BIRDS OF PASSAGEFLIGHT THE THIRDFATA MORGANAO sweet illusions of Song,That tempt me everywhere,In the lonely fields, and the throngOf the crowded thoroughfare!I approach, and ye vanish away,I grasp you, and ye are gone;But ever by nigh an day,The melody soundeth on.As the weary traveller seesIn desert or prairie vast,Blue lakes, overhung with trees,That a pleasant shadow cast;Fair towns with turrets high,And shining roofs of gold,That vanish as he draws nigh,Like mists together rolled,—So I wander and wander along,And forever before me gleamsThe shining city of song,In the beautiful land of dreams.But when I would enter the gateOf that golden atmosphere,It is gone, and I wander and waitFor the vision to reappear.THE HAUNTED CHAMBEREach heart has its haunted chamber,Where the silent moonlight falls!On the floor are mysterious footsteps,There are whispers along the walls!And mine at times is hauntedBy phantoms of the PastAs motionless as shadowsBy the silent moonlight cast.A form sits by the window,That is not seen by day,For as soon as the dawn approachesIt vanishes away.It sits there in the moonlightItself as pale and still,And points with its airy fingerAcross the window-sill.Without before the window,There stands a gloomy pine,Whose boughs wave upward and downwardAs wave these thoughts of mine.And underneath its branchesIs the grave of a little child,Who died upon life's threshold,And never wept nor smiled.What are ye, O pallid phantoms!That haunt my troubled brain?That vanish when day approaches,And at night return again?What are ye, O pallid phantoms!But the statues without breath,That stand on the bridge overarchingThe silent river of death?THE MEETINGAfter so long an absenceAt last we meet again:Does the meeting give us pleasure,Or does it give us pain?The tree of life has been shaken,And but few of us linger now,Like the Prophet's two or three berriesIn the top of the uppermost bough.We cordially greet each otherIn the old, familiar tone;And we think, though we do not say it,How old and gray he is grown!We speak of a Merry ChristmasAnd many a Happy New YearBut each in his heart is thinkingOf those that are not here.We speak of friends and their fortunes,And of what they did and said,Till the dead alone seem living,And the living alone seem dead.And at last we hardly distinguishBetween the ghosts and the guests;And a mist and shadow of sadnessSteals over our merriest jests.VOX POPULIWhen Mazarvan the Magician,Journeyed westward through Cathay,Nothing heard he but the praisesOf Badoura on his way.But the lessening rumor endedWhen he came to Khaledan,There the folk were talking onlyOf Prince Camaralzaman,So it happens with the poets:Every province hath its own;Camaralzaman is famousWhere Badoura is unknown.THE CASTLE-BUILDERA gentle boy, with soft and silken locksA dreamy boy, with brown and tender eyes,A castle-builder, with his wooden blocks,And towers that touch imaginary skies.A fearless rider on his father's knee,An eager listener unto stories toldAt the Round Table of the nursery,Of heroes and adventures manifold.There will be other towers for thee to build;There will be other steeds for thee to ride;There will be other legends, and all filledWith greater marvels and more glorified.Build on, and make thy castles high and fair,Rising and reaching upward to the skies;Listen to voices in the upper air,Nor lose thy simple faith in mysteries.CHANGEDFrom the outskirts of the townWhere of old the mile-stone stood.Now a stranger, looking downI behold the shadowy crownOf the dark and haunted wood.Is it changed, or am I changed?Ah! the oaks are fresh and green,But the friends with whom I rangedThrough their thickets are estrangedBy the years that intervene.Bright as ever flows the sea,Bright as ever shines the sun,But alas! they seem to meNot the sun that used to be,Not the tides that used to run.THE CHALLENGEI have a vague remembranceOf a story, that is toldIn some ancient Spanish legendOr chronicle of old.It was when brave King SanchezWas before Zamora slain,And his great besieging armyLay encamped upon the plain.Don Diego de OrdonezSallied forth in front of all,And shouted loud his challengeTo the warders on the wall.All the people of Zamora,Both the born and the unborn,As traitors did he challengeWith taunting words of scorn.The living, in their houses,And in their graves, the dead!And the waters of their rivers,And their wine, and oil, and bread!There is a greater army,That besets us round with strife,A starving, numberless army,At all the gates of life.The poverty-stricken millionsWho challenge our wine and bread,And impeach us all as traitors,Both the living and the dead.And whenever I sit at the banquet,Where the feast and song are high,Amid the mirth and the musicI can hear that fearful cry.And hollow and haggard facesLook into the lighted hall,And wasted hands are extendedTo catch the crumbs that fall.For within there is light and plenty,And odors fill the air;But without there is cold and darkness,And hunger and despair.And there in the camp of famine,In wind and cold and rain,Christ, the great Lord of the army,Lies dead upon the plain!THE BROOK AND THE WAVEThe brooklet came from the mountain,As sang the bard of old,Running with feet of silverOver the sands of gold!Far away in the briny oceanThere rolled a turbulent wave,Now singing along the sea-beach,Now howling along the cave.And the brooklet has found the billowThough they flowed so far apart,And has filled with its freshness and sweetnessThat turbulent bitter heart!AFTERMATHWhen the summer fields are mown,When the birds are fledged and flown,And the dry leaves strew the path;With the falling of the snow,With the cawing of the crow,Once again the fields we mowAnd gather in the aftermath.Not the sweet, new grass with flowersIs this harvesting of ours;Not the upland clover bloom;But the rowen mired with weeds,Tangled tufts from marsh and meads,Where the poppy drops its seedsIn the silence and the gloom.
O sweet illusions of Song,That tempt me everywhere,In the lonely fields, and the throngOf the crowded thoroughfare!
I approach, and ye vanish away,I grasp you, and ye are gone;But ever by nigh an day,The melody soundeth on.
As the weary traveller seesIn desert or prairie vast,Blue lakes, overhung with trees,That a pleasant shadow cast;
Fair towns with turrets high,And shining roofs of gold,That vanish as he draws nigh,Like mists together rolled,—
So I wander and wander along,And forever before me gleamsThe shining city of song,In the beautiful land of dreams.
But when I would enter the gateOf that golden atmosphere,It is gone, and I wander and waitFor the vision to reappear.
Each heart has its haunted chamber,Where the silent moonlight falls!On the floor are mysterious footsteps,There are whispers along the walls!
And mine at times is hauntedBy phantoms of the PastAs motionless as shadowsBy the silent moonlight cast.
A form sits by the window,That is not seen by day,For as soon as the dawn approachesIt vanishes away.
It sits there in the moonlightItself as pale and still,And points with its airy fingerAcross the window-sill.
Without before the window,There stands a gloomy pine,Whose boughs wave upward and downwardAs wave these thoughts of mine.
And underneath its branchesIs the grave of a little child,Who died upon life's threshold,And never wept nor smiled.
What are ye, O pallid phantoms!That haunt my troubled brain?That vanish when day approaches,And at night return again?
What are ye, O pallid phantoms!But the statues without breath,That stand on the bridge overarchingThe silent river of death?
After so long an absenceAt last we meet again:Does the meeting give us pleasure,Or does it give us pain?
The tree of life has been shaken,And but few of us linger now,Like the Prophet's two or three berriesIn the top of the uppermost bough.
We cordially greet each otherIn the old, familiar tone;And we think, though we do not say it,How old and gray he is grown!
We speak of a Merry ChristmasAnd many a Happy New YearBut each in his heart is thinkingOf those that are not here.
We speak of friends and their fortunes,And of what they did and said,Till the dead alone seem living,And the living alone seem dead.
And at last we hardly distinguishBetween the ghosts and the guests;And a mist and shadow of sadnessSteals over our merriest jests.
When Mazarvan the Magician,Journeyed westward through Cathay,Nothing heard he but the praisesOf Badoura on his way.
But the lessening rumor endedWhen he came to Khaledan,There the folk were talking onlyOf Prince Camaralzaman,
So it happens with the poets:Every province hath its own;Camaralzaman is famousWhere Badoura is unknown.
A gentle boy, with soft and silken locksA dreamy boy, with brown and tender eyes,A castle-builder, with his wooden blocks,And towers that touch imaginary skies.
A fearless rider on his father's knee,An eager listener unto stories toldAt the Round Table of the nursery,Of heroes and adventures manifold.
There will be other towers for thee to build;There will be other steeds for thee to ride;There will be other legends, and all filledWith greater marvels and more glorified.
Build on, and make thy castles high and fair,Rising and reaching upward to the skies;Listen to voices in the upper air,Nor lose thy simple faith in mysteries.
From the outskirts of the townWhere of old the mile-stone stood.Now a stranger, looking downI behold the shadowy crownOf the dark and haunted wood.
Is it changed, or am I changed?Ah! the oaks are fresh and green,But the friends with whom I rangedThrough their thickets are estrangedBy the years that intervene.
Bright as ever flows the sea,Bright as ever shines the sun,But alas! they seem to meNot the sun that used to be,Not the tides that used to run.
I have a vague remembranceOf a story, that is toldIn some ancient Spanish legendOr chronicle of old.
It was when brave King SanchezWas before Zamora slain,And his great besieging armyLay encamped upon the plain.
Don Diego de OrdonezSallied forth in front of all,And shouted loud his challengeTo the warders on the wall.
All the people of Zamora,Both the born and the unborn,As traitors did he challengeWith taunting words of scorn.
The living, in their houses,And in their graves, the dead!And the waters of their rivers,And their wine, and oil, and bread!
There is a greater army,That besets us round with strife,A starving, numberless army,At all the gates of life.
The poverty-stricken millionsWho challenge our wine and bread,And impeach us all as traitors,Both the living and the dead.
And whenever I sit at the banquet,Where the feast and song are high,Amid the mirth and the musicI can hear that fearful cry.
And hollow and haggard facesLook into the lighted hall,And wasted hands are extendedTo catch the crumbs that fall.
For within there is light and plenty,And odors fill the air;But without there is cold and darkness,And hunger and despair.
And there in the camp of famine,In wind and cold and rain,Christ, the great Lord of the army,Lies dead upon the plain!
The brooklet came from the mountain,As sang the bard of old,Running with feet of silverOver the sands of gold!
Far away in the briny oceanThere rolled a turbulent wave,Now singing along the sea-beach,Now howling along the cave.
And the brooklet has found the billowThough they flowed so far apart,And has filled with its freshness and sweetnessThat turbulent bitter heart!
When the summer fields are mown,When the birds are fledged and flown,And the dry leaves strew the path;With the falling of the snow,With the cawing of the crow,Once again the fields we mowAnd gather in the aftermath.
Not the sweet, new grass with flowersIs this harvesting of ours;Not the upland clover bloom;But the rowen mired with weeds,Tangled tufts from marsh and meads,Where the poppy drops its seedsIn the silence and the gloom.