BALLADS AND OTHER POEMSTHE SKELETON IN ARMOR"Speak! speak I thou fearful guestWho, with thy hollow breastStill in rude armor drest,Comest to daunt me!Wrapt not in Eastern balms,Bat with thy fleshless palmsStretched, as if asking alms,Why dost thou haunt me?"Then, from those cavernous eyesPale flashes seemed to rise,As when the Northern skiesGleam in December;And, like the water's flowUnder December's snow,Came a dull voice of woeFrom the heart's chamber."I was a Viking old!My deeds, though manifold,No Skald in song has told,No Saga taught thee!Take heed, that in thy verseThou dost the tale rehearse,Else dread a dead man's curse;For this I sought thee."Far in the Northern Land,By the wild Baltic's strand,I, with my childish hand,Tamed the gerfalcon;And, with my skates fast-bound,Skimmed the half-frozen Sound,That the poor whimpering houndTrembled to walk on."Oft to his frozen lairTracked I the grisly bear,While from my path the hareFled like a shadow;Oft through the forest darkFollowed the were-wolf's bark,Until the soaring larkSang from the meadow."But when I older grew,Joining a corsair's crew,O'er the dark sea I flewWith the marauders.Wild was the life we led;Many the souls that sped,Many the hearts that bled,By our stern orders."Many a wassail-boutWore the long Winter out;Often our midnight shoutSet the cocks crowing,As we the Berserk's taleMeasured in cups of ale,Draining the oaken pail,Filled to o'erflowing."Once as I told in gleeTales of the stormy sea,Soft eyes did gaze on me,Burning yet tender;And as the white stars shineOn the dark Norway pine,On that dark heart of mineFell their soft splendor."I wooed the blue-eyed maid,Yielding, yet half afraid,And in the forest's shadeOur vows were plighted.Under its loosened vestFluttered her little breastLike birds within their nestBy the hawk frighted."Bright in her father's hallShields gleamed upon the wall,Loud sang the minstrels all,Chanting his glory;When of old HildebrandI asked his daughter's hand,Mute did the minstrels standTo hear my story."While the brown ale he quaffed,Loud then the champion laughed,And as the wind-gusts waftThe sea-foam brightly,So the loud laugh of scorn,Out of those lips unshorn,From the deep drinking-hornBlew the foam lightly."She was a Prince's child,I but a Viking wild,And though she blushed and smiled,I was discarded!Should not the dove so whiteFollow the sea-mew's flight,Why did they leave that nightHer nest unguarded?"Scarce had I put to sea,Bearing the maid with me,Fairest of all was sheAmong the Norsemen!When on the white sea-strand,Waving his armed hand,Saw we old Hildebrand,With twenty horsemen."Then launched they to the blast,Bent like a reed each mast,Yet we were gaining fast,When the wind failed us;And with a sudden flawCame round the gusty Skaw,So that our foe we sawLaugh as he hailed us."And as to catch the galeRound veered the flapping sail,Death I was the helmsman's hail,Death without quarter!Mid-ships with iron keelStruck we her ribs of steelDown her black hulk did reelThrough the black water!"As with his wings aslant,Sails the fierce cormorant,Seeking some rocky hauntWith his prey laden,So toward the open main,Beating to sea again,Through the wild hurricane,Bore I the maiden."Three weeks we westward bore,And when the storm was o'er,Cloud-like we saw the shoreStretching to leeward;There for my lady's bowerBuilt I the lofty tower,Which, to this very hour,Stands looking seaward."There lived we many years;Time dried the maiden's tearsShe had forgot her fears,She was a mother.Death closed her mild blue eyes,Under that tower she lies;Ne'er shall the sun ariseOn such another!"Still grew my bosom then.Still as a stagnant fen!Hateful to me were men,The sunlight hateful!In the vast forest here,Clad in my warlike gear,Fell I upon my spear,O, death was grateful!"Thus, seamed with many scars,Bursting these prison bars,Up to its native starsMy soul ascended!There from the flowing bowlDeep drinks the warrior's soul,Skoal! to the Northland! skoal!"Thus the tale ended.THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUSIt was the schooner Hesperus,That sailed the wintry sea;And the skipper had taken his little daughter,To bear him company.Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax,Her cheeks like the dawn of day,And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds,That ope in the month of May.The skipper he stood beside the helm,His pipe was in his month,And he watched how the veering flaw did blowThe smoke now West, now South.Then up and spake an old Sailor,Had sailed to the Spanish Main,"I pray thee, put into yonder port,For I fear a hurricane."Last night, the moon had a golden ring,And to-night no moon we see!"The skipper, he blew a whiff from his pipe,And a scornful laugh laughed he.Colder and louder blew the wind,A gale from the Northeast.The snow fell hissing in the brine,And the billows frothed like yeast.Down came the storm, and smote amainThe vessel in its strength;She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed,Then leaped her cable's length."Come hither! come hither! my little daughter,And do not tremble so;For I can weather the roughest galeThat ever wind did blow."He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coatAgainst the stinging blast;He cut a rope from a broken spar,And bound her to the mast."O father! I hear the church-bells ring,O say, what may it be?""'Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!"—And he steered for the open sea."O father! I hear the sound of guns,O say, what may it be?""Some ship in distress, that cannot liveIn such an angry sea!""O father! I see a gleaming lightO say, what may it be?"But the father answered never a word,A frozen corpse was he.Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark,With his face turned to the skies,The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snowOn his fixed and glassy eyes.Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayedThat saved she might be;And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave,On the Lake of Galilee.And fast through the midnight dark and drear,Through the whistling sleet and snow,Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel sweptTow'rds the reef of Norman's Woe.And ever the fitful gusts betweenA sound came from the land;It was the sound of the trampling surfOn the rocks and the hard sea-sand.The breakers were right beneath her bows,She drifted a dreary wreck,And a whooping billow swept the crewLike icicles from her deck.She struck where the white and fleecy wavesLooked soft as carded wool,But the cruel rocks, they gored her sideLike the horns of an angry bull.Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice,With the masts went by the board;Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank,Ho! ho! the breakers roared!At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach,A fisherman stood aghast,To see the form of a maiden fair,Lashed close to a drifting mast.The salt sea was frozen on her breast,The salt tears in her eyes;And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed,On the billows fall and rise.Such was the wreck of the Hesperus,In the midnight and the snow!Christ save us all from a death like this,On the reef of Norman's Woe!THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITHUnder a spreading chestnut-treeThe village smithy stands;The smith, a mighty man is he,With large and sinewy hands;And the muscles of his brawny armsAre strong as iron bands.His hair is crisp, and black, and long,His face is like the tan;His brow is wet with honest sweat,He earns whate'er he can,And looks the whole world in the face,For he owes not any man.Week in, week out, from morn till night,You can hear his bellows blow;You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,With measured beat and slow,Like a sexton ringing the village bell,When the evening sun is low.And children coming home from schoolLook in at the open door;They love to see the flaming forge,And bear the bellows roar,And catch the burning sparks that flyLike chaff from a threshing-floor.He goes on Sunday to the church,And sits among his boys;He hears the parson pray and preach,He hears his daughter's voice,Singing in the village choir,And it makes his heart rejoice.It sounds to him like her mother's voice,Singing in Paradise!He needs must think of her once more,How in the grave she lies;And with his hard, rough hand he wipesA tear out of his eyes.Toiling,—rejoicing,—sorrowing,Onward through life he goes;Each morning sees some task begin,Each evening sees it closeSomething attempted, something done,Has earned a night's repose.Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,For the lesson thou hast taught!Thus at the flaming forge of lifeOur fortunes must be wrought;Thus on its sounding anvil shapedEach burning deed and thought.ENDYMIONThe rising moon has hid the stars;Her level rays, like golden bars,Lie on the landscape green,With shadows brown between.And silver white the river gleams,As if Diana, in her dreams,Had dropt her silver bowUpon the meadows low.On such a tranquil night as this,She woke Endymion with a kiss,When, sleeping in the grove,He dreamed not of her love.Like Dian's kiss, unasked, unsought,Love gives itself, but is not bought;Nor voice, nor sound betraysIts deep, impassioned gaze.It comes,—the beautiful, the free,The crown of all humanity,—In silence and aloneTo seek the elected one.It lifts the boughs, whose shadows deepAre Life's oblivion, the soul's sleep,And kisses the closed eyesOf him, who slumbering lies.O weary hearts! O slumbering eyes!O drooping souls, whose destiniesAre fraught with fear and pain,Ye shall be loved again!No one is so accursed by fate,No one so utterly desolate,But some heart, though unknown,Responds unto his own.Responds,—as if with unseen wings,An angel touched its quivering strings;And whispers, in its song,"'Where hast thou stayed so long?"IT IS NOT ALWAYS MAYNo hay pajaros en los nidos de antano.Spanish ProverbThe sun is bright,—the air is clear,The darting swallows soar and sing.And from the stately elms I hearThe bluebird prophesying Spring.So blue you winding river flows,It seems an outlet from the sky,Where waiting till the west-wind blows,The freighted clouds at anchor lie.All things are new;—the buds, the leaves,That gild the elm-tree's nodding crest,And even the nest beneath the eaves;—There are no birds in last year's nest!All things rejoice in youth and love,The fulness of their first delight!And learn from the soft heavens aboveThe melting tenderness of night.Maiden, that read'st this simple rhyme,Enjoy thy youth, it will not stay;Enjoy the fragrance of thy prime,For oh, it is not always May!Enjoy the Spring of Love and Youth,To some good angel leave the rest;For Time will teach thee soon the truth,There are no birds in last year's nest!THE RAINY DAYThe day is cold, and dark, and drearyIt rains, and the wind is never weary;The vine still clings to the mouldering wall,But at every gust the dead leaves fall,And the day is dark and dreary.My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;It rains, and the wind is never weary;My thoughts still cling to the mouldering Past,But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,And the days are dark and dreary.Be still, sad heart! and cease repining;Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;Thy fate is the common fate of all,Into each life some rain must fall,Some days must be dark and dreary.GOD'S-ACRE.I like that ancient Saxon phrase, which callsThe burial-ground God's-Acre! It is just;It consecrates each grave within its walls,And breathes a benison o'er the sleeping dust.God's-Acre! Yes, that blessed name impartsComfort to those, who in the grave have sownThe seed that they had garnered in their hearts,Their bread of life, alas! no more their own.Into its furrows shall we all be cast,In the sure faith, that we shall rise againAt the great harvest, when the archangel's blastShall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and grain.Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom,In the fair gardens of that second birth;And each bright blossom mingle its perfumeWith that of flowers, which never bloomed on earth.With thy rude ploughshare, Death, turn up the sod,And spread the furrow for the seed we sow;This is the field and Acre of our God,This is the place where human harvests grow!TO THE RIVER CHARLES.River! that in silence windestThrough the meadows, bright and free,Till at length thy rest thou findestIn the bosom of the sea!Four long years of mingled feeling,Half in rest, and half in strife,I have seen thy waters stealingOnward, like the stream of life.Thou hast taught me, Silent River!Many a lesson, deep and long;Thou hast been a generous giver;I can give thee but a song.Oft in sadness and in illness,I have watched thy current glide,Till the beauty of its stillnessOverflowed me, like a tide.And in better hours and brighter,When I saw thy waters gleam,I have felt my heart beat lighter,And leap onward with thy stream.Not for this alone I love thee,Nor because thy waves of blueFrom celestial seas above theeTake their own celestial hue.Where yon shadowy woodlands hide thee,And thy waters disappear,Friends I love have dwelt beside thee,And have made thy margin dear.More than this;—thy name reminds meOf three friends, all true and tried;And that name, like magic, binds meCloser, closer to thy side.Friends my soul with joy remembers!How like quivering flames they start,When I fan the living embersOn the hearth-stone of my heart!'T is for this, thou Silent River!That my spirit leans to thee;Thou hast been a generous giver,Take this idle song from me.BLIND BARTIMEUSBlind Bartimeus at the gatesOf Jericho in darkness waits;He hears the crowd;—he hears a breathSay, “It is Christ of Nazareth!”And calls, in tones of agony,Ἰησοῦ, ἐλέησόν με!The thronging multitudes increase;Blind Bartimeus, hold thy peace!But still, above the noisy crowd,The beggar’s cry is shrill and loud;Until they say, “He calleth thee!”Θάρσει ἔγειραι, φωνεῖ δε!Then saith the Christ, as silent standsThe crowd, “What wilt thou at my hands?”And he replies, “O give me light!Rabbi, restore the blind man’s sight.”And Jesus answers, ὝπαγεἩ πίστις σου σέσωκέ δε!Ye that have eyes, yet cannot see,In darkness and in misery,Recall those mighty Voices Three,Ἰησοῦ, ἐλέησόν με!Θάρσει ἔγειραι, ὕπαγε!Ἡ πίστις σου σέσωκέ δε!THE GOBLET OF LIFEFilled is Life's goblet to the brim;And though my eyes with tears are dim,I see its sparkling bubbles swim,And chant a melancholy hymnWith solemn voice and slow.No purple flowers,—no garlands green,Conceal the goblet's shade or sheen,Nor maddening draughts of Hippocrene,Like gleams of sunshine, flash betweenThick leaves of mistletoe.This goblet, wrought with curious art,Is filled with waters, that upstart,When the deep fountains of the heart,By strong convulsions rent apart,Are running all to waste.And as it mantling passes round,With fennel is it wreathed and crowned,Whose seed and foliage sun-imbrownedAre in its waters steeped and drowned,And give a bitter taste.Above the lowly plants it towers,The fennel, with its yellow flowers,And in an earlier age than oursWas gifted with the wondrous powers,Lost vision to restore.It gave new strength, and fearless mood;And gladiators, fierce and rude,Mingled it in their daily food;And he who battled and subdued,A wreath of fennel wore.Then in Life's goblet freely press,The leaves that give it bitterness,Nor prize the colored waters less,For in thy darkness and distressNew light and strength they give!And he who has not learned to knowHow false its sparkling bubbles show,How bitter are the drops of woe,With which its brim may overflow,He has not learned to live.The prayer of Ajax was for light;Through all that dark and desperate fightThe blackness of that noonday nightHe asked but the return of sight,To see his foeman's face.Let our unceasing, earnest prayerBe, too, for light,—for strength to bearOur portion of the weight of care,That crushes into dumb despairOne half the human race.O suffering, sad humanity!O ye afflicted one; who lieSteeped to the lips in misery,Longing, and yet afraid to die,Patient, though sorely tried!I pledge you in this cup of grief,Where floats the fennel's bitter leaf!The Battle of our Life is briefThe alarm,—the struggle,—the relief,Then sleep we side by side.MAIDENHOODMaiden! with the meek, brown eyes, In whose orbs a shadow lies Like the dusk in evening skies!Thou whose locks outshine the sun, Golden tresses, wreathed in one, As the braided streamlets run!Standing, with reluctant feet, Where the brook and river meet, Womanhood and childhood fleet!Gazing, with a timid glance, On the brooklet's swift advance, On the river's broad expanse!Deep and still, that gliding stream Beautiful to thee must seem, As the river of a dream.Then why pause with indecision, When bright angels in thy vision Beckon thee to fields Elysian?Seest thou shadows sailing by, As the dove, with startled eye, Sees the falcon's shadow fly?Hearest thou voices on the shore, That our ears perceive no more, Deafened by the cataract's roar?O, thou child of many prayers! Life hath quicksands,—Life hath snares Care and age come unawares!Like the swell of some sweet tune, Morning rises into noon, May glides onward into June.Childhood is the bough, where slumbered Birds and blossoms many-numbered;— Age, that bough with snows encumbered.Gather, then, each flower that grows, When the young heart overflows, To embalm that tent of snows.Bear a lily in thy hand; Gates of brass cannot withstand One touch of that magic wand.Bear through sorrow, wrong, and ruth, In thy heart the dew of youth, On thy lips the smile of truth!O, that dew, like balm, shall steal Into wounds that cannot heal, Even as sleep our eyes doth seal;And that smile, like sunshine, dart Into many a sunless heart, For a smile of God thou art.EXCELSIORThe shades of night were falling fast,As through an Alpine village passedA youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice,A banner with the strange device,Excelsior!His brow was sad; his eye beneath,Flashed like a falchion from its sheath,And like a silver clarion rungThe accents of that unknown tongue,Excelsior!In happy homes he saw the lightOf household fires gleam warm and bright;Above, the spectral glaciers shone,And from his lips escaped a groan,Excelsior!"Try not the Pass!" the old man said:"Dark lowers the tempest overhead,The roaring torrent is deep and wide!And loud that clarion voice replied,Excelsior!"Oh stay," the maiden said, "and restThy weary head upon this breast!"A tear stood in his bright blue eye,But still he answered, with a sigh,Excelsior!"Beware the pine-tree's withered branch!Beware the awful avalanche!"This was the peasant's last Good-night,A voice replied, far up the height,Excelsior!At break of day, as heavenwardThe pious monks of Saint BernardUttered the oft-repeated prayer,A voice cried through the startled air,Excelsior!A traveller, by the faithful hound,Half-buried in the snow was found,Still grasping in his hand of iceThat banner with the strange device,Excelsior!There in the twilight cold and gray,Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay,And from the sky, serene and far,A voice fell, like a falling star,Excelsior!
"Speak! speak I thou fearful guestWho, with thy hollow breastStill in rude armor drest,Comest to daunt me!Wrapt not in Eastern balms,Bat with thy fleshless palmsStretched, as if asking alms,Why dost thou haunt me?"
Then, from those cavernous eyesPale flashes seemed to rise,As when the Northern skiesGleam in December;And, like the water's flowUnder December's snow,Came a dull voice of woeFrom the heart's chamber.
"I was a Viking old!My deeds, though manifold,No Skald in song has told,No Saga taught thee!Take heed, that in thy verseThou dost the tale rehearse,Else dread a dead man's curse;For this I sought thee.
"Far in the Northern Land,By the wild Baltic's strand,I, with my childish hand,Tamed the gerfalcon;And, with my skates fast-bound,Skimmed the half-frozen Sound,That the poor whimpering houndTrembled to walk on.
"Oft to his frozen lairTracked I the grisly bear,While from my path the hareFled like a shadow;Oft through the forest darkFollowed the were-wolf's bark,Until the soaring larkSang from the meadow.
"But when I older grew,Joining a corsair's crew,O'er the dark sea I flewWith the marauders.Wild was the life we led;Many the souls that sped,Many the hearts that bled,By our stern orders.
"Many a wassail-boutWore the long Winter out;Often our midnight shoutSet the cocks crowing,As we the Berserk's taleMeasured in cups of ale,Draining the oaken pail,Filled to o'erflowing.
"Once as I told in gleeTales of the stormy sea,Soft eyes did gaze on me,Burning yet tender;And as the white stars shineOn the dark Norway pine,On that dark heart of mineFell their soft splendor.
"I wooed the blue-eyed maid,Yielding, yet half afraid,And in the forest's shadeOur vows were plighted.Under its loosened vestFluttered her little breastLike birds within their nestBy the hawk frighted.
"Bright in her father's hallShields gleamed upon the wall,Loud sang the minstrels all,Chanting his glory;When of old HildebrandI asked his daughter's hand,Mute did the minstrels standTo hear my story.
"While the brown ale he quaffed,Loud then the champion laughed,And as the wind-gusts waftThe sea-foam brightly,So the loud laugh of scorn,Out of those lips unshorn,From the deep drinking-hornBlew the foam lightly.
"She was a Prince's child,I but a Viking wild,And though she blushed and smiled,I was discarded!Should not the dove so whiteFollow the sea-mew's flight,Why did they leave that nightHer nest unguarded?
"Scarce had I put to sea,Bearing the maid with me,Fairest of all was sheAmong the Norsemen!When on the white sea-strand,Waving his armed hand,Saw we old Hildebrand,With twenty horsemen.
"Then launched they to the blast,Bent like a reed each mast,Yet we were gaining fast,When the wind failed us;And with a sudden flawCame round the gusty Skaw,So that our foe we sawLaugh as he hailed us.
"And as to catch the galeRound veered the flapping sail,Death I was the helmsman's hail,Death without quarter!Mid-ships with iron keelStruck we her ribs of steelDown her black hulk did reelThrough the black water!
"As with his wings aslant,Sails the fierce cormorant,Seeking some rocky hauntWith his prey laden,So toward the open main,Beating to sea again,Through the wild hurricane,Bore I the maiden.
"Three weeks we westward bore,And when the storm was o'er,Cloud-like we saw the shoreStretching to leeward;There for my lady's bowerBuilt I the lofty tower,Which, to this very hour,Stands looking seaward.
"There lived we many years;Time dried the maiden's tearsShe had forgot her fears,She was a mother.Death closed her mild blue eyes,Under that tower she lies;Ne'er shall the sun ariseOn such another!
"Still grew my bosom then.Still as a stagnant fen!Hateful to me were men,The sunlight hateful!In the vast forest here,Clad in my warlike gear,Fell I upon my spear,O, death was grateful!
"Thus, seamed with many scars,Bursting these prison bars,Up to its native starsMy soul ascended!There from the flowing bowlDeep drinks the warrior's soul,Skoal! to the Northland! skoal!"Thus the tale ended.
It was the schooner Hesperus,That sailed the wintry sea;And the skipper had taken his little daughter,To bear him company.
Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax,Her cheeks like the dawn of day,And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds,That ope in the month of May.
The skipper he stood beside the helm,His pipe was in his month,And he watched how the veering flaw did blowThe smoke now West, now South.
Then up and spake an old Sailor,Had sailed to the Spanish Main,"I pray thee, put into yonder port,For I fear a hurricane.
"Last night, the moon had a golden ring,And to-night no moon we see!"The skipper, he blew a whiff from his pipe,And a scornful laugh laughed he.
Colder and louder blew the wind,A gale from the Northeast.The snow fell hissing in the brine,And the billows frothed like yeast.
Down came the storm, and smote amainThe vessel in its strength;She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed,Then leaped her cable's length.
"Come hither! come hither! my little daughter,And do not tremble so;For I can weather the roughest galeThat ever wind did blow."
He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coatAgainst the stinging blast;He cut a rope from a broken spar,And bound her to the mast.
"O father! I hear the church-bells ring,O say, what may it be?""'Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!"—And he steered for the open sea.
"O father! I hear the sound of guns,O say, what may it be?""Some ship in distress, that cannot liveIn such an angry sea!"
"O father! I see a gleaming lightO say, what may it be?"But the father answered never a word,A frozen corpse was he.
Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark,With his face turned to the skies,The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snowOn his fixed and glassy eyes.
Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayedThat saved she might be;And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave,On the Lake of Galilee.
And fast through the midnight dark and drear,Through the whistling sleet and snow,Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel sweptTow'rds the reef of Norman's Woe.
And ever the fitful gusts betweenA sound came from the land;It was the sound of the trampling surfOn the rocks and the hard sea-sand.
The breakers were right beneath her bows,She drifted a dreary wreck,And a whooping billow swept the crewLike icicles from her deck.
She struck where the white and fleecy wavesLooked soft as carded wool,But the cruel rocks, they gored her sideLike the horns of an angry bull.
Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice,With the masts went by the board;Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank,Ho! ho! the breakers roared!
At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach,A fisherman stood aghast,To see the form of a maiden fair,Lashed close to a drifting mast.
The salt sea was frozen on her breast,The salt tears in her eyes;And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed,On the billows fall and rise.
Such was the wreck of the Hesperus,In the midnight and the snow!Christ save us all from a death like this,On the reef of Norman's Woe!
Under a spreading chestnut-treeThe village smithy stands;The smith, a mighty man is he,With large and sinewy hands;And the muscles of his brawny armsAre strong as iron bands.
His hair is crisp, and black, and long,His face is like the tan;His brow is wet with honest sweat,He earns whate'er he can,And looks the whole world in the face,For he owes not any man.
Week in, week out, from morn till night,You can hear his bellows blow;You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,With measured beat and slow,Like a sexton ringing the village bell,When the evening sun is low.
And children coming home from schoolLook in at the open door;They love to see the flaming forge,And bear the bellows roar,And catch the burning sparks that flyLike chaff from a threshing-floor.
He goes on Sunday to the church,And sits among his boys;He hears the parson pray and preach,He hears his daughter's voice,Singing in the village choir,And it makes his heart rejoice.
It sounds to him like her mother's voice,Singing in Paradise!He needs must think of her once more,How in the grave she lies;And with his hard, rough hand he wipesA tear out of his eyes.
Toiling,—rejoicing,—sorrowing,Onward through life he goes;Each morning sees some task begin,Each evening sees it closeSomething attempted, something done,Has earned a night's repose.
Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,For the lesson thou hast taught!Thus at the flaming forge of lifeOur fortunes must be wrought;Thus on its sounding anvil shapedEach burning deed and thought.
The rising moon has hid the stars;Her level rays, like golden bars,Lie on the landscape green,With shadows brown between.
And silver white the river gleams,As if Diana, in her dreams,Had dropt her silver bowUpon the meadows low.
On such a tranquil night as this,She woke Endymion with a kiss,When, sleeping in the grove,He dreamed not of her love.
Like Dian's kiss, unasked, unsought,Love gives itself, but is not bought;Nor voice, nor sound betraysIts deep, impassioned gaze.
It comes,—the beautiful, the free,The crown of all humanity,—In silence and aloneTo seek the elected one.
It lifts the boughs, whose shadows deepAre Life's oblivion, the soul's sleep,And kisses the closed eyesOf him, who slumbering lies.
O weary hearts! O slumbering eyes!O drooping souls, whose destiniesAre fraught with fear and pain,Ye shall be loved again!
No one is so accursed by fate,No one so utterly desolate,But some heart, though unknown,Responds unto his own.
Responds,—as if with unseen wings,An angel touched its quivering strings;And whispers, in its song,"'Where hast thou stayed so long?"
No hay pajaros en los nidos de antano.Spanish Proverb
The sun is bright,—the air is clear,The darting swallows soar and sing.And from the stately elms I hearThe bluebird prophesying Spring.
So blue you winding river flows,It seems an outlet from the sky,Where waiting till the west-wind blows,The freighted clouds at anchor lie.
All things are new;—the buds, the leaves,That gild the elm-tree's nodding crest,And even the nest beneath the eaves;—There are no birds in last year's nest!
All things rejoice in youth and love,The fulness of their first delight!And learn from the soft heavens aboveThe melting tenderness of night.
Maiden, that read'st this simple rhyme,Enjoy thy youth, it will not stay;Enjoy the fragrance of thy prime,For oh, it is not always May!
Enjoy the Spring of Love and Youth,To some good angel leave the rest;For Time will teach thee soon the truth,There are no birds in last year's nest!
The day is cold, and dark, and drearyIt rains, and the wind is never weary;The vine still clings to the mouldering wall,But at every gust the dead leaves fall,And the day is dark and dreary.
My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;It rains, and the wind is never weary;My thoughts still cling to the mouldering Past,But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,And the days are dark and dreary.
Be still, sad heart! and cease repining;Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;Thy fate is the common fate of all,Into each life some rain must fall,Some days must be dark and dreary.
I like that ancient Saxon phrase, which callsThe burial-ground God's-Acre! It is just;It consecrates each grave within its walls,And breathes a benison o'er the sleeping dust.
God's-Acre! Yes, that blessed name impartsComfort to those, who in the grave have sownThe seed that they had garnered in their hearts,Their bread of life, alas! no more their own.
Into its furrows shall we all be cast,In the sure faith, that we shall rise againAt the great harvest, when the archangel's blastShall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and grain.
Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom,In the fair gardens of that second birth;And each bright blossom mingle its perfumeWith that of flowers, which never bloomed on earth.
With thy rude ploughshare, Death, turn up the sod,And spread the furrow for the seed we sow;This is the field and Acre of our God,This is the place where human harvests grow!
River! that in silence windestThrough the meadows, bright and free,Till at length thy rest thou findestIn the bosom of the sea!
Four long years of mingled feeling,Half in rest, and half in strife,I have seen thy waters stealingOnward, like the stream of life.
Thou hast taught me, Silent River!Many a lesson, deep and long;Thou hast been a generous giver;I can give thee but a song.
Oft in sadness and in illness,I have watched thy current glide,Till the beauty of its stillnessOverflowed me, like a tide.
And in better hours and brighter,When I saw thy waters gleam,I have felt my heart beat lighter,And leap onward with thy stream.
Not for this alone I love thee,Nor because thy waves of blueFrom celestial seas above theeTake their own celestial hue.
Where yon shadowy woodlands hide thee,And thy waters disappear,Friends I love have dwelt beside thee,And have made thy margin dear.
More than this;—thy name reminds meOf three friends, all true and tried;And that name, like magic, binds meCloser, closer to thy side.
Friends my soul with joy remembers!How like quivering flames they start,When I fan the living embersOn the hearth-stone of my heart!
'T is for this, thou Silent River!That my spirit leans to thee;Thou hast been a generous giver,Take this idle song from me.
Blind Bartimeus at the gatesOf Jericho in darkness waits;He hears the crowd;—he hears a breathSay, “It is Christ of Nazareth!”And calls, in tones of agony,Ἰησοῦ, ἐλέησόν με!The thronging multitudes increase;Blind Bartimeus, hold thy peace!But still, above the noisy crowd,The beggar’s cry is shrill and loud;Until they say, “He calleth thee!”Θάρσει ἔγειραι, φωνεῖ δε!Then saith the Christ, as silent standsThe crowd, “What wilt thou at my hands?”And he replies, “O give me light!Rabbi, restore the blind man’s sight.”And Jesus answers, ὝπαγεἩ πίστις σου σέσωκέ δε!Ye that have eyes, yet cannot see,In darkness and in misery,Recall those mighty Voices Three,Ἰησοῦ, ἐλέησόν με!Θάρσει ἔγειραι, ὕπαγε!Ἡ πίστις σου σέσωκέ δε!
Filled is Life's goblet to the brim;And though my eyes with tears are dim,I see its sparkling bubbles swim,And chant a melancholy hymnWith solemn voice and slow.
No purple flowers,—no garlands green,Conceal the goblet's shade or sheen,Nor maddening draughts of Hippocrene,Like gleams of sunshine, flash betweenThick leaves of mistletoe.
This goblet, wrought with curious art,Is filled with waters, that upstart,When the deep fountains of the heart,By strong convulsions rent apart,Are running all to waste.
And as it mantling passes round,With fennel is it wreathed and crowned,Whose seed and foliage sun-imbrownedAre in its waters steeped and drowned,And give a bitter taste.
Above the lowly plants it towers,The fennel, with its yellow flowers,And in an earlier age than oursWas gifted with the wondrous powers,Lost vision to restore.
It gave new strength, and fearless mood;And gladiators, fierce and rude,Mingled it in their daily food;And he who battled and subdued,A wreath of fennel wore.
Then in Life's goblet freely press,The leaves that give it bitterness,Nor prize the colored waters less,For in thy darkness and distressNew light and strength they give!
And he who has not learned to knowHow false its sparkling bubbles show,How bitter are the drops of woe,With which its brim may overflow,He has not learned to live.
The prayer of Ajax was for light;Through all that dark and desperate fightThe blackness of that noonday nightHe asked but the return of sight,To see his foeman's face.
Let our unceasing, earnest prayerBe, too, for light,—for strength to bearOur portion of the weight of care,That crushes into dumb despairOne half the human race.
O suffering, sad humanity!O ye afflicted one; who lieSteeped to the lips in misery,Longing, and yet afraid to die,Patient, though sorely tried!
I pledge you in this cup of grief,Where floats the fennel's bitter leaf!The Battle of our Life is briefThe alarm,—the struggle,—the relief,Then sleep we side by side.
Maiden! with the meek, brown eyes, In whose orbs a shadow lies Like the dusk in evening skies!
Thou whose locks outshine the sun, Golden tresses, wreathed in one, As the braided streamlets run!
Standing, with reluctant feet, Where the brook and river meet, Womanhood and childhood fleet!
Gazing, with a timid glance, On the brooklet's swift advance, On the river's broad expanse!
Deep and still, that gliding stream Beautiful to thee must seem, As the river of a dream.
Then why pause with indecision, When bright angels in thy vision Beckon thee to fields Elysian?
Seest thou shadows sailing by, As the dove, with startled eye, Sees the falcon's shadow fly?
Hearest thou voices on the shore, That our ears perceive no more, Deafened by the cataract's roar?
O, thou child of many prayers! Life hath quicksands,—Life hath snares Care and age come unawares!
Like the swell of some sweet tune, Morning rises into noon, May glides onward into June.
Childhood is the bough, where slumbered Birds and blossoms many-numbered;— Age, that bough with snows encumbered.
Gather, then, each flower that grows, When the young heart overflows, To embalm that tent of snows.
Bear a lily in thy hand; Gates of brass cannot withstand One touch of that magic wand.
Bear through sorrow, wrong, and ruth, In thy heart the dew of youth, On thy lips the smile of truth!
O, that dew, like balm, shall steal Into wounds that cannot heal, Even as sleep our eyes doth seal;
And that smile, like sunshine, dart Into many a sunless heart, For a smile of God thou art.
The shades of night were falling fast,As through an Alpine village passedA youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice,A banner with the strange device,Excelsior!
His brow was sad; his eye beneath,Flashed like a falchion from its sheath,And like a silver clarion rungThe accents of that unknown tongue,Excelsior!
In happy homes he saw the lightOf household fires gleam warm and bright;Above, the spectral glaciers shone,And from his lips escaped a groan,Excelsior!
"Try not the Pass!" the old man said:"Dark lowers the tempest overhead,The roaring torrent is deep and wide!And loud that clarion voice replied,Excelsior!
"Oh stay," the maiden said, "and restThy weary head upon this breast!"A tear stood in his bright blue eye,But still he answered, with a sigh,Excelsior!
"Beware the pine-tree's withered branch!Beware the awful avalanche!"This was the peasant's last Good-night,A voice replied, far up the height,Excelsior!
At break of day, as heavenwardThe pious monks of Saint BernardUttered the oft-repeated prayer,A voice cried through the startled air,Excelsior!
A traveller, by the faithful hound,Half-buried in the snow was found,Still grasping in his hand of iceThat banner with the strange device,Excelsior!
There in the twilight cold and gray,Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay,And from the sky, serene and far,A voice fell, like a falling star,Excelsior!