigh wan,And, though of cheerfulness there is no lack,You feel as if she must be dressed in black;Yet is she not of those who, all they can,Strive to be gay, and striving, seem most sad—Hers is not grief, but silent soberness;You would be startled if you saw her glad,And startled if you saw her weep, no less;She walks through life, as, on the Sabbath day,She decorously glides to church to pray.
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THRENODIA.Gone, gone from us! and shall we seeThese sibyl-leaves of destiny,Those calm eyes, nevermore?Those deep, dark eyes so warm and bright,Wherein the fortunes of the manLay slumbering in prophetic light,In characters a child might scan?So bright, and gone forth utterly!O stern word—Nevermore!The stars of those two gentle eyesWill shine no more on earth;Quenched are the hopes that had their birth,As we watched them slowly rise,Stars of a mother's fate;And she would read them o'er and o'er,Pondering as she sate,Over their dear astrology,Which she had conned and conned before,Deeming she needs must read arightWhat was writ so passing bright.And yet, alas! she knew not why,Her voice would falter in its song,And tears would slide from out her eye,Silent, as they were doing wrong.O stern word—Nevermore!The tongue that scarce had learned to claimAn entrance to a mother's heartBy that dear talisman, a mother's name,Sleeps all forgetful of its art!I loved to see the infant soul(How mighty in the weaknessOf its untutored meekness!)Peep timidly from out its nest,His lips, the while,Fluttering with half-fledged words,Or hushing to a smileThat more than words expressed,When his glad mother on him stoleAnd snatched him to her breast!O, thoughts were brooding in those eyes,That would have soared like strong-winged birdsFar, far, into the skies,Gladding the earth with song,And gushing harmonies,Had he but tarried with us long!O stern word—Nevermore!How peacefully they rest,Crossfolded thereUpon his little breast,Those small, white hands that ne'er were still before,But ever sported with his mother's hair,Or the plain cross that on her breast she wore!Her heart no more will beatTo feel the touch of that soft palm,That ever seemed a new surpriseSending glad thoughts up to her eyesTo bless him with their holy calm,—Sweet thoughts! they made her eyes as sweet.How quiet are the handsThat wove those pleasant bands!But that they do not rise and sinkWith his calm breathing, I should thinkThat he were dropped asleep.Alas! too deep, too deepIs this his slumber!Time scarce can numberThe years ere he will wake again.O, may we see his eyelids open then!O stern word—Nevermore!As the airy gossamere,Floating in the sunlight clear,Where'er it toucheth clingeth tightly,Round glossy leaf or stump unsightly,So from his spirit wandered outTendrils spreading all about,Knitting all things to its thrallWith a perfect love of all:O stern word—Nevermore!He did but float a little wayAdown the stream of time,With dreamy eyes watching the ripples play,Or listening their fairy chime;His slender sailNe'er felt the gale;He did but float a little way,And, putting to the shoreWhile yet 'twas early day,Went calmly on his way,To dwell with us no more!No jarring did he feel,No grating on his vessel's keel,A strip of silver sandMingled the waters with the landWhere he was seen no more:O stern word—Nevermore!Full short his journey was; no dustOf earth unto his sandals clave;The weary weight that old men must,He bore not to the grave.He seemed a cherub who had lost his wayAnd wandered hither, so his stayWith us was short, and 'twas most meetThat he should be no delver in earth's clodNor need to pause and cleanse his feetTo stand before his God:O blest word—Evermore!1839.
THE SIRENS.The sea is lonely, the sea is dreary,The sea is restless and uneasy;Thou seekest quiet, thou art weary,Wandering thou knowest not whither;—Our little isle is green and breezy,Come and rest thee! O come hither;Come to this peaceful home of ours,Where evermoreThe low west-wind creeps panting up the shoreTo be at rest among the flowers;Full of rest, the green moss lifts,As the dark waves of the seaDraw in and out of rocky rifts,Calling solemnly to theeWith voices deep and hollow,—"To the shoreFollow! O, follow!To be at rest forevermore!Forevermore!"Look how the gray old OceanFrom the depth of his heart rejoices,Heaving with a gentle motion,When he hears our restful voices;List how he sings in an under-tone,Chiming with our melody;And all sweet sounds of earth and airMelt into one low voice alone,That murmurs over the weary sea,And seems to sing from everywhere,—"Here mayst thou harbor peacefully,Here mayst thou rest from the aching oar;Turn thy curvèd prow ashore,And in our green isle rest for evermore!Forevermore!"And Echo half wakes in the wooded hill,And, to her heart so calm and deep,Murmurs over in her sleep,Doubtfully pausing and murmuring still,"Evermore!"Thus, on Life's weary sea,Heareth the marinereVoices sweet, from far and near,Ever singing low and clear,Ever singing longingly.Is it not better here to be,Than to be toiling late and soon?In the dreary night to seeNothing but the blood-red moonGo up and down into the sea;Or, in the loneliness of day,To see the still seals onlySolemnly lift their faces gray,Making it yet more lonely?Is it not better, than to hearOnly the sliding of the waveBeneath the plank, and feel so nearA cold and lonely grave,A restless grave, where thou shalt lieEven in death unquietly?Look down beneath thy wave-worn bark,Lean over the side and seeThe leaden eye of the sidelong sharkUpturnèd patiently,Ever waiting there for thee:Look down and see those shapeless forms,Which ever keep their dreamless sleepFar down within the gloomy deep,And only stir themselves in storms,Rising like islands from beneath,And snorting through the angry spray,As the frail vessel perishethIn the whirls of their unwieldy play;Look down! Look down!Upon the seaweed, slimy and dark,That waves its arms so lank and brown,Beckoning for thee!Look down beneath thy wave-worn barkInto the cold depth of the sea!Look down! Look down!Thus on Life's lonely sea,Heareth the marinereVoices sad, from far and near,Ever singing full of fear,Ever singing drearfully.Here all is pleasant as a dream;The wind scarce shaketh down the dew,The green grass floweth like a streamInto the ocean's blue;Listen! O, listen!Here is a gush of many streams,A song of many birds,And every wish and longing seemsLulled to a numbered flow of words,—Listen! O, listen!Here ever hum the golden beesUnderneath full-blossomed trees,At once with glowing fruit and flowers crowned;—The sand is so smooth, the yellow sand,That thy keel will not grate as it touches the landAll around with a slumberous sound,The singing waves slide up the strand,And there, where the smooth, wet pebbles be,The waters gurgle longingly,As if they fain would seek the shore,To be at rest from the ceaseless roar,To be at rest forevermore,—Forevermore.Thus, on Life's gloomy sea,Heareth the marinereVoices sweet, from far and near,Ever singing in his ear,"Here is rest and peace for thee."Nantasket,July, 1840.
IRENÉ.Hers is a spirit deep, and crystal-clear,Calmly beneath her earnest face it lies,Free without boldness, meek without a fear,Quicker to look than speak its sympathies;Far down into her large and patient eyesI gaze, deep-drinking of the infinite,As, in the mid-watch of a clear, still night,I look into the fathomless blue skies.So circled lives she with Love's holy light,That from the shade of self she walketh free;The garden of her soul still keepeth sheAn Eden where the snake did never enter;She hath a natural, wise sincerity,A simple truthfulness, and these have lent herA dignity as moveless as the centre;So that no influence of earth can stirHer steadfast courage, nor can take awayThe holy peacefulness, which, night and day,Unto her queenly soul doth minister.Most gentle is she; her large charity(An all unwitting, child-like gift in her)Not freer is to give than meek to bear;And, though herself not unacquaint with care,Hath in her heart wide room for all that be,—Her heart that hath no secrets of its own,But open is as eglantine full blown.Cloudless forever is her brow serene,Speaking calm hope and trust within her, whenceWelleth a noiseless spring of patience,That keepeth all her life so fresh, so greenAnd full of holiness, that every look,The greatness of her woman's soul revealing,Unto me bringeth blessing, and a feelingAs when I read in God's own holy book.A graciousness in giving that doth makeThe small'st gift greatest, and a sense most meekOf worthiness, that doth not fear to takeFrom others, but which always fears to speakIts thanks in utterance, for the giver's sake;—The deep religion of a thankful heart,Which rests instinctively in Heaven's lawWith a full peace, that never can departFrom its own steadfastness;—a holy aweFor holy things,—not those which men call holy,But such as are revealèd to the eyesOf a true woman's soul bent down and lowlyBefore the face of daily mysteries;—A love that blossoms soon, but ripens slowlyTo the full goldenness of fruitful prime,Enduring with a firmness that defiesAll shallow tricks of circumstance and time,By a sure insight knowing where to cling,And where it clingeth never withering;—These are Irené's dowry, which no fateCan shake from their serene, deep-builded state.In-seeing sympathy is hers, which chastenethNo less than loveth, scorning to be boundWith fear of blame, and yet which ever hastenethTo pour the balm of kind looks on the wound,If they be wounds which such sweet teaching makes,Giving itself a pang for others' sakes;No want of faith, that chills with sidelong eye,Hath she; no jealousy, no Levite prideThat passeth by upon the other side;For in her soul there never dwelt a lie.Right from the hand of God her spirit cameUnstained, and she hath ne'er forgotten whenceIt came, nor wandered far from thence,But laboreth to keep her still the same,Near to her place of birth, that she may notSoil her white raiment with an earthly spot.Yet sets she not her soul so steadilyAbove, that she forgets her ties to earth,But her whole thought would almost seem to beHow to make glad one lowly human hearth;For with a gentle courage she doth striveIn thought and word and feeling so to liveAs to make earth next heaven; and her heartHerein doth show its most exceeding worth,That, bearing in our frailty her just part,She hath not shrunk from evils of this life,But hath gone calmly forth into the strife,And all its sins and sorrows hath withstoodWith lofty strength of patient womanhood:For this I love her great soul more than all,That, being bound, like us, with earthly thrall,She walks so bright and heaven-like therein,—Too wise, too meek, too womanly, to sin.Like a lone star through riven storm-clouds seenBy sailors, tempest-toss'd upon the sea,Telling of rest and peaceful heavens nigh,Unto my soul her star-like soul hath been,Her sight as full of hope and calm to me;—For she unto herself hath builded highA home serene, wherein to lay her head,Earth's noblest thing, a Woman perfected.1840.
SERENADE.From the close-shut windows gleams no spark,The night is chilly, the night is dark,The poplars shiver, the pine-trees moan,My hair by the autumn breeze is blown,Under thy window I sing alone,Alone, alone, ah woe! alone!The darkness is pressing coldly around,The windows shake with a lonely sound,The stars are hid and the night is drear,The heart of silence throbs in thine ear,In thy chamber thou sittest alone,Alone, alone, ah woe! alone!The world is happy, the world is wide,Kind hearts are beating on every side;Ah, why should we lie so coldly curledAlone in the shell of this great world?Why should we any more be alone?Alone, alone, ah woe! alone!O, 'tis a bitter and dreary word,The saddest by man's ear ever heard!We each are young, we each have a heart,Why stand we ever coldly apart?Must we forever, then, be alone?Alone, alone, ah woe! alone!1840.
WITH A PRESSED FLOWER.This little flower from afarHath come from other lands to thine;For, once, its white and drooping starCould see its shadow in the Rhine.Perchance some fair-haired German maidHath plucked one from the self-same stalk,And numbered over, half afraid,Its petals in her evening walk."He loves me, loves me not," she cries;"He loves me more than earth or heaven!"And then glad tears have filled her eyesTo find the number was uneven.And thou must count its petals well,Because it is a gift from me;And the last one of all shall tellSomething I've often told to thee.But here at home, where we were born,Thou wilt find flowers just as true,Down-bending every summer mornWith freshness of New-England dew.For Nature, ever kind to love,Hath granted them the same sweet tongue,Whether with German skies above,Or here our granite rocks among.1840.
THE BEGGAR.A beggar, through the world am I,—From place to place I wander by.Fill up my pilgrim's scrip for me,For Christ's sweet sake and charity!A little of thy steadfastness,Rounded with leafy gracefulness,Old oak, give me,—That the world's blasts may round me blow,And I yield gently to and fro,While my stout-hearted trunk belowAnd firm-set roots unshaken be.Some of thy stern, unyielding might,Enduring still through day and nightRude tempest-shock and withering blight,—That I may keep at bayThe changeful April sky of chanceAnd the strong tide of circumstance,—Give me, old granite gray.Some of thy pensiveness serene,Some of thy never-dying green,Put in this scrip of mine,—That griefs may fall like snow-flakes light,And deck me in a robe of white,Ready to be an angel bright,—O sweetly-mournful pine.A little of thy merriment,Of thy sparkling, light content,Give me, my cheerful brook,—That I may still be full of gleeAnd gladsomeness, where'er I be,Though fickle fate hath prisoned meIn some neglected nook.Ye have been very kind and goodTo me, since I've been in the wood;Ye have gone nigh to fill my heart;But good-bye, kind friends, every one,I've far to go ere set of sun;Of all good things I would have part,The day was high ere I could start,And so my journey's scarce begun.Heaven help me! how could I forgetTo beg of thee, dear violet!Some of thy modesty,That blossoms here as well, unseen,As if before the world thou'dst been,O, give, to strengthen me.1839.
MY LOVE.I.Not as all other women areIs she that to my soul is dear;Her glorious fancies come from far,Beneath the silver evening-star,And yet her heart is ever near.II.Great feelings hath she of her own,Which lesser souls may never know;God giveth them to her alone,And sweet they are as any toneWherewith the wind may choose to blow.III.Yet in herself she dwelleth not,Although no home were half so fair;No simplest duty is forgot,Life hath no dim and lowly spotThat doth not in her sunshine share.IV.She doeth little kindnesses,Which most leave undone, or despise;For naught that sets one heart at ease,And giveth happiness or peace,Is low-esteemèd in her eyes.V.She hath no scorn of common things,And, though she seem of other birth,Round us her heart entwines and clings,And patiently she folds her wingsTo tread the humble paths of earth.VI.Blessing she is: God made her so,And deeds of weekday holinessFall from her noiseless as the snow,Nor hath she ever chanced to knowThat aught were easier than to bless.VII.She is most fair, and thereuntoHer life doth rightly harmonize;Feeling or thought that was not trueNe'er made less beautiful the blueUnclouded heaven of her eyes.VIII.She is a woman: one in whomThe spring-time of her childish yearsHath never lost its fresh perfume,Though knowing well that life hath roomFor many blights and many tears.IX.I love her with a love as stillAs a broad river's peaceful might,Which, by high tower and lowly mill,Goes wandering at its own will,And yet doth ever flow aright.X.And, on its full, deep breast serene,Like quiet isles my duties lie;It flows around them and between,And makes them fresh and fair and green,Sweet homes wherein to live and die.1840.
SUMMER STORM.Untremulous in the river clear,Toward the sky's image, hangs the imaged bridgeSo still the air that I can hearThe slender clarion of the unseen midge;Out of the stillness, with a gathering creep,Like rising wind in leaves, which now decreases,Now lulls, now swells, and all the while increases,The huddling trample of a drove of sheepTilts the loose planks, and then as gradually ceasesIn dust on the other side; life's emblem deep,A confused noise between two silences,Finding at last in dust precarious peace.On the wide marsh the purple-blossomed grassesSoak up the sunshine; sleeps the brimming tideSave when the wedge-shaped wake in silence passesOf some slow water-rat, whose sinuous glideWavers the long green sedge's shade from side to side;But up the west, like a rock-shivered surge,Climbs a great cloud edged with sun-whitened spray;Huge whirls of foam boil toppling o'er its verge,And falling still it seems, and yet it climbs alway.Suddenly all the sky is hidAs with the shutting of a lid,One by one great drops are fallingDoubtful and slow,Down the pane they are crookedly crawling,And the wind breathes low;Slowly the circles widen on the river,Widen and mingle, one and all;Here and there the slenderer flowers shiver,Struck by an icy rain-drop's fall.Now on the hills I hear the thunder mutter,The wind is gathering in the west;The upturned leaves first whiten and flutter,Then droop to a fitful rest;Up from the stream with sluggish flapStruggles the gull and floats away;Nearer and nearer rolls the thunder-clap,—We shall not see the sun go down to-day:Now leaps the wind on the sleepy marsh,And tramples the grass with terrified feet,The startled river turns leaden and harsh.You can hear the quick heart of the tempest beat.Look! look! that livid flash!And instantly follows the rattling thunder,As if some cloud-crag, split asunder,Fell, splintering with a ruinous crash,On the Earth, which crouches in silence under;And now a solid gray wall of rainShuts off the landscape, mile by mile;For a breath's space I see the blue wood again,And, ere the next heart-beat, the wind-hurled pile,That seemed but now a league aloof,Bursts crackling o'er the sun-parched roof;Against the windows the storm comes dashing,Through tattered foliage the hail tears crashing,The blue lightning flashes,The rapid hail clashes,The white waves are tumbling,And, in one baffled roar,Like the toothless sea mumblingA rock-bristled shore,The thunder is rumblingAnd crashing and crumbling,—Will silence return never more?Hush! Still as death,The tempest holds his breathAs from a sudden will;The rain stops short, but from the eavesYou see it drop, and hear it from the leaves,All is so bodingly still;Again, now, now, againPlashes the rain in heavy gouts,The crinkled lightningSeems ever brightening,And loud and longAgain the thunder shoutsHis battle-song,—One quivering flash,One wildering crash,Followed by silence dead and dull,As if the cloud, let go,Leapt bodily belowTo whelm the earth in one mad overthrow,And then a total lull.Gone, gone, so soon!No more my half-crazed fancy thereCan shape a giant in the air,No more I see his streaming hair,The writhing portent of his form;—The pale and quiet moonMakes her calm forehead bare,And the last fragments of the storm,Like shattered rigging from a fight at sea,Silent and few, are drifting over me.1839.
LOVE.True Love is but a humble, low-born thing,And hath its food served up in earthen ware;It is a thing to walk with, hand in hand,Through the everydayness of this work-day world,Baring its tender feet to every roughness,Yet letting not one heart-beat go astrayFrom Beauty's law of plainness and content.A simple, fireside thing, whose quiet smileCan warm earth's poorest hovel to a home;Which, when our autumn cometh, as it must,And life in the chill wind shivers bare and leafless,Shall still be blest with Indian-summer youthIn bleak November, and, with thankful heart,Smile on its ample stores of garnered fruit,As full of sunshine to our aged eyesAs when it nursed the blossoms of our spring.Such is true Love, which steals into the heartWith feet as silent as the lightsome dawnThat kisses smooth the rough brows of the dark,And hath its will through blissful gentleness,—Not like a rocket, which, with savage glare,Whirrs suddenly up, then bursts, and leaves the nightPainfully quivering on the dazèd eyes;A love that gives and takes, that seeth faults,Not with flaw-seeking eyes like needle points,But loving-kindly ever looks them downWith the o'ercoming faith of meek forgiveness;A love that shall be new and fresh each hour,As is the golden mystery of sunset,Or the sweet coming of the evening star,Alike, and yet most unlike, every day,And seeming ever best and fairestnow;A love that doth not kneel for what it seeks,But faces Truth and Beauty as their peer,Showing its worthiness of noble thoughtsBy a clear sense of inward nobleness;A love that in its object findeth notAll grace and beauty, and enough to sateIts thirst of blessing, but, in all of goodFound there, it sees but Heaven-granted typesOf good and beauty in the soul of man,And traces, in the simplest heart that beats,A family-likeness to its chosen one,That claims of it the rights of brotherhood.For love is blind but with the fleshly eye,That so its inner sight may be more clear;And outward shows of beauty only soAre needful at the first, as is a handTo guide and to uphold an infant's steps:Great spirits need them not: their earnest lookPierces the body's mask of thin disguise,And beauty ever is to them revealed,Behind the unshapeliest, meanest lump of clay,With arms outstretched and eager face ablaze,Yearning to be but understood and loved.1840.
TO PERDITA, SINGING.Thy voice is like a fountain,Leaping up in clear moonshine;Silver, silver, ever mounting,Ever sinking,Without thinking,To that brimful heart of thine.Every sad and happy feeling,Thou hast had in bygone years,Through thy lips come stealing, stealing,Clear and low;All thy smiles and all thy tearsIn thy voice awaken,And sweetness, wove of joy and woe,From their teaching it hath takenFeeling and music move together,Like a swan and shadow everHeaving on a sky-blue riverIn a day of cloudless weather.It hath caught a touch of sadness,Yet it is not sad;It hath tones of clearest gladness,Yet it is not glad;A dim, sweet, twilight voice it isWhere to-day's accustomed blueIs over-grayed with memories,With starry feelings quivered through.Thy voice is like a fountainLeaping up in sunshine bright,And I never weary countingIts clear droppings, lone and single,Or when in one full gush they mingle,Shooting in melodious light.Thine is music such as yieldsFeelings of old brooks and fields,And, around this pent-up room,Sheds a woodland, free perfume;O, thus forever sing to me!O, thus forever!The green, bright grass of childhood bring to me,Flowing like an emerald river,And the bright blue skies above!O, sing them back, as fresh as ever,Into the bosom of my love,—The sunshine and the merriment,The unsought, evergreen content,Of that never cold time,The joy, that, like a clear breeze, wentThrough and through the old time!Peace sits within thine eyes,With white hands crossed in joyful rest,While, through thy lips and face, ariseThe melodies from out thy breast;She sits and sings,With folded wingsAnd white arms crost,"Weep not for passed things,They are not lost:The beauty which the summer timeO'er thine opening spirit shed,The forest oracles sublimeThat filled thy soul with joyous dread,The scent of every smallest flowerThat made thy heart sweet for an hour,—Yea, every holy influence,Flowing to thee, thou knewest not whence,In thine eyes to-day is seen,Fresh as it hath ever been;Promptings of Nature, beckonings sweet,Whatever led thy childish feet,Still will linger unawaresThe guiders of thy silver hairs;Every look and every wordWhich thou givest forth to-day,Tell of the singing of the birdWhose music stilled thy boyish play."Thy voice is like a fountain,Twinkling up in sharp starlight,When the moon behind the mountainDims the low East with faintest white,Ever darkling,Ever sparkling,We know not if 'tis dark or bright;But, when the great moon hath rolled round,And, sudden-slow, its solemn powerGrows from behind its black, clear-edged bound,No spot of dark the fountain keepeth,But, swift as opening eyelids, leapethInto a waving silver flower.1841.