In the greenest of our valleysBy good angels tenanted,Once a fair and stately palace—Radiant palace—reared its head.In the monarch Thought's dominion,It stood there;Never seraph spread a pinionOver fabric half so fair.
Banners yellow, glorious, golden,On its roof did float and flow(This—all this—was in the oldenTime long ago),And every gentle air that dallied,In that sweet day,Along the ramparts plumed and pallid,A winged odor went away.Wanderers in that happy valleyThrough two luminous windows sawSpirits moving musically,To a lute's well-tuned law,Round about a throne where, sitting,Porphyrogene,In state his glory well befitting,The ruler of the realm was seen.
And all with pearl and ruby glowingWas the fair palace door,Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing,And sparkling evermore,A troop of Echoes, whose sweet dutyWas but to sing,In voices of surpassing beauty,The wit and wisdom of their king.
But evil things, in robes of sorrow,Assailed the monarch's high estate;(Ah, let us mourn, for never morrowShall dawn upon him desolate!)And round about his home the gloryThat blushed and bloomed,Is but a dim-remembered storyOf the old time entombed.
And travelers now within that valleyThrough the red-litten windows seeVast forms that move fantasticallyTo a discordant melody;While like a ghastly rapid river,Through the pale doorA hideous throng rush out forever,And laugh—but smile no more.
Lo! 'tis a gala nightWithin the lonesome latter years.An angel throng, bewinged, bedightIn veils, and drowned in tears,Sit in a theater to seeA play of hopes and fears,While the orchestra breathes fitfullyThe music of the spheres.
Mimes, in the form of God on high,Mutter and mumble low,And hither and thither fly;Mere puppets they, who come and goAt bidding of vast formless thingsThat shift the scenery to and fro,Flapping from out their condor wingsInvisible woe.
That motley drama—oh, be sureIt shall not be forgot!With its Phantom chased for evermoreBy a crowd that seize it not,Through a circle that ever returneth inTo the self-same spot;And much of Madness, and more of Sin,And Horror the soul of the plot.
But see amid the mimic routA crawling shape intrude:A blood-red thing that writhes from outThe scenic solitude!It writhes—it writhes!—with mortal pangsThe mimes become its food,And seraphs sob at vermin fangsIn human gore imbued.
Out—out are the lights—out all!And over each quivering formThe curtain, a funeral pall,Comes down with the rush of a storm,While the angels, all pallid and wan,Uprising, unveiling, affirmThat the play is the tragedy "Man,"And its hero the Conqueror Worm.
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,—While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door."'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door—Only this and nothing more."
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrowFrom my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore,For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore:Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtainThrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating"'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door:This it is and nothing more."
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,That I scarce was sure I heard you"—here I opened wide the door;—Darkness there and nothing more.
Deep into the darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,And the only word there spoken was the whispered word "Lenore?"This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word "Lenore:"Merely this and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before."Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice;Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore:'Tis the wind and nothing more."
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore.Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;But with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door:Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,—"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure nocraven,Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore:Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
Much I marveled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;For we cannot help agreeing that no living human beingEver yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,With such name as "Nevermore."
But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke onlyThat one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.Nothing farther then he uttered; not a feather then he fluttered,Till I scarcely more than muttered,—"Other friends have flown before;On the morrowhewill leave me, as my Hopes have flown before."Then the bird said, "Nevermore."
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful DisasterFollowed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore:Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden boreOf 'Never—nevermore.'"
But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linkingFancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore,What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore—Meant in croaking "Nevermore."
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressingTo the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease recliningOn the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er,But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'erSheshall press, ah, nevermore!
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censerSwung by seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor."Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hathsent theeRespite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!"Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! prophet still, if bird or devil!Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore:Is there—isthere balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, Iimplore!"Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil—prophet still, if bird or devil!By that heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore:Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore:Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore!"Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked,upstarting:"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!Leave my loneliness unbroken! quit the bust above my door!Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sittingOn the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; [14]And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;[15]And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floorShall be lifted—nevermore!
For a general introduction to the selections from Poe, the biographical and critical sketch in Chap. II should be read.
[Footnote 1: This was Mrs. Helen Stannard, the mother of one of Poe's schoolmates in Richmond. Her kind and gracious manner made a deep impression on his boyish heart, and soothed his passionate, turbulent nature. In after years this poem was inspired, as the poet tells us, by the memory of "the one idolatrous and purely ideal love" of his restless youth.]
[Footnote 2: The reference seems to be to the ancient Ligurian town of Nicaea, now Nice, in France. The "perfumed sea" would then be the Ligurian sea. But one half suspects that it was the scholarly and musical sound of the word, rather than any aptness of classical reference, that led to the use of the word "Nicaean."]
[Footnote 3: This appears to be Poe's indefinite and poetic way of saying that the lady's beauty and grace brought him an uplifting sense of happiness. After seeing her the first time, "He returned home in a dream, with but one thought, one hope in life—to hear again the sweet and gracious words that had made the desolate world so beautiful to him, and filled his lonely heart with the oppression of a new joy."—Ingram'sEdgar Allan Poe, Vol. I, p. 32.]
[Footnote 4: Psyche was represented as so exquisitely beautiful that mortals did not dare to love, but only to worship her. The poet could pay no higher tribute to "Helen."]
[Footnote 5: This little poem—very beautiful in itself—illustratesPoe's characteristics as a poet: it is indefinite, musical, and intense.]
[Footnote 6: This poem is a tribute to his wife, to whom his beautiful devotion has already been spoken of. "I believe," says Mrs. Osgood, "she was the only woman whom he ever truly loved; and this is evidenced by the exquisite pathos of the little poem lately written, called 'Annabel Lee,' of which she was the subject, and which is by far the most natural, simple, tender, and touchingly beautiful of all his songs."]
[Footnote 7: This is Poe's poetic designation of America.]
[Footnote 8: "Virginia Clemm, born on the 13th of August, 1822, was still a child when her handsome cousin Edgar revisited Baltimore after his escapade at West Point. A more than cousinly affection, which gradually grew in intensity, resulted from their frequent communion, and ultimately, whilst one, at least, of the two cousins was but a child, they were married."—Ingram'sEdgar Allan Poe, Vol. I, p. 136.]
[Footnote 9: These were the angels, to whom "Annabel Lee" was akin in sweet, gentle character. "A lady angelically beautiful in person, and not less beautiful in spirit."—Captain Mayne Reid.]
[Footnote 10: This may be literally true. At all events, it is related that he visited the tomb of "Helen"; and "when the autumnal rains fell, and the winds wailed mournfully over the graves, he lingered longest, and came away most regretfully."]
[Footnote 11: This admirable poem is an allegory. The "stately palace" is a man who after a time loses his reason. With this fact in mind, the poem becomes quite clear. The "banners yellow, glorious, golden" is the hair; the "luminous windows" are the eyes; the "ruler of the realm" is reason; "the fair palace door" is the mouth; and the "evil things" are the madman's fantasies. The poem is found inThe Fall of the House of Usher.
Poe claimed that Longfellow'sBeleaguered Citywas an imitation ofThe Haunted Palace. The former should be read in connection with the latter. Though some resemblance may be discerned, Longfellow must be acquitted of Poe's charge of plagiarism.]
[Footnote 12: This terrible lyric is also an allegory. The "theater" is the world, and the "play" human life. The "mimes" are men, created in the image of God, and are represented as the "mere puppets" of circumstance. The "Phantom chased for evermore" is happiness; but for all, the end is death and the grave.]
[Footnote 13: This poem was first published in the New YorkEvening Mirror, January 29, 1845. "In our opinion," wrote the editor, N. P. Willis, "it is the most effective single example of 'fugitive poetry' ever published in this country; and unsurpassed in English poetry for subtle conception, masterly ingenuity of versification, and consistent sustaining of imaginative lift."
The story ofThe Ravenis given in prose by Poe in hisPhilosophy of Composition, which contains the best analysis of its structure: "A raven, having learned by rote the single word, 'Nevermore,' and having escaped from the custody of its owner, is driven at midnight, through the violence of a storm, to seek admission at a window from which a light still gleams,—the chamber window of a student, occupied half in poring over a volume, half in dreaming of a beloved mistress deceased. The casement being thrown open at the fluttering of the bird's wings, the bird itself perches on the most convenient seat out of the immediate reach of the student, who, amused by the incident and the oddity of the visitor's demeanor, demands of it, in jest and without looking for a reply, its name. The raven addressed answers with its customary word, 'Nevermore'—a word which finds immediate echo in the melancholy heart of the student, who, giving utterance aloud to certain thoughts suggested by the occasion, is again startled by the fowl's repetition of 'Nevermore.' The student now guesses the state of the case, but is impelled, by the human thirst for self-torture, and in part by superstition, to propound such queries to the bird as will bring him, the lover, the most of the luxury of sorrow, through the anticipated answer, 'Nevermore.'"]
[Footnote 14: As Poe explains, the raven is "emblematical of mournful and never-ending remembrance."]
[Footnote 15: From the position of the bird it has been held that the shadow could not possibly fall upon the floor. But the author says: "Myconception was that of the bracket candelabrum affixed against the wall, high up above the door and bust, as is often seen in the English palaces, and even in some of the better houses in New York."]
* * * * *
For their generous permission to useAëthra, Under the Pines, Cloud Pictures, andLyric of Action, the grateful acknowledgments of the editor are due to The Lothrop Publishing Company, Boston, who hold the copyright.
To have the will to soar, but not the wings,Eyes fixed forever on a starry height,Whence stately shapes of grand imaginingsFlash down the splendors of imperial light;
And yet to lack the charm [2] that makes them ours,The obedient vassals of that conquering spell,Whose omnipresent and ethereal powersEncircle Heaven, nor fear to enter Hell;
This is the doom of Tantalus [3]—the thirstFor beauty's balmy fount to quench the firesOf the wild passion that our souls have nurstIn hopeless promptings—unfulfilled desires.
Yet would I rather in the outward stateOf Song's immortal temple lay me down,A beggar basking by that radiant gate, [4]Than bend beneath the haughtiest empire's crown!
For sometimes, through the bars, my ravished eyesHave caught brief glimpses of a life divine,And seen a far, mysterious rapture riseBeyond the veil [5] that guards the inmost shrine.
This is my world! within these narrow walls,I own a princely service;[7] the hot careAnd tumult of our frenzied life are hereBut as a ghost and echo; what befallsIn the far mart to me is less than naught;I walk the fields of quiet Arcadies,[8]And wander by the brink of hoary seas,Calmed to the tendance of untroubled thought;Or if a livelier humor should enhanceThe slow-time pulse, 'tis not for present strife,The sordid zeal with which our age is rife,Its mammon conflicts crowned by fraud or chance,But gleamings of the lost, heroic life,Flashed through the gorgeous vistas of romance.
It is a sweet tradition, with a soulOf tenderest pathos! Hearken, love!—for allThe sacred undercurrents of the heartThrill to its cordial music:Once a chief,Philantus, king of Sparta, left the sternAnd bleak defiles of his unfruitful land—Girt by a band of eager colonists—To seek new homes on fair Italian plains.[10]Apollo's [11] oracle had darkly spoken:"Where'er from cloudless skies a plenteous showerOutpours, the Fates decree that ye should pauseAnd rear your household deities!"Racked by doubtPhilantus traversed—with his faithful bandFull many a bounteous realm; but still defeatDarkened his banners, and the strong-walled townsHis desperate sieges grimly laughed to scorn!Weighed down by anxious thoughts, one sultry eveThe warrior—his rude helmet cast aside—Rested his weary head upon the lapOf his fair wife, who loved him tenderly;And there he drank a generous draught of sleep.She, gazing on his brow, all worn with toil,And his dark locks, which pain had silvered overWith glistening touches of a frosty rime,Wept on the sudden bitterly; her tearsFell on his face, and, wondering, he woke."O blest art thou, my Aëthra,my clear sky."He cried exultant, "from whose pitying blueA heart-rain falls to fertilize my fate:Lo! the deep riddle's solved—the gods spake truth!"
So the next night he stormed Tarentum,[12] tookThe enemy's host at vantage, and o'erthrewHis mightiest captains. Thence with kindly swayHe ruled those pleasant regions he had won,—But dearer even than his rich demesnesThe love of her whose gentle tears unlockedThe close-shut mystery of the Oracle!
To the memory of Henry Timrod
The same majestic pine is lifted highAgainst the twilight sky,The same low, melancholy music grievesAmid the topmost leaves,[14]As when I watched, and mused, and dreamed with him,Beneath these shadows dim.
O Tree! hast thou no memory at thy coreOf one who comes no more?No yearning memory of those scenes that wereSo richly calm and fair,When the last rays of sunset, shimmering down,Flashed like a royal crown?
And he, with hand outstretched and eyes ablaze,Looked forth with burning [15] gaze,And seemed to drink the sunset like strong wine,Or, hushed in trance divine,Hailed the first shy and timorous glance from farOf evening's virgin star?
O Tree! against thy mighty trunk he laidHis weary head; thy shadeStole o'er him like the first cool spell of sleep:It brought a peacesodeepThe unquiet passion died from out his eyes,As lightning from stilled skies.
And in that calm he loved to rest, and hearThe soft wind-angels, clearAnd sweet, among the uppermost branches sighing:Voices he heard replying(Or so he dreamed) far up the mystic height,And pinions rustling light.
O Tree! have not his poet-touch, his dreamsSo full of heavenly gleams,Wrought through the folded dullness of thy bark,And all thy nature darkStirred to slow throbbings, and the fluttering fireOf faint, unknown desire?
At least to me there sweeps no rugged ringThat girds the forest king,No immemorial stain, or awful rent(The mark of tempest spent),No delicate leaf, no lithe bough, vine-o'ergrown,No distant, flickering cone,
But speaks of him, and seems to bring once moreThe joy, the love of yore;But most when breathed from out the sunset-landThe sunset airs are bland,That blow between the twilight and the night,Ere yet the stars are bright;
For then that quiet eve comes back to me,When deeply, thrillingly,He spake of lofty hopes which vanquish Death;And on his mortal breathA language of immortal meanings hung,That fired his heart and tongue.
For then unearthly breezes stir and sigh,Murmuring, "Look up! 'tis I:Thy friend is near thee! Ah, thou canst not see!"And through the sacred treePasses what seems a wild and sentient thrill—Passes, and all is still!—
Still as the grave which holds his tranquil form,Hushed after many a storm,—Still as the calm that crowns his marble brow,No pain can wrinkle now,—Still as the peace—pathetic peace of God—That wraps the holy sod,
Where every flower from our dead minstrel's dustShould bloom, a type of trust,—That faith which waxed to wings of heavenward mightTo bear his soul from night,—That faith, dear Christ! whereby we pray to meetHis spirit at God's feet!
Here in these mellow grasses, the whole morn,I love to rest; yonder, the ripening cornRustles its greenery; and his blithesome horn
Windeth the frolic breeze o'er field and dell,Now pealing a bold stave with lusty swell,Now falling to low breaths ineffable
Of whispered joyance. At calm length I lie,Fronting the broad blue spaces of the sky,Covered with cloud-groups, softly journeying by:
An hundred shapes, fantastic, beauteous, strange,Are theirs, as o'er yon airy waves they rangeAt the wind's will, from marvelous change to change;
Castles, with guarded roof, and turret tall,Great sloping archway, and majestic wall,Sapped by the breezes to their noiseless fall!
Pagodas vague! above whose towers outstreamBanners that wave with motions of a dream—Rising, or drooping in the noontide gleam;
Gray lines of Orient pilgrims: a gaunt bandOn famished camels, o'er the desert sandPlodding towards their prophet's Holy Land;
Mid-ocean,—and a shoal of whales at play,Lifting their monstrous frontlets to the day,Thro' rainbow arches of sun-smitten spray;
Followed by splintered icebergs, vast and lone,Set in swift currents of some arctic zone,Like fragments of a Titan's world o'erthrown;
Next, measureless breadths of barren, treeless moor,Whose vaporous verge fades down a glimmering shore,Round which the foam-capped billows toss and roar!
Calms of bright water—like a fairy's wiles,Wooing with ripply cadence and soft smiles,The golden shore-slopes of Hesperian Isles;
Their inland plains rife with a rare increaseOf plumèd grain! and many a snowy fleeceShining athwart the dew-lit hills of peace;
Wrecks of gigantic cities—to the tuneOf some wise air-god built!—o'er which the noonSeems shuddering; caverns, such as the wan Moon
Shows in her desolate bosom; then, a crowdOf awed and reverent faces, palely bowedO'er a dead queen, laid in her ashy shroud—
A queen of eld—her pallid brow impearledBy gems barbaric! her strange beauty furledIn mystic cerements of the antique world.
Weird pictures, fancy-gendered!—one by one,'Twixt blended beams and shadows, gold and dun,These transient visions vanish in the sun.
'Tis the part of a coward to broodO'er the past that is withered and dead:What though the heart's roses are ashes and dust?What though the heart's music be fled?Still shine the grand heavens o'erhead,Whence the voice of an angel thrills clear on the soul,"Gird about thee thine armor, press on to the goal!"
If the faults or the crimes of thy youthAre a burden too heavy to bear,What hope can re-bloom on the desolate wasteOf a jealous and craven despair?Down, down with the fetters of fear!In the strength of thy valor and manhood arise,With the faith that illumes and the will that defies.
"Too late!" through God's infinite world,From his throne to life's nethermost fires,"Too late!" is a phantom that flies at the dawnOf the soul that repents and aspires.If pure thou hast made thy desires,There's no height the strong wings of immortals may gainWhich in striving to reach thou shalt strive for in vain.
Then, up to the contest with fate,Unbound by the past, which is dead!What though the heart's roses are ashes and dust?What though the heart's music be fled?Still shine the fair heavens o'erhead;And sublime as the seraph [18] who rules in the sunBeams the promise of joy when the conflict is won!
For a general introduction to the following poems, see Chapter III. The selections are intended to exhibit the poet's various moods and themes.
[Footnote 1: This poem, which appeared in the volume of 1855 under the titleAspirations, gives expression to a strong literary impulse. It was genuine in sentiment, and its aspiring spirit and forceful utterance gave promise of no ordinary achievement.]
[Footnote 2: An act or formula supposed to exert a magical influence or power.
"Then, in one moment, she put forth the charmOf woven paces and of waving hands."—Tennyson'sMerlin and Vivien.
Compare the first scene inFaustwhere the Earth-spirit comes in obedience to a "conquering spell."]
[Footnote 3: Tantalus was a character of Greek mythology, who, for divulging the secret counsels of Zeus, was afflicted in the lower world with an insatiable thirst. He stood up to the chin in a lake, the waters of which receded whenever he tried to drink of them.]
[Footnote 4: The poet evidently had in mind the lame man who was "laid daily at the gate of the temple which is called Beautiful."—Actsiii. 2.]
[Footnote 5: A reference to the veil that hung before the Most HolyPlace, or "inmost shrine," of the temple. CompareExodusxxvi. 33.]
[Footnote 6: This sonnet, which appeared in the volume of 1859, reveals the retiring, meditative temper of the poet. To him quiet reflection was more than action. He loved to dwell in spirit with the good and great of the past. The rude struggles of the market-place for wealth and power were repugnant to his refined and sensitive nature.]
[Footnote 7: Something served for the refreshment of a person; here an intellectual feast fit for a prince.]
[Footnote 8: Arcady, or Arcadia, is a place of ideal simplicity and contentment; so called from a picturesque district in Greece, which was noted for the simplicity and happiness of its people.]
[Footnote 9: This poem will serve to illustrate Hayne's skill in the use of blank verse. It is a piece of rare excellence and beauty. The name of the heroine is pronouncedEe-thra.]
[Footnote 10: This migration occurred about 708 B.C.]
[Footnote 11: Apollo was one of the major deities of Grecian mythology. He was regarded, among other things, as the god of song or minstrelsy, and also as the god of prophetic inspiration. The most celebrated oracle of Apollo was at Delphi.]
[Footnote 12: A town in southern Italy, now Taranto. It was in ancient times a place of great commercial importance.]
[Footnote 13: For the occasion of this poem, see page 61. The poet had a peculiar fondness for the pine, which in one of his poems he calls—
"My sylvan darling! set 'twixt shade and sheen,Soft as a maid, yet stately as a queen!"
It is the subject of a half-dozen poems,—The Voice of the Pines,Aspect of the Pines, In the Pine Barrens, The Dryad of the Pine, ThePine's Mystery, andThe Axe and the Pine,—all of them in hishappiest vein.]
[Footnote 14: InThe Pine's Mysterywe read:—
"Passion and mystery murmur through the leaves,Passion and mystery, touched by deathless pain,Whose monotone of long, low anguish grievesFor something lost that shall not live again."]
[Footnote 15: Hayne's very careful workmanship is rarely at fault; but here there seems to be an infelicitous epithet that amounts to a sort of tautology. "Eyes ablaze" would necessarily "look forth withburning gaze."]
[Footnote 16: This poem illustrates the poet's method of dealing with Nature. He depicts its beauty as discerned by the artistic imagination. He is less concerned with the messages of Nature than with its lovely forms. This poem, in its felicitous word-painting, reminds us of Tennyson, though it would be difficult to find in the English poet so brilliant a succession of masterly descriptions.
With this poem may be compared Hayne'sCloud Fantasies, a sonnet that brings before us, with great vividness, the somber appearance of the clouds in autumn. See alsoA Phantom in the Clouds. No other of our poets has dwelt so frequently and so delightfully on the changing aspects of the sky.
Compare Shelley'sThe Cloud.]
[Footnote 17: It is not often that Hayne assumed the hortatory tone found in this poem. In artistic temperament he was akin to Keats rather than to Longfellow. Even in his didactic poems, he is meditative and descriptive rather than hortatory. The artist in him hardly ever gave place to the preacher.]
[Footnote 18: The seraph's name was Uriel, that is, God's Light. InRevelation(xix. 17) we read, "And I saw an angel standing in the sun." Milton calls him—
"The Archangel Uriel—one of the sevenWho in God's presence, nearest to his throne,Stand ready at command."—Paradise Lost, Book III, 648-650.]
* * * * *
Too long, O Spirit of storm,Thy lightning sleeps in its sheath!I am sick to the soul of yon pallid sky,And the moveless sea beneath.
Come down in thy strength on the deep!Worse dangers there are in life,When the waves are still, and the skies look fair,Than in their wildest strife.
A friend I knew, whose daysWere as calm as this sky overhead;But one blue morn that was fairest of all,The heart in his bosom fell dead.
And they thought him alive while he walkedThe streets that he walked in youth—Ah! little they guessed the seeming manWas a soulless corpse in sooth.
Come down in thy strength, O Storm!And lash the deep till it raves!I am sick to the soul of that quiet sea,Which hides ten thousand graves.
Ho! woodsmen of the mountain side!Ho! dwellers in the vales!Ho! ye who by the chafing tideHave roughened in the gales!Leave barn and byre,[3] leave kin and cot,Lay by the bloodless spade;Let desk, and case, and counter rot,And burn your books of trade.
The despot roves your fairest lands;And till he flies or fears,Your fields must grow but armèd bands,Your sheaves be sheaves of spears!Give up to mildew and to rustThe useless tools of gain;And feed your country's sacred dustWith floods of crimson rain!
Come, with the weapons at your call—With musket, pike, or knife;He wields the deadliest blade of allWho lightest holds his life.The arm that drives its unbought blowsWith all a patriot's scorn,Might brain a tyrant with a rose,Or stab him with a thorn.
Does any falter? let him turnTo some brave maiden's eyes,And catch the holy fires that burnIn those sublunar skies.Oh! could you like your women feel,And in their spirit march,A day might see your lines of steelBeneath the victor's arch.
What hope, O God! would not grow warmWhen thoughts like these give cheer?The Lily calmly braves the storm,And shall the Palm Tree fear?No! rather let its branches courtThe rack [4] that sweeps the plain;And from the Lily's regal portLearn how to breast the strain!
Ho! woodsmen of the mountain side!Ho! dwellers in the vales!Ho! ye who by the roaring tideHave roughened in the gales!Come! flocking gayly to the fight,From forest, hill, and lake;We battle for our Country's right,And for the Lily's sake!
Sleep sweetly in your humble graves,Sleep, martyrs of a fallen cause;Though yet no marble column cravesThe pilgrim here to pause.
In seeds of laurel in the earthThe blossom of your fame is blown,And somewhere, waiting for its birth,The shaft is in the stone![6]
Meanwhile, behalf [7] the tardy yearsWhich keep in trust your storied tombs,Behold! your sisters bring their tears,And these memorial blooms.
Small tributes! but your shades will smileMore proudly on these wreaths to-day,Than when some cannon-molded pile [8]Shall overlook this bay.
Stoop, angels, hither from the skies!There is no holier spot of groundThan where defeated valor lies,By mourning beauty crowned.
I think that, next to your sweet eyes,And pleasant books, and starry skies,I love the world of flowers;Less for their beauty of a day,Than for the tender things they say,And for a creed I've held alway,That they are sentient powers.[10]
It may be matter for a smile—And I laugh secretly the whileI speak the fancy out—But that they love, and that they woo,And that they often marry too,And do as noisier creatures do,I've not the faintest doubt.
And so, I cannot deem it rightTo take them from the glad sunlight,As I have sometimes dared;Though not without an anxious sighLest this should break some gentle tie,Some covenant of friendship, IHad better far have spared.
And when, in wild or thoughtless hours,My hand hath crushed the tiniest flowers,I ne'er could shut from sightThe corpses of the tender things,With other drear imaginings,And little angel-flowers with wingsWould haunt me through the night.
Oh! say you, friend, the creed is fraughtWith sad, and even with painful thought,Nor could you bear to knowThat such capacities belongTo creatures helpless against wrong,At once too weak to fly the strongOr front the feeblest foe?
So be it always, then, with you;So be it—whether false or true—I press my faith on none;If other fancies please you more,The flowers shall blossom as before,Dear as the Sibyl-leaves [11] of yore,But senseless every one.
Yet, though I give you no reply,It were not hard to justifyMy creed to partial ears;But, conscious of the cruel part,My rhymes would flow with faltering art,I could not plead against your heart,Nor reason with your tears.
Poet! if on a lasting fame be bentThy unperturbing hopes, thou wilt not roamToo far from thine own happy heart and home;Cling to the lowly earth and be content!
So shall thy name be dear to many a heart;So shall the noblest truths by thee be taught;The flower and fruit of wholesome human thoughtBless the sweet labors of thy gentle art.
The brightest stars are nearest to the earth,And we may track the mighty sun above,Even by the shadow of a slender flower.Always, O bard, humility is power!And thou mayest draw from matters of the hearthTruths wide as nations, and as deep as love.
Most men know love but as a part of life;[14]They hide it in some corner of the breast,Even from themselves; and only when they restIn the brief pauses of that daily strife,
Wherewith the world might else be not so rife,They draw it forth (as one draws forth a toyTo soothe some ardent, kiss-exacting boy)And hold it up to sister, child, or wife.
Ah me! why may not love and life be one?[15]Why walk we thus alone, when by our side,Love, like a visible God, might be our guide?How would the marts grow noble! and the street,Worn like a dungeon floor by weary feet,Seem then a golden court-way of the Sun!
It is a place whither I have often goneFor peace, and found it, secret, hushed, and cool,A beautiful recess in neighboring woods.Trees of the soberest hues, thick-leaved and tall.Arch it o'erhead and column it around,Framing a covert, natural and wild,Domelike and dim; though nowhere so enclosedBut that the gentlest breezes reach the spotUnwearied and unweakened. Sound is hereA transient and unfrequent visitor;Yet, if the day be calm, not often then,Whilst the high pines in one another's armsSleep, you may sometimes with unstartled earCatch the far fall of voices, how remoteYou know not, and you do not care to know.The turf is soft and green, but not a flowerLights the recess, save one, star-shaped and bright—I do not know its name—which here and thereGleams like a sapphire set in emerald.A narrow opening in the branchèd roof,A single one, is large enough to show,With that half glimpse a dreamer loves so much,The blue air and the blessing of the sky.Thither I always bent my idle steps,When griefs depressed, or joys disturbed my heart,And found the calm I looked for, or returnedStrong with the quiet rapture in my soul.[17]But one day,One of those July days when winds have fledOne knows not whither, I, most sick in mindWith thoughts that shall be nameless, yet, no doubt,Wrong, or at least unhealthful, since though darkWith gloom, and touched with discontent, they hadNo adequate excuse, nor cause, nor end,I, with these thoughts, and on this summer day,Entered the accustomed haunt, and found for onceNo medicinal virtue.Not a leafStirred with the whispering welcome which I sought,But in a close and humid atmosphere,Every fair plant and implicated boughHung lax and lifeless. Something in the place,Its utter stillness, the unusual heat,And some more secret influence, I thought,Weighed on the sense like sin. Above I saw,Though not a cloud was visible in heaven,The pallid sky look through a glazèd mistLike a blue eye in death.The change, perhaps,Was natural enough; my jaundiced sight,The weather, and the time explain it all:Yet have I drawn a lesson from the spot,And shrined it in these verses for my heart.Thenceforth those tranquil precincts I have soughtNot less, and in all shades of various moods;But always shun to desecrate the spotBy vain repinings, sickly sentiments,Or inconclusive sorrows. Nature, thoughPure as she was in Eden when her breathKissed the white brow of Eve, doth not refuse,In her own way and with a just reserve,To sympathize with human suffering;[18]But for the pains, the fever, and the fretEngendered of a weak, unquiet heart,She hath no solace; and who seeks her whenThese be the troubles over which he moans,Reads in her unreplying lineamentsRebukes, that, to the guilty consciousness,Strike like contempt.
For a general introduction to the following selections, see Chapter IV.The poet's verse is perfectly clear. He prefers to
"Cling to the lowly and be content."
[Footnote 1: This poem, which first appeared inRussell's Magazine, exhibits one of Timrod's characteristics: he does not describe Nature for its own sake, as Hayne often does, but for the sake of some truth or lesson in relation to man. The lesson of this poem is that a life of uninterrupted ease and comfort is not favorable to the development of noble character.]
[Footnote 2: This selection illustrates the fierce energy of the poet's martial lyrics. CompareBannockburnby Burns, which Carlyle said "should be sung with the throat of the whirlwind."]
[Footnote 3:Byreis a cow-stable.]
[Footnote 4:Rack, usuallywrack, signifies ruin or destruction.]
[Footnote 5: This lyric, which was sung on the occasion of decorating the graves of the Confederate dead in Magnolia Cemetery, Charleston, South Carolina, in 1867, has been much admired, especially the last stanza.]
[Footnote 6: It is interesting to know that this prediction has been fulfilled. A monument of granite now stands above the dead.]
[Footnote 7:Behalf, instead ofin behalf of, is a rather hazardous construction.]
[Footnote 8: A noble bronze figure of a color bearer on a granite pedestal now commemorates the fallen heroes.]
[Footnote 9: This poem first appeared in theSouthern Literary Messengerin 1851. The first stanza of this half-playful, half-serious piece, mentions the objects in which the poet most delighted.]
[Footnote 10: This belief has been frequently held, and has some support from recent scientific experiments. But that this sentiency goes as far as the poet describes, is of course pure fancy.]
[Footnote 11: The sibyls (Sybil is an incorrect form) were, according to ancient mythology, prophetic women. The sibylline leaves or books contained their teachings, and were preserved with the utmost care in Rome. The sibyl of Cumae conducted Aeneas through the under world, as narrated in the sixth book of Virgil'sAeneid.]
[Footnote 12: This sonnet expresses the poet's creed, to which his practice was confirmed. This fact imparts unusual simplicity to his verse—a simplicity that strikes us all the more at the present time, when an over-refinement of thought and expression is in vogue.]
[Footnote 13: This sonnet, on the commonest of all poetic themes, treats of love in a deep, serious way. It is removed as far as possible from the sentimental.]
[Footnote 14: This line reminds us of a well-known passage in Byron:—"Man's love is of man's life a thing apart;'Tis woman's whole existence. Man may rangeThe court, camp, church, the vessel and the mart;Sword, gown, gain, glory, offer in exchangePride, fame, ambition, to fill up his heart,And few there are whom these cannot estrange."]
[Footnote 15: This is the divine ideal, the realization of which will bring the true "Golden Age." "God is love; and he that dwelleth in love dwelleth in God, and God in him."—IJohniv. 16.]
[Footnote 16: This poem first appeared in theSouthern Literary Messengerin 1852. It will serve to show Timrod's manner of using blank verse. It will be observed that "a lesson" is again the principal thing.]
[Footnote 17: This recalls the closing lines of Longfellow'sSunrise on the Hills:—
"If thou art worn and hard besetWith sorrows that thou wouldst forget,If thou wouldst read a lesson that will keepThy heart from fainting and thy soul from sleep,Go to the woods and hills! No tearsDim the sweet look that Nature wears."]
[Footnote 18: Compare the following lines from Bryant'sThanatopsis:—
"To him who in the love of Nature holdsCommunion with her visible forms, she speaksA various language; for his gayer hoursShe has a voice of gladness, and a smileAnd eloquence of beauty, and she glidesInto his darker musings, with a mildAnd healing sympathy, that steals awayTheir sharpness, ere he is aware."]
* * * * *
Out of the hills of Habersham,Down the valleys of Hall,[2]The hurrying rain,[3] to reach the plain,Has run the rapid and leapt the fall,Split at the rock and together again,Accepted his bed, or narrow or wide,And fled from folly on every side,With a lover's pain to attain the plain,Far from the hills of Habersham,Far from the valleys of Hall.
All down the hills of Habersham,All through the valleys of Hall,The rushes cried,Abide, abide;The wilful water weeds held me thrall,The laurel, slow-laving,[4] turned my tide,The ferns and the fondling grass saidstay,The dewberry dipped for to win delay,[5]And the little reeds sighedAbide, abide,Here in the hills of Habersham,Here in the valleys of Hall.
High over the hills of Habersham,Veiling the valleys of Hall,The hickory told me manifoldFair tales of shade, the poplar tallWrought me her shadowy self to hold,The chestnut, the oak, the walnut, the pine,Overleaning, with flickering meaning and sign,Said,Pass not so cold these manifoldDeep shades of the hills of Habersham,These glades in the valleys of Hall.
And oft in the hills of Habersham,And oft in the valleys of Hall,The white quartz shone, and the smooth brook-stoneBarred[6] me of passage with friendly brawl,And many a metal lay sad, alone,And the diamond, the garnet, the amethyst,And the crystal that prisons a purple mist,Showed lights like my own from each cordial stone[7]In the clefts of the hills of Habersham,In the beds of the valleys of Hall.
But oh, not the hills of Habersham,And oh, not the valleys of Hall,Shall hinder the rain from attaining the plain,[8]For downward the voices of duty call—Downward to toil and be mixed with the main.The dry fields burn and the mills are to turn,And a thousand meadows [9] mortally yearn,And the final [10] main from beyond the plainCalls o'er the hills of Habersham,And calls through the valleys of Hall.
At midnight, death's and truth's unlocking time,When far within the spirit's hearing rollsThe great soft rumble of the course of things—A bulk of silence in a mask of sound—When darkness clears our vision that by dayIs sun-blind, and the soul's a ravening owlFor truth, and flitteth here and there aboutLow-lying woody tracts of time and oftIs minded for to sit upon a bough,Dry-dead and sharp, of some long-stricken treeAnd muse in that gaunt place,—'twas then my heart,Deep in the meditative dark, cried out:
Ye companies of governor-spirits grave,Bards, and old bringers-down of flaming newsFrom steep-walled heavens, holy malcontents,Sweet seers, and stellar visionaries, allThat brood about the skies of poesy,Full bright ye shine, insuperable stars;Yet, if a man look hard upon you, noneWith total luster blazeth, no, not oneBut hath some heinous freckle of the fleshUpon his shining cheek, not one but winksHis ray, opaqued with intermittent mistOf defect; yea, you masters all must askSome sweet forgiveness, which we leap to give,We lovers of you, heavenly-glad to meetYour largess so with love, and interplightYour geniuses with our mortalities.
Thus unto thee, O sweetest Shakspere sole,[12]A hundred hurts a day I do forgive('Tis little, but, enchantment! 'tis for thee):Small curious quibble; … Henry's fustian roarWhich frights away that sleep he invocates;[13]Wronged Valentine's [14] unnatural haste to yield;Too-silly shifts of maids that mask as menIn faint disguises that could ne'er disguise—Viola, Julia, Portia, Rosalind;[15]Fatigues most drear, and needless overtaxOf speech obscure that had as lief be plain.
… Father Homer, thee,Thee also I forgive thy sandy wastesOf prose and catalogue,[16] thy drear haranguesThat tease the patience of the centuries,Thy sleazy scrap of story,—but a rogue'sRape of a light-o'-love,[17]—too soiled a patchTo broider with the gods.
Thee, Socrates,[18]Thou dear and very strong one, I forgiveThy year-worn cloak, thine iron stringenciesThat were but dandy upside-down,[19] thy wordsOf truth that, mildlier spoke, had manlier wrought.
So, Buddha,[20] beautiful! I pardon theeThat all the All thou hadst for needy manWas Nothing, and thy Best of being wasBut not to be.
Worn Dante,[21] I forgiveThe implacable hates that in thy horrid hellsOr burn or freeze thy fellows, never loosedBy death, nor time, nor love.
And I forgiveThee, Milton, those thy comic-dreadful wars [22]Where, armed with gross and inconclusive steel,Immortals smite immortals mortalwise,And fill all heaven with folly.
Also thee,Brave Aeschylus,[23] thee I forgive, for thatThine eye, by bare bright justice basilisked,Turned not, nor ever learned to look where LoveStands shining.
So, unto thee, Lucretius [24] mine,(For oh, what heart hath loved thee like to thisThat's now complaining?) freely I forgiveThy logic poor, thine error rich, thine earthWhose graves eat souls and all.
Yea, all you heartsOf beauty, and sweet righteous lovers large:Aurelius [25] fine, oft superfine; mild SaintA Kempis,[26] overmild; Epictetus,[27]Whiles low in thought, still with old slavery tinct;Rapt Behmen,[28] rapt too far; high Swedenborg,[29]O'ertoppling; Langley,[30] that with but a touchOf art hadst sung Piers Plowman to the topOf English songs, whereof 'tis dearest, now,And most adorable; Caedmon,[31] in the mornA-calling angels with the cowherd's callThat late brought up the cattle; Emerson,Most wise, that yet, in finding Wisdom, lostThy Self, sometimes; tense Keats, with angels' nervesWhere men's were better; Tennyson, largest voiceSince Milton, yet some register of witWanting,—all, all, I pardon, ere 'tis asked,Your more or less, your little mole that marksYour brother and your kinship seals to man.But Thee, but Thee, O sovereign Seer of time,But Thee, O poets' Poet, Wisdom's Tongue,But Thee, O man's best Man, O love's best Love,O perfect life in perfect labor writ,O all men's Comrade, Servant, King, or Priest,—Whatiforyet, what mole, what flaw, what lapse,What least defect or shadow of defect,What rumor, tattled by an enemy,Of inference loose, what lack of graceEven in torture's grasp, or sleep's, or death's,—Oh, what amiss may I forgive in Thee,Jesus, good Paragon, thou Crystal Christ?[32]
In my sleep I was fain of their fellowship, fainOf the live-oak, the marsh, and the main.The little green leaves would not let me alone in my sleep;Up breathed from the marshes, a message of range and of sweep,Interwoven with waftures of wild sea-liberties, drifting,Came through the lapped leaves sifting, sifting,Came to the gates of sleep.
Then my thoughts, in the dark of the dungeon-keepOf the Castle of Captives hid in the City of Sleep,Upstarted, by twos and by threes assembling:The gates of sleep fell a-tremblingLike as the lips of a lady that forth falteryes,Shaken with happiness:The gates of sleep stood wide.
I have waked, I have come, my beloved! I might not abide:I have come ere the dawn, O beloved, my live-oaks, to hideIn your gospeling glooms,[34]—to beAs a lover in heaven, the marsh my marsh and the sea my sea.Tell me, sweet burly-barked, man-bodied TreeThat mine arms in the dark are embracing, dost knowFrom what fount are these tears at thy feet which flow?They rise not from reason, but deeper inconsequent deeps.Reason's not one that weeps.What logic of greeting liesBetwixt dear over-beautiful trees and the rain of the eyes?
O cunning green leaves, little masters! like as ye glossAll the dull-tissued dark with your luminous darks that emboss.The vague blackness of night into pattern and plan,So,(But would I could know, but would I could know,)With your question embroid'ring the dark of thequestion of man,—So, with your silences purfling this silence of manWhile his cry to the dead for some knowledge isunder the ban,Under the ban,—So, ye have wrought meDesigns on the night of our knowledge,—yea, yehave taught me,So,That haply we know somewhat more than we know.
Ye lispers, whisperers, singers in storms,Ye consciences murmuring faiths under forms,Ye ministers meet for each passion that grieves,Friendly, sisterly, sweetheart leaves,[35]Oh, rain me down from your darks that contain meWisdoms ye winnow from winds that pain me,—Sift down tremors of sweet-within-sweetThat advise me of more than they bring,—repeatMe the woods-smell that swiftly but now brought breathFrom the heaven-side bank of the river of death,—Teach me the terms of silence,—preach meThe passion of patience,—sift me,—impeach me,—And there, oh thereAs ye hang with your myriad palms upturned in the air,Pray me a myriad prayer.[36]
My gossip, the owl,—is it thouThat out of the leaves of the low-hanging bough,As I pass to the beach, art stirred?Dumb woods, have ye uttered a bird?
Reverend Marsh, low-couched along the sea,Old chemist, rapt in alchemy,Distilling silence,—lo,That which our father-age had died to know—The menstruum that dissolves all matter—thouHast found it: for this silence, filling nowThe globed clarity of receiving space,This solves us all: man, matter, doubt, disgrace,Death, love, sin, sanity,Must in yon silence' clear solution lie.Too clear! That crystal nothing who'll peruse?The blackest night could bring us brighter news.Yet precious qualities of silence hauntRound these vast margins, ministrant.Oh, if thy soul's at latter gasp for space,With trying to breathe no bigger than thy raceJust to be fellowed, when that thou hast foundNo man with room, or grace enough of boundTo entertain that New thou tell'st, thou art,—'Tis here, 'tis here, thou canst unhand thy heartAnd breathe it free, and breathe it free,By rangy marsh, in lone sea-liberty.
The tide's at full: the marsh with flooded streamsGlimmers, a limpid labyrinth of dreams.Each winding creek in grave entrancement liesA rhapsody of morning-stars. The skiesShine scant with one forked galaxy,—The marsh brags ten: looped on his breast they lie.
Oh, what if a sound should be made!Oh, what if a bound should be laidTo this bow-and-string tension of beauty and silence a-spring,—To the bend of beauty the bow, or the hold of silence the string!I fear me, I fear me yon dome of diaphanous gleamWill break as a bubble o'erblown in a dream,—Yon dome of too-tenuous tissues of space and of night,Overweighted with stars, overfreighted with light,Oversated with beauty and silence, will seemBut a bubble that broke in a dream,If a bound of degree to this grace be laid,Or a sound or a motion made.
But no: it is made: list! somewhere,—mystery,where?In the leaves? in the air?In my heart? is a motion made:'Tis a motion of dawn, like a nicker of shade on shade.In the leaves 'tis palpable: low multitudinous stirringUpwinds through the woods; the little ones, softly conferring,Have settled my lord's to be looked for; so; they are still;But the air and my heart and the earth are a-thrill,—And look where the wild duck sails round the bend of the river,—And look where a passionate shiverExpectant is bending the bladesOf the marsh-grass in serial shimmers and shades,—And invisible wings, fast fleeting, fast fleeting,Are beatingThe dark overhead as my heart beats,—and steady and freeIs the ebb-tide flowing from marsh to sea—(Run home, little streams,With your lapfuls of stars and dreams),—And a sailor unseen is hoisting a-peak,For list, down the inshore curve of the creekHow merrily flutters the sail,—And lo, in the East! Will the East unveil?The East is unveiled, the East hath confessedA flush: 'tis dead; 'tis alive; 'tis dead, ere the WestWas aware of it: nay, 'tis abiding, 'tis withdrawn:Have a care, sweet Heaven! 'Tis Dawn.
Now a dream of a flame through that dream of a flush is uprolled:To the zenith ascending, a dome of undazzling goldIs builded, in shape as a beehive, from out of the sea:The hive is of gold undazzling, but oh, the Bee,The star-fed Bee, the build-fire Bee,Of dazzling gold is the great Sun-BeeThat shall flash from the hive-hole over the sea.[37]Yet now the dewdrop, now the morning gray,Shall live their little lucid sober dayEre with the sun their souls exhale away.Now in each pettiest personal sphere of dewThe summ'd morn shines complete as in the blueBig dewdrop of all heaven: with these lit shrinesO'er-silvered to the farthest sea-confines,The sacramental marsh one pious plainOf worship lies. Peace to the ante-reignOf Mary Morning, blissful mother mild,Minded of nought but peace, and of a child.
Not slower than Majesty moves, for a mean and a measureOf motion,—not faster than dateless Olympian leisure [38]Might pace with unblown ample garments from pleasure to pleasure,—The wave-serrate sea-rim sinks unjarring, unreeling,Forever revealing, revealing, revealing,Edgewise, bladewise, halfwise, wholewise,—'tis done!Good-morrow, lord Sun!With several voice, with ascription one,The woods and the marsh and the sea and my soulUnto thee, whence the glittering stream of all morrows doth roll,Cry good and past-good and most heavenly morrow, lord Sun.
O Artisan born in the purple,—Workman Heat,—Parter of passionate atoms that travail to meetAnd be mixed in the death-cold oneness,—innermost GuestAt the marriage of elements,—fellow of publicans,—blestKing in the blouse of flame, that loiterest o'erThe idle skies, yet laborest fast evermore,—Thou in the fine forge-thunder, thou, in the beatOf the heart of a man, thou Motive,—Laborer Heat:Yea, Artist, thou, of whose art yon sea's all news,With his inshore greens and manifold mid-sea blues,Pearl-glint, shell-tint, ancientest perfectest hues,Ever shaming the maidens,—lily and roseConfess thee, and each mild flame that glowsIn the clarified virginal bosoms of stones that shine,It is thine, it is thine: