Stand here by my side and turn, I pray,On the lake below thy gentle eyes;The clouds hang over it, heavy and gray,And dark and silent the water lies;And out of that frozen mist the snowIn wavering flakes begins to flow;Flake after flakeThey sink in the dark and silent lake.See how in a living swarm they comeFrom the chambers beyond that misty veil;Some hover awhile in air, and someRush prone from the sky like summer hail.All, dropping swiftly or settling slow,Meet, and are still in the depths below;Flake after flakeDissolved in the dark and silent lake.Here delicate snow-stars, out of the cloud,Come floating downward in airy play,Like spangles dropped from the glistening crowdThat whiten by night the milky way;There broader and burlier masses fall;The sullen water buries them all—Flake after flake—All drowned in the dark and silent lake.And some, as on tender wings they glideFrom their chilly birth-cloud, dim and gray,Are joined in their fall, and, side by side,Come clinging along their unsteady way;As friend with friend, or husband with wife,Makes hand in hand the passage of life;Each mated flakeSoon sinks in the dark and silent lake.Lo! while we are gazing, in swifter hasteStream down the snows, till the air is whiteAs, myriads by myriads madly chased,They fling themselves from their shadowy height.The fair, frail creatures of middle sky,What speed they make, with their grave so nigh;Flake after flake,To lie in the dark and silent lake!I see in thy gentle eyes a tear;They turn to me in sorrowful thought;Thou thinkest of friends, the good and dear,Who were for a time, and now are not;Like these fair children of cloud and frost,That glisten a moment and then are lost,Flake after flake—All lost in the dark and silent lake.Yet look again, for the clouds divide;A gleam of blue on the water lies;And far away, on the mountain-side,A sunbeam falls from the opening skies,But the hurrying host that flew betweenThe cloud and the water, no more is seen;Flake after flake,At rest in the dark and silent lake.
These strifes, these tumults of the noisy world,Where Fraud, the coward, tracks his prey by stealth,And Strength, the ruffian, glories in his guilt,Oppress the heart with sadness. Oh, my friend,In what serener mood we look uponThe gloomiest aspects of the elementsAmong the woods and fields! Let us awhile,As the slow wind is rolling up the storm,In fancy leave this maze of dusty streets,Forever shaken by the importunate jarOf commerce, and upon the darkening airLook from the shelter of our rural home.Who is not awed that listens to the Rain,Sending his voice before him? Mighty Rain!The upland steeps are shrouded by thy mists;Thy shadow fills the hollow vale; the poolsNo longer glimmer, and the silvery streamsDarken to veins of lead at thy approach.O mighty Rain! already thou art here;And every roof is beaten by thy streams,And, as thou passest, every glassy springGrows rough, and every leaf in all the woodsIs struck, and quivers. All the hill-tops slakeTheir thirst from thee; a thousand languishing fields,A thousand fainting gardens, are refreshed;A thousand idle rivulets start to speed,And with the graver murmur of the stormBlend their light voices as they hurry on.Thou fill'st the circle of the atmosphereAlone; there is no living thing abroad,No bird to wing the air nor beast to walkThe field; the squirrel in the forest seeksHis hollow tree; the marmot of the fieldHas scampered to his den; the butterflyHides under her broad leaf; the insect crowds,That made the sunshine populous, lie closeIn their mysterious shelters, whence the sunWill summon them again. The mighty RainHolds the vast empire of the sky alone.I shut my eyes, and see, as in a dream,The friendly clouds drop down spring violetsAnd summer columbines, and all the flowersThat tuft the woodland floor, or overarchThe streamlet:—spiky grass for genial June,Brown harvests for the waiting husbandman,And for the woods a deluge of fresh leaves.I see these myriad drops that slake the dust,Gathered in glorious streams, or rolling blueIn billows on the lake or on the deep,And bearing navies. I behold them changeTo threads of crystal as they sink in earthAnd leave its stains behind, to rise againIn pleasant nooks of verdure, where the child,Thirsty with play, in both his little handsShall take the cool, clear water, raising itTo wet his pretty lips. To-morrow noonHow proudly will the water-lily rideThe brimming pool, o'erlooking, like a queen,Her circle of broad leaves! In lonely wastes,When next the sunshine makes them beautiful,Gay troops of butterflies shall light to drinkAt the replenished hollows of the rock.Now slowly falls the dull blank night, and still,All through the starless hours, the mighty RainSmites with perpetual sound the forest-leaves,And beats the matted grass, and still the earthDrinks the unstinted bounty of the clouds—Drinks for her cottage wells, her woodland brooks—Drinks for the springing trout, the toiling bee,And brooding bird—drinks for her tender flowers,Tall oaks, and all the herbage of her hills.A melancholy sound is in the air,A deep sigh in the distance, a shrill wailAround my dwelling. 'Tis the Wind of night;A lonely wanderer between earth and cloud,In the black shadow and the chilly mist,Along the streaming mountain-side, and throughThe dripping woods, and o'er the plashy fields,Roaming and sorrowing still, like one who makesThe journey of life alone, and nowhere meetsA welcome or a friend, and still goes onIn darkness. Yet a while, a little while,And he shall toss the glittering leaves in play,And dally with the flowers, and gayly liftThe slender herbs, pressed low by weight of rain,And drive, in joyous triumph, through the sky,White clouds, the laggard remnants of the storm.
Merrily swinging on brier and weed,Near to the nest of his little dame,Over the mountain-side or mead,Robert of Lincoln is telling his name:Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,Spink, spank, spink;Snug and safe is that nest of ours,Hidden among the summer flowers.Chee, chee, chee.Robert of Lincoln is gayly drest,Wearing a bright black wedding-coat;White are his shoulders and white his crest.Hear him call in his merry note:Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,Spink, spank, spink;Look, what a nice new coat is mine,Sure there was never a bird so fine.Chee, chee, chee.Robert of Lincoln's Quaker wife,Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings,Passing at home a patient life,Broods in the grass while her husband sings:Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,Spink, spank, spink;Brood, kind creature; you need not fearThieves and robbers while I am here.Chee, chee, chee.Modest and shy as a nun is she;One weak chirp is her only note.Braggart and prince of braggarts is he,Pouring boasts from his little throat:Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,Spink, spank, spink;Never was I afraid of man;Catch me, cowardly knaves, if you can!Chee, chee, chee.Six white eggs on a bed of hay,Flecked with purple, a pretty sight!There as the mother sits all day,Robert is singing with all his might:Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,Spink, spank, spink;Nice good wife, that never goes out,Keeping house while I frolic about.Chee, chee, chee.Soon as the little ones chip the shell,Six wide mouths are open for food;Robert of Lincoln bestirs him well,Gathering seeds for the hungry brood.Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,Spink, spank, spink;This new life is likely to beHard for a gay young fellow like me.Chee, chee, chee.Robert of Lincoln at length is madeSober with work, and silent with care;Off is his holiday garment laid,Half forgotten that merry air:Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,Spink, spank, spink;Nobody knows but my mate and IWhere our nest and our nestlings lie.Chee, chee, chee.Summer wanes; the children are grown;Fun and frolic no more he knows;Robert of Lincoln's a humdrum crone;Off he flies, and we sing as he goes:Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,Spink, spank, spink;When you can pipe that merry old strain,Robert of Lincoln, come back again.Chee, chee, chee.
Oh, gentle one, thy birthday sun should riseAmid a chorus of the merriest birdsThat ever sang the stars out of the skyIn a June morning. Rivulets should sendA voice of gladness from their winding paths,Deep in o'erarching grass, where playful winds,Stirring the loaded stems, should shower the dewUpon the grassy water. Newly-blownRoses, by thousands, to the garden-walksShould tempt the loitering moth and diligent bee.The longest, brightest day in all the yearShould be the day on which thy cheerful eyesFirst opened on the earth, to make thy hauntsFairer and gladder for thy kindly looks.Thus might a poet say; but I must bringA birthday offering of an humbler strain,And yet it may not please thee less. I holdThat 'twas the fitting season for thy birthWhen March, just ready to depart, beginsTo soften into April. Then we haveThe delicatest and most welcome flowers,And yet they take least heed of bitter windAnd lowering sky. The periwinkle then,In an hour's sunshine, lifts her azure bloomsBeside the cottage-door; within the woodsTufts of ground-laurel, creeping underneathThe leaves of the last summer, send their sweetsUp to the chilly air, and, by the oak,The squirrel-cups, a graceful company,Hide in their bells, a soft aërial blue—Sweet flowers, that nestle in the humblest nooksAnd yet within whose smallest bud is wrappedA world of promise! Still the north wind breathesHis frost, and still the sky sheds snow and sleet;Yet ever, when the sun looks forth again,The flowers smile up to him from their low seats.Well hast thou borne the bleak March day of life.Its storms and its keen winds to thee have beenMost kindly tempered, and through all its gloomThere has been warmth and sunshine in thy heart;The griefs of life to thee have been like snows,That light upon the fields in early spring,Making them greener. In its milder hours,The smile of this pale season, thou hast seenThe glorious bloom of June, and in the noteOf early bird, that comes a messengerFrom climes of endless verdure, thou hast heardThe choir that fills the summer woods with song.Now be the hours that yet remain to theeStormy or sunny, sympathy and love,That inextinguishably dwell withinThy heart, shall give a beauty and a lightTo the most desolate moments, like the glowOf a bright fireside in the wildest day;And kindly words and offices of goodShall wait upon thy steps, as thou goest on,Where God shall lead thee, till thou reach the gatesOf a more genial season, and thy pathBe lost to human eye among the bowersAnd living fountains of a brighter land.
March, 1855.
Already, close by our summer dwelling,The Easter sparrow repeats her song;A merry warbler, she chides the blossoms—The idle blossoms that sleep so long.The bluebird chants, from the elm's long branches,A hymn to welcome the budding year.The south wind wanders from field to forest,And softly whispers, "The Spring is here."Come, daughter mine, from the gloomy city,Before those lays from the elm have ceased;The violet breathes, by our door, as sweetlyAs in the air of her native East.Though many a flower in the wood is waking,The daffodil is our doorside queen;She pushes upward the sward already,To spot with sunshine the early green.No lays so joyous as these are warbledFrom wiry prison in maiden's bower;No pampered bloom of the green-house chamberHas half the charm of the lawn's first flower.Yet these sweet sounds of the early season,And these fair sights of its sunny days,Are only sweet when we fondly listen,And only fair when we fondly gaze.There is no glory in star or blossomTill looked upon by a loving eye;There is no fragrance in April breezesTill breathed with joy as they wander by.Come, Julia dear, for the sprouting willows,The opening flowers, and the gleaming brooks,And hollows, green in the sun, are waitingTheir dower of beauty from thy glad looks.
Stay yet, my friends, a moment stay—Stay till the good old year,So long companion of our way,Shakes hands, and leaves us here.Oh stay, oh stay,One little hour, and then away.The year, whose hopes were high and strong,Has now no hopes to wake;Yet one hour more of jest and songFor his familiar sake.Oh stay, oh stay,One mirthful hour, and then away.The kindly year, his liberal handsHave lavished all his store.And shall we turn from where he stands,Because he gives no more?Oh stay, oh stay,One grateful hour, and then away.Days brightly came and calmly went,While yet he was our guest;How cheerfully the week was spent!How sweet the seventh day's rest!Oh stay, oh stay,One golden hour, and then away.Dear friends were with us, some who sleepBeneath the coffin-lid:What pleasant memories we keepOf all they said and did!Oh stay, oh stay,One tender hour, and then away.Even while we sing, he smiles his last,And leaves our sphere behind.The good old year is with the past;Oh be the new as kind!Oh stay, oh stay,One parting strain, and then away.
A brook came stealing from the ground;You scarcely saw its silvery gleamAmong the herbs that hung aroundThe borders of the winding stream,The pretty stream, the placid stream,The softly-gliding, bashful stream.A breeze came wandering from the sky,Light as the whispers of a dream;He put the o'erhanging grasses by,And softly stooped to kiss the stream,The pretty stream, the flattered stream,The shy, yet unreluctant stream.The water, as the wind passed o'er,Shot upward many a glancing beam,Dimpled and quivered more and more,And tripped along, a livelier stream,The flattered stream, the simpering stream,The fond, delighted, silly stream.Away the airy wanderer flewTo where the fields with blossoms teem,To sparkling springs and rivers blue,And left alone that little stream,The flattered stream, the cheated stream,The sad, forsaken, lonely stream.That careless wind came never back;He wanders yet the fields, I deem,But, on its melancholy track,Complaining went that little stream,The cheated stream, the hopeless stream,The ever-murmuring, mourning stream.
FROM THE SPANISH OF CAROLINA CORONADO DE PERRY.
My bird has flown away,Far out of sight has flown, I know not where.Look in your lawn, I pray,Ye maidens, kind and fair,And see if my beloved bird be there.His eyes are full of light;The eagle of the rock has such an eye;And plumes, exceeding bright,Round his smooth temples lie,And sweet his voice and tender as a sigh.Look where the grass is gayWith summer blossoms, haply there he cowers;And search, from spray to spray,The leafy laurel-bowers,For well he loves the laurels and the flowers.Find him, but do not dwell,With eyes too fond, on the fair form you see,Nor love his song too well;Send him, at once, to me,Or leave him to the air and liberty.For only from my handHe takes the seed into his golden beak,And all unwiped shall standThe tears that wet my cheek,Till I have found the wanderer I seek.My sight is darkened o'er,Whene'er I miss his eyes, which are my day,And when I hear no moreThe music of his lay,My heart in utter sadness faints away.
Oh River, gentle River! gliding onIn silence underneath the starless sky!Thine is a ministry that never restsEven while the living slumber. For a timeThe meddler, man, hath left the elementsIn peace; the ploughman breaks the clods no more;The miner labors not, with steel and fire,To rend the rock, and he that hews the stone,And he that fells the forest, he that guidesThe loaded wain, and the poor animalThat drags it, have forgotten, for a time,Their toils, and share the quiet of the earth.Thou pausest not in thine allotted task,Oh darkling River! Through the night I hearThy wavelets rippling on the pebbly beach;I hear thy current stir the rustling sedge,That skirts thy bed; thou intermittest notThine everlasting journey, drawing onA silvery train from many a woodland springAnd mountain-brook. The dweller by thy side,Who moored his little boat upon thy beach,Though all the waters that upbore it thenHave slid away o'er night, shall find, at morn,Thy channel filled with waters freshly drawnFrom distant cliffs, and hollows where the rillComes up amid the water-flags. All nightThou givest moisture to the thirsty rootsOf the lithe willow and o'erhanging plane,And cherishest the herbage of thy bank,Spotted with little flowers, and sendest upPerpetually the vapors from thy face,To steep the hills with dew, or darken heavenWith drifting clouds, that trail the shadowy shower.Oh River! darkling River! what a voiceIs that thou utterest while all else is still—The ancient voice that, centuries ago,Sounded between thy hills, while Rome was yetA weedy solitude by Tiber's stream!How many, at this hour, along thy course,Slumber to thine eternal murmurings,That mingle with the utterance of their dreams!At dead of night the child awakes and hearsThy soft, familiar dashings, and is soothed,And sleeps again. An airy multitudeOf little echoes, all unheard by day,Faintly repeat, till morning, after thee,The story of thine endless goings forth.Yet there are those who lie beside thy bedFor whom thou once didst rear the bowers that screenThy margin, and didst water the green fields;And now there is no night so still that theyCan hear thy lapse; their slumbers, were thy voiceLouder than Ocean's, it could never break.For them the early violet no moreOpens upon thy bank, nor, for their eyes,Glitter the crimson pictures of the clouds,Upon thy bosom, when the sun goes down.Their memories are abroad, the memoriesOf those who last were gathered to the earth,Lingering within the homes in which they sat,Hovering above the paths in which they walked,Haunting them like a presence. Even nowThey visit many a dreamer in the formsThey walked in, ere at last they wore the shroud.And eyes there are which will not close to dream,For weeping and for thinking of the grave,The new-made grave, and the pale one within.These memories and these sorrows all shall fade,And pass away, and fresher memoriesAnd newer sorrows come and dwell awhileBeside thy borders, and, in turn, depart.On glide thy waters, till at last they flowBeneath the windows of the populous town,And all night long give back the gleam of lamps,And glimmer with the trains of light that streamFrom halls where dancers whirl. A dimmer rayTouches thy surface from the silent roomIn which they tend the sick, or gather roundThe dying; and a slender, steady beamComes from the little chamber, in the roofWhere, with a feverous crimson on her cheek,The solitary damsel, dying, too,Plies the quick needle till the stars grow pale.There, close beside the haunts of revel, standThe blank, unlighted windows, where the poor,In hunger and in darkness, wake till morn.There, drowsily, on the half-conscious earOf the dull watchman, pacing on the wharf,Falls the soft ripple of the waves that strikeOn the moored bark; but guiltier listenersAre nigh, the prowlers of the night, who stealFrom shadowy nook to shadowy nook, and startIf other sounds than thine are in the air.Oh, glide away from those abodes, that bringPollution to thy channel and make foulThy once clear current; summon thy quick wavesAnd dimpling eddies; linger not, but haste,With all thy waters, haste thee to the deep,There to be tossed by shifting winds and rockedBy that mysterious force which lives withinThe sea's immensity, and wields the weightOf its abysses, swaying to and froThe billowy mass, until the stain, at length,Shall wholly pass away, and thou regainThe crystal brightness of thy mountain-springs.
Thou, who so long hast pressed the couch of pain,Oh welcome, welcome back to life's free breath—To life's free breath and day's sweet light again,From the chill shadows of the gate of death!For thou hadst reached the twilight bound betweenThe world of spirits and this grosser sphere;Dimly by thee the things of earth were seen,And faintly fell earth's voices on thine ear.And now, how gladly we behold, at last,The wonted smile returning to thy brow!The very wind's low whisper, breathing past,In the light leaves, is music to thee now.Thou wert not weary of thy lot; the earthWas ever good and pleasant in thy sight;Still clung thy loves about the household hearth,And sweet was every day's returning light.Then welcome back to all thou wouldst not leave,To this grand march of seasons, days, and hours;The glory of the morn, the glow of eve,The beauty of the streams, and stars, and flowers;To eyes on which thine own delight to rest;To voices which it is thy joy to hear;To the kind toils that ever pleased thee best,The willing tasks of love, that made life dear.Welcome to grasp of friendly hands; to prayersOffered where crowds in reverent worship come,Or softly breathed amid the tender caresAnd loving inmates of thy quiet home.Thou bring'st no tidings of the better land,Even from its verge; the mysteries opened thereAre what the faithful heart may understandIn its still depths, yet words may not declare.And well I deem, that, from the brighter sideOf life's dim border, some o'erflowing raysStreamed from the inner glory, shall abideUpon thy spirit through the coming days.Twice wert thou given me; once in thy fair prime,Fresh from the fields of youth, when first we met,And all the blossoms of that hopeful timeClustered and glowed where'er thy steps were set.And now, in thy ripe autumn, once againGiven back to fervent prayers and yearnings strong,From the drear realm of sickness and of painWhen we had watched, and feared, and trembled long.Now may we keep thee from the balmy airAnd radiant walks of heaven a little space,Where He, who went before thee to prepareFor His meek followers, shall assign thy place.
Castellamare,May, 1858.
"THESE PRAIRIES GLOW WITH FLOWERS."
These prairies glow with flowers,These groves are tall and fair,The sweet lay of the mocking-birdRings in the morning air;And yet I pine to seeMy native hill once more,And hear the sparrow's friendly chirpBeside its cottage-door.And he, for whom I leftMy native hill and brook,Alas, I sometimes think I traceA coldness in his look!If I have lost his love,I know my heart will break;And haply, they I left for himWill sorrow for my sake.
Long hast thou watched my bed,And smoothed the pillow oftFor this poor, aching head,With touches kind and soft.Oh! smooth it yet again,As softly as before;Once—only once—and thenI need thy hand no more.Yet here I may not stay,Where I so long have lain,Through many a restless dayAnd many a night of pain.But bear me gently forthBeneath the open sky,Where, on the pleasant earth,Till night the sunbeams lie.There, through the coming days,I shall not look to theeMy weary side to raise,And shift it tenderly.There sweetly shall I sleep;Nor wilt thou need to bringAnd put to my hot lipCool water from the spring;Nor wet the kerchief laidUpon my burning brow;Nor from my eyeballs shadeThe light that wounds them now;Nor watch that none shall tread,With noisy footstep, nigh;Nor listen by my bed,To hear my faintest sigh,And feign a look of cheer,And words of comfort speak,Yet turn to hide the tearThat gathers on thy cheek.Beside me, where I rest,Thy loving hands will setThe flowers that please me best—Moss-rose and violet.Then to the sleep I craveResign me, till I seeThe face of Him who gaveHis life for thee and me.Yet, with the setting sun,Come, now and then, at eve,And think of me as oneFor whom thou shouldst not grieve;Who, when the kind releaseFrom sin and suffering came,Passed to the appointed peaceIn murmuring thy name.Leave at my side a space,Where thou shalt come, at last,To find a resting-place,When many years are past.
I.
The maples redden in the sun;In autumn gold the beeches stand;Rest, faithful plough, thy work is doneUpon the teeming land.Bordered with trees whose gay leaves flyOn every breath that sweeps the sky,The fresh dark acres furrowed lie,And ask the sower's hand.Loose the tired steer and let him goTo pasture where the gentians blow,And we, who till the grateful ground,Fling we the golden shower around.
II.
Fling wide the generous grain; we flingO'er the dark mould the green of spring.For thick the emerald blades shall grow,When first the March winds melt the snow,And to the sleeping flowery below,The early bluebirds sing.Fling wide the grain; we give the fieldsThe ears that nod in summer's gale,The shining stems that summer gilds,The harvest that o'erflows the vale,And swells, an amber sea, betweenThe full-leaved woods, its shores of green.Hark! from the murmuring clods I hearGlad voices of the coming year;The song of him who binds the grain,The shout of those that load the wain,And from the distant grange there comesThe clatter of the thresher's flail,And steadily the millstone humsDown in the willowy vale.
III.
Fling wide the golden shower; we trustThe strength of armies to the dust.This peaceful lea may haply yieldIts harvest for the tented field.Ha! feel ye not your fingers thrill,As o'er them, in the yellow grains,Glide the warm drops of blood that fill,For mortal strife, the warrior's veins;Such as, on Solferino's day,Slaked the brown sand and flowed away—Flowed till the herds, on Mincio's brink,Snuffed the red stream and feared to drink;—Blood that in deeper pools shall lie,On the sad earth, as time grows gray,When men by deadlier arts shall die,And deeper darkness blot the skyAbove the thundering fray;And realms, that hear the battle-cry,Shall sicken with dismay;And chieftains to the war shall leadWhole nations, with the tempest's speed,To perish in a day;—Till man, by love and mercy taught,Shall rue the wreck his fury wrought,And lay the sword away!Oh strew, with pausing, shuddering hand,The seed upon the helpless land,As if, at every step, ye castThe pelting hail and riving blast.
IV.
Nay, strew, with free and joyous sweep,The seed upon the expecting soil;For hence the plenteous year shall heapThe garners of the men who toil.Strew the bright seed for those who tearThe matted sward with spade and share,And those whose sounding axes gleamBeside the lonely forest-stream,Till its broad banks lie bare;And him who breaks the quarry-ledge,With hammer-blows, plied quick and strong,And him who, with the steady sledge,Smites the shrill anvil all day long.Sprinkle the furrow's even traceFor those whose toiling hands uprearThe roof-trees of our swarming race,By grove and plain, by stream and mere;Who forth, from crowded city, leadThe lengthening street, and overlayGreen orchard-plot and grassy meadWith pavement of the murmuring way.Cast, with full hands the harvest cast,For the brave men that climb the mast,When to the billow and the blastIt swings and stoops, with fearful strain,And bind the fluttering mainsail fast,Till the tossed bark shall sit, again,Safe as a sea-bird on the main.
V.
Fling wide the grain for those who throwThe clanking shuttle to and fro,In the long row of humming rooms,And into ponderous masses windThe web that, from a thousand looms,Comes forth to clothe mankind.Strew, with free sweep, the grain for them,By whom the busy threadAlong the garment's even hemAnd winding seam is led;A pallid sisterhood, that keepThe lonely lamp alight,In strife with weariness and sleep,Beyond the middle night.Large part be theirs in what the yearShall ripen for the reaper here.
VI.
Still, strew, with joyous hand, the wheatOn the soft mould beneath our feet,For even now I seemTo hear a sound that lightly ringsFrom murmuring harp and viol's strings,As in a summer dream.The welcome of the wedding-guest,The bridegroom's look of bashful pride,The faint smile of the pallid bride,And bridemaid's blush at matron's jest,And dance and song and generous dower,Are in the shining grains we shower.
VII.
Scatter the wheat for shipwrecked men,Who, hunger-worn, rejoice againIn the sweet safety of the shore,And wanderers, lost in woodlands drear,Whose pulses bound with joy to hearThe herd's light bell once more.Freely the golden spray be shedFor him whose heart, when night comes downOn the close alleys of the town,Is faint for lack of bread.In chill roof-chambers, bleak and bare,Or the damp cellar's stifling air,She who now sees, in mute despair,Her children pine for food,Shall feel the dews of gladness startTo lids long tearless, and shall partThe sweet loaf with a grateful heart,Among her thin pale brood.Dear, kindly Earth, whose breast we till!Oh, for thy famished children, fill,Where'er the sower walks,Fill the rich ears that shade the mouldWith grain for grain, a hundredfold,To bend the sturdy stalks.
VIII.
Strew silently the fruitful seed,As softly o'er the tilth ye tread,For hands that delicately kneadThe consecrated bread—The mystic loaf that crowns the board.When, round the table of their Lord,Within a thousand temples set,In memory of the bitter deathOf Him who taught at Nazareth,His followers are met,And thoughtful eyes with tears are wet,As of the Holy One they think,The glory of whose rising yetMakes bright the grave's mysterious brink.
IX.
Brethren, the sower's task is done.The seed is in its winter bed.Now let the dark-brown mould be spread,To hide it from the sun,And leave it to the kindly careOf the still earth and brooding air,As when the mother, from her breast,Lays the hushed babe apart to rest,And shades its eyes, and waits to seeHow sweet its waking smile will be.The tempest now may smite, the sleetAll night on the drowned furrow beat,And winds that, from the cloudy hold,Of winter breathe the bitter cold,Stiffen to stone the mellow mould,Yet safe shall lie the wheat;Till, out of heaven's unmeasured blue,Shall walk again the genial year,To wake with warmth and nurse with dewThe germs we lay to slumber here.
X.
Oh blessed harvest yet to be!Abide thou with the Love that keeps,In its warm bosom, tenderly,The Life which wakes and that which sleeps.The Love that leads the willing spheresAlong the unending track of years,And watches o'er the sparrow's nest,Shall brood above thy winter rest,And raise thee from the dust, to holdLight whisperings with the winds of May,And fill thy spikes with living gold,From summer's yellow ray;Then, as thy garners give thee forth,On what glad errands shalt thou go,Wherever, o'er the waiting earth,Roads wind and rivers flow!The ancient East shall welcome theeTo mighty marts beyond the sea,And they who dwell where palm-groves soundTo summer winds the whole year round,Shall watch, in gladness, from the shore,The sails that bring thy glistening store.
New are the leaves on the oaken spray,New the blades of the silky grass;Flowers, that were buds but yesterday,Peep from the ground where'er I pass.These gay idlers, the butterflies,Broke, to-day, from their winter shroud;These light airs, that winnow the skies,Blow, just born, from the soft, white cloud.Gushing fresh in the little streams,What a prattle the waters make!Even the sun, with his tender beams,Seems as young as the flowers they wake.Children are wading, with cheerful cries,In the shoals of the sparkling brook;Laughing maidens, with soft, young eyes,Walk or sit in the shady nook.What am I doing, thus alone,In the glory of Nature here,Silver-haired, like a snow-flake thrownOn the greens of the springing year?Only for brows unploughed by care,Eyes that glisten with hope and mirth,Cheeks unwrinkled, and unblanched hair,Shines this holiday of the earth.Under the grass, with the clammy clay,Lie in darkness the last year's flowers,Born of a light that has passed away,Dews long dried and forgotten showers."Under the grass is the fitting home,"So they whisper, "for such as thou,When the winter of life is come,Chilling the blood, and frosting the brow."