FLOWER-DE-LUCEFLOWER-DE-LUCEBeautiful lily, dwelling by still rivers,Or solitary mere,Or where the sluggish meadow-brook deliversIts waters to the weir!Thou laughest at the mill, the whir and worryOf spindle and of loom,And the great wheel that toils amid the hurryAnd rushing of the flame.Born in the purple, born to joy and pleasance,Thou dost not toil nor spin,But makest glad and radiant with thy presenceThe meadow and the lin.The wind blows, and uplifts thy drooping banner,And round thee throng and runThe rushes, the green yeomen of thy manor,The outlaws of the sun.The burnished dragon-fly is thine attendant,And tilts against the field,And down the listed sunbeam rides resplendentWith steel-blue mail and shield.Thou art the Iris, fair among the fairest,Who, armed with golden rodAnd winged with the celestial azure, bearestThe message of some God.Thou art the Muse, who far from crowded citiesHauntest the sylvan streams,Playing on pipes of reed the artless dittiesThat come to us as dreams.O flower-de-luce, bloom on, and let the riverLinger to kiss thy feet!O flower of song, bloom on, and make foreverThe world more fair and sweet.PALINGENESISI lay upon the headland-height, and listenedTo the incessant sobbing of the seaIn caverns under me,And watched the waves, that tossed and fled and glistened,Until the rolling meadows of amethystMelted away in mist.Then suddenly, as one from sleep, I started;For round about me all the sunny capesSeemed peopled with the shapesOf those whom I had known in days departed,Apparelled in the loveliness which gleamsOn faces seen in dreams.A moment only, and the light and gloryFaded away, and the disconsolate shoreStood lonely as before;And the wild-roses of the promontoryAround me shuddered in the wind, and shedTheir petals of pale red.There was an old belief that in the embersOf all things their primordial form exists,And cunning alchemistsCould re-create the rose with all its membersFrom its own ashes, but without the bloom,Without the lost perfume.Ah me! what wonder-working, occult scienceCan from the ashes in our hearts once moreThe rose of youth restore?What craft of alchemy can bid defianceTo time and change, and for a single hourRenew this phantom-flower?"O, give me back," I cried, "the vanished splendors,The breath of morn, and the exultant strife,When the swift stream of lifeBounds o'er its rocky channel, and surrendersThe pond, with all its lilies, for the leapInto the unknown deep!"And the sea answered, with a lamentation,Like some old prophet wailing, and it said,"Alas! thy youth is dead!It breathes no more, its heart has no pulsation;In the dark places with the dead of oldIt lies forever cold!"Then said I, "From its consecrated cerementsI will not drag this sacred dust again,Only to give me pain;But, still remembering all the lost endearments,Go on my way, like one who looks before,And turns to weep no more."Into what land of harvests, what plantationsBright with autumnal foliage and the glowOf sunsets burning low;Beneath what midnight skies, whose constellationsLight up the spacious avenues betweenThis world and the unseen!Amid what friendly greetings and caresses,What households, though not alien, yet not mine,What bowers of rest divine;To what temptations in lone wildernesses,What famine of the heart, what pain and loss,The bearing of what cross!I do not know; nor will I vainly questionThose pages of the mystic book which holdThe story still untold,But without rash conjecture or suggestionTurn its last leaves in reverence and good heed,Until "The End" I read.THE BRIDGE OF CLOUDBurn, O evening hearth, and wakenPleasant visions, as of old!Though the house by winds be shaken,Safe I keep this room of gold!Ah, no longer wizard FancyBuilds her castles in the air,Luring me by necromancyUp the never-ending stair!But, instead, she builds me bridgesOver many a dark ravine,Where beneath the gusty ridgesCataracts dash and roar unseen.And I cross them, little heedingBlast of wind or torrent's roar,As I follow the recedingFootsteps that have gone before.Naught avails the imploring gesture,Naught avails the cry of pain!When I touch the flying vesture,'T is the gray robe of the rain.Baffled I return, and, leaningO'er the parapets of cloud,Watch the mist that interveningWraps the valley in its shroud.And the sounds of life ascendingFaintly, vaguely, meet the ear,Murmur of bells and voices blendingWith the rush of waters near.Well I know what there lies hidden,Every tower and town and farm,And again the land forbiddenReassumes its vanished charm.Well I know the secret places,And the nests in hedge and tree;At what doors are friendly faces,In what hearts are thoughts of me.Through the mist and darkness sinking,Blown by wind and beaten by shower,Down I fling the thought I'm thinking,Down I toss this Alpine flower.HAWTHORNEMAY 23, 1864How beautiful it was, that one bright dayIn the long week of rain!Though all its splendor could not chase awayThe omnipresent pain.The lovely town was white with apple-blooms,And the great elms o'erheadDark shadows wove on their aerial loomsShot through with golden thread.Across the meadows, by the gray old manse,The historic river flowed:I was as one who wanders in a trance,Unconscious of his road.The faces of familiar friends seemed strange;Their voices I could hear,And yet the words they uttered seemed to changeTheir meaning to my ear.For the one face I looked for was not there,The one low voice was mute;Only an unseen presence filled the air,And baffled my pursuit.Now I look back, and meadow, manse, and streamDimly my thought defines;I only see—a dream within a dream—The hill-top hearsed with pines.I only hear above his place of restTheir tender undertone,The infinite longings of a troubled breast,The voice so like his own.There in seclusion and remote from menThe wizard hand lies cold,Which at its topmost speed let fall the pen,And left the tale half told.Ah! who shall lift that wand of magic power,And the lost clew regain?The unfinished window in Aladdin's towerUnfinished must remain!CHRISTMAS BELLSI heard the bells on Christmas DayTheir old, familiar carols play,And wild and sweetThe words repeatOf peace on earth, good-will to men!And thought how, as the day had come,The belfries of all ChristendomHad rolled alongThe unbroken songOf peace on earth, good-will to men!Till, ringing, singing on its way,The world revolved from night to day,A voice, a chime,A chant sublimeOf peace on earth, good-will to men!Then from each black, accursed mouthThe cannon thundered in the South,And with the soundThe carols drownedOf peace on earth, good-will to men!It was as if an earthquake rentThe hearth-stones of a continent,And made forlornThe households bornOf peace on earth, good-will to men!And in despair I bowed my head;"There is no peace on earth," I said:"For hate is strong,And mocks the songOf peace on earth, good-will to men!"Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:"God is not dead; nor doth he sleep!The Wrong shall fail,The Right prevail,With peace on earth, good-will to men!"THE WIND OVER THE CHIMNEYSee, the fire is sinking low,Dusky red the embers glow,While above them still I cower,While a moment more I linger,Though the clock, with lifted finger,Points beyond the midnight hour.Sings the blackened log a tuneLearned in some forgotten JuneFrom a school-boy at his play,When they both were young together,Heart of youth and summer weatherMaking all their holiday.And the night-wind rising, hark!How above there in the dark,In the midnight and the snow,Ever wilder, fiercer, grander,Like the trumpets of Iskander,All the noisy chimneys blow!Every quivering tongue of flameSeems to murmur some great name,Seems to say to me, "Aspire!"But the night-wind answers, "HollowAre the visions that you follow,Into darkness sinks your fire!"Then the flicker of the blazeGleams on volumes of old days,Written by masters of the art,Loud through whose majestic pagesRolls the melody of ages,Throb the harp-strings of the heart.And again the tongues of flameStart exulting and exclaim:"These are prophets, bards, and seers;In the horoscope of nations,Like ascendant constellations,They control the coming years."But the night-wind cries: "Despair!Those who walk with feet of airLeave no long-enduring marks;At God's forges incandescentMighty hammers beat incessant,These are but the flying sparks."Dust are all the hands that wrought;Books are sepulchres of thought;The dead laurels of the deadRustle for a moment only,Like the withered leaves in lonelyChurchyards at some passing tread."Suddenly the flame sinks down;Sink the rumors of renown;And alone the night-wind drearClamors louder, wilder, vaguer,—"'T is the brand of MeleagerDying on the hearth-stone here!"And I answer,—"Though it be,Why should that discomfort me?No endeavor is in vain;Its reward is in the doing,And the rapture of pursuingIs the prize the vanquished gain."THE BELLS OF LYNNHEARD AT NAHANTO curfew of the setting sun! O Bells of Lynn! O requiem of the dying day! O Bells of Lynn!From the dark belfries of yon cloud-cathedral wafted, Your sounds aerial seem to float, O Bells of Lynn!Borne on the evening wind across the crimson twilight, O'er land and sea they rise and fall, O Bells of Lynn!The fisherman in his boat, far out beyond the headland, Listens, and leisurely rows ashore, O Bells of Lynn!Over the shining sands the wandering cattle homeward Follow each other at your call, O Bells of Lynn!The distant lighthouse hears, and with his flaming signal Answers you, passing the watchword on, O Bells of Lynn!And down the darkening coast run the tumultuous surges, And clap their hands, and shout to you, O Bells of Lynn!Till from the shuddering sea, with your wild incantations, Ye summon up the spectral moon, O Bells of Lynn!And startled at the sight like the weird woman of Endor, Ye cry aloud, and then are still, O Bells of Lynn!KILLED AT THE FORD.He is dead, the beautiful youth, The heart of honor, the tongue of truth, He, the life and light of us all, Whose voice was blithe as a bugle-call, Whom all eyes followed with one consent, The cheer of whose laugh, and whose pleasant word, Hushed all murmurs of discontent.Only last night, as we rode along, Down the dark of the mountain gap, To visit the picket-guard at the ford, Little dreaming of any mishap, He was humming the words of some old song: "Two red roses he had on his cap, And another he bore at the point of his sword."Sudden and swift a whistling ball Came out of a wood, and the voice was still; Something I heard in the darkness fall, And for a moment my blood grew chill; I spake in a whisper, as he who speaks In a room where some one is lying dead; But he made no answer to what I said.We lifted him up to his saddle again, And through the mire and the mist and the rain Carried him back to the silent camp, And laid him as if asleep on his bed; And I saw by the light of the surgeon's lamp Two white roses upon his cheeks, And one, just over his heart, blood-red!And I saw in a vision how far and fleet That fatal bullet went speeding forth, Till it reached a town in the distant North, Till it reached a house in a sunny street, Till it reached a heart that ceased to beat Without a murmur, without a cry; And a bell was tolled, in that far-off town, For one who had passed from cross to crown, And the neighbors wondered that she should die.GIOTTO'S TOWERHow many lives, made beautiful and sweetBy self-devotion and by self-restraint,Whose pleasure is to run without complaintOn unknown errands of the Paraclete,Wanting the reverence of unshodden feet,Fail of the nimbus which the artists paintAround the shining forehead of the saint,And are in their completeness incomplete!In the old Tuscan town stands Giotto's tower,The lily of Florence blossoming in stone,—A vision, a delight, and a desire,—The builder's perfect and centennial flower,That in the night of ages bloomed alone,But wanting still the glory of the spire.TO-MORROW'T is late at night, and in the realm of sleepMy little lambs are folded like the flocks;From room to room I hear the wakeful clocksChallenge the passing hour, like guards that keepTheir solitary watch on tower and steep;Far off I hear the crowing of the cocks,And through the opening door that time unlocksFeel the fresh breathing of To-morrow creep.To-morrow! the mysterious, unknown guest,Who cries to me: "Remember Barmecide,And tremble to be happy with the rest."And I make answer: "I am satisfied;I dare not ask; I know not what is best;God hath already said what shall betide."DIVINA COMMEDIAIOft have I seen at some cathedral doorA laborer, pausing in the dust and heat,Lay down his burden, and with reverent feetEnter, and cross himself, and on the floorKneel to repeat his paternoster o'er;Far off the noises of the world retreat;The loud vociferations of the streetBecome an undistinguishable roar.So, as I enter here from day to day,And leave my burden at this minster gate,Kneeling in prayer, and not ashamed to pray,The tumult of the time disconsolateTo inarticulate murmurs dies away,While the eternal ages watch and wait.IIHow strange the sculptures that adorn these towers!This crowd of statues, in whose folded sleevesBirds build their nests; while canopied with leavesParvis and portal bloom like trellised bowers,And the vast minster seems a cross of flowers!But fiends and dragons on the gargoyled eavesWatch the dead Christ between the living thieves,And, underneath, the traitor Judas lowers!Ah! from what agonies of heart and brain,What exultations trampling on despair,What tenderness, what tears, what hate of wrong,What passionate outcry of a soul in pain,Uprose this poem of the earth and air,This medieval miracle of song!IIII enter, and I see thee in the gloomOf the long aisles, O poet saturnine!And strive to make my steps keep pace with thine.The air is filled with some unknown perfume;The congregation of the dead make roomFor thee to pass; the votive tapers shine;Like rooks that haunt Ravenna's groves of pineThe hovering echoes fly from tomb to tomb.From the confessionals I hear ariseRehearsals of forgotten tragedies,And lamentations from the crypts below;And then a voice celestial, that beginsWith the pathetic words, "Although your sinsAs scarlet be," and ends with "as the snow."IVWith snow-white veil and garments as of flame,She stands before thee, who so long agoFilled thy young heart with passion and the woeFrom which thy song and all its splendors came;And while with stern rebuke she speaks thy name,The ice about thy heart melts as the snowOn mountain height; and in swift overflowComes gushing from thy lips in sobs of shame.Thou makest full confession; and a gleam,As of the dawn on some dark forest cast,Seems on thy lifted forehead to increase;Lethe and Eunoe—the remembered dreamAnd the forgotten sorrow—bring at lastThat perfect pardon which is perfect peace.VI lift mine eyes, and all the windows blazeWith forms of saints and holy men who died,Here martyred and hereafter glorified;And the great Rose upon its leaves displaysChrist's Triumph, and the angelic roundelays,With splendor upon splendor multiplied;And Beatrice again at Dante's sideNo more rebukes, but smiles her words of praise.And then the organ sounds, and unseen choirsSing the old Latin hymns of peace and love,And benedictions of the Holy Ghost;And the melodious bells among the spiresO'er all the house-tops and through heaven aboveProclaim the elevation of the Host!VIO star of morning and of liberty!O bringer of the light, whose splendor shinesAbove the darkness of the Apennines,Forerunner of the day that is to be!The voices of the city and the sea,The voices of the mountains and the pines,Repeat thy song, till the familiar linesAre footpaths for the thought of Italy!Thy fame is blown abroad from all the heights,Through all the nations, and a sound is heard,As of a mighty wind, and men devout,Strangers of Rome, and the new proselytes,In their own language hear thy wondrous word,And many are amazed and many doubt.NOËL.ENVOYE A M. AGASSIZ, LA VEILLE DE NOËL 1864, AVEC UN PANIER DE VINS DIVERSL'Academie en respect,Nonobstant l'incorrectionA la faveur du sujet,Ture-lure,N'y fera point de rature;Noël! ture-lure-lure.— Gui BarozaiQuand les astres de NoëlBrillaient, palpitaient au ciel,Six gaillards, et chacun ivre,Chantaient gaiment dans le givre,"Bons amis,Allons donc chez Agassiz!"Ces illustres PelerinsD'Outre-Mer adroits et fins,Se donnant des airs de pretre,A l'envi se vantaient d'etre"Bons amis,De Jean Rudolphe Agassiz!"Oeil-de-Perdrix, grand farceur,Sans reproche et sans pudeur,Dans son patois de Bourgogne,Bredouillait comme un ivrogne,"Bons amis,J'ai danse chez Agassiz!"Verzenay le Champenois,Bon Francais, point New-Yorquois,Mais des environs d'Avize,Fredonne a mainte reprise,"Bons amis,J'ai chante chez Agassiz!"A cote marchait un vieuxHidalgo, mais non mousseux;Dans le temps de CharlemagneFut son pere Grand d'Espagne!"Bons amis,J'ai dine chez Agassiz!"Derriere eux un Bordelais,Gascon, s'il en fut jamais,Parfume de poesieRiait, chantait, plein de vie,"Bons amis,J'ai soupe chez Agassiz!"Avec ce beau cadet roux,Bras dessus et bras dessous,Mine altiere et couleur terne,Vint le Sire de Sauterne;"Bons amis,J'ai couche chez Agassiz!"Mais le dernier de ces preux,Etait un pauvre Chartreux,Qui disait, d'un ton robuste,"Benedictions sur le Juste!Bons amis,Benissons Pere Agassiz!"Ils arrivent trois a trois,Montent l'escalier de boisClopin-clopant! quel gendarmePeut permettre ce vacarme,Bons amis,A la porte d'Agassiz!"Ouvrer donc, mon bon Seigneur,Ouvrez vite et n'ayez peur;Ouvrez, ouvrez, car nous sommesGens de bien et gentilshommes,Bons amisDe la famille Agassiz!"Chut, ganaches! taisez-vous!C'en est trop de vos glouglous;Epargnez aux PhilosophesVos abominables strophes!Bons amis,Respectez mon Agassiz!
Beautiful lily, dwelling by still rivers,Or solitary mere,Or where the sluggish meadow-brook deliversIts waters to the weir!
Thou laughest at the mill, the whir and worryOf spindle and of loom,And the great wheel that toils amid the hurryAnd rushing of the flame.
Born in the purple, born to joy and pleasance,Thou dost not toil nor spin,But makest glad and radiant with thy presenceThe meadow and the lin.
The wind blows, and uplifts thy drooping banner,And round thee throng and runThe rushes, the green yeomen of thy manor,The outlaws of the sun.
The burnished dragon-fly is thine attendant,And tilts against the field,And down the listed sunbeam rides resplendentWith steel-blue mail and shield.
Thou art the Iris, fair among the fairest,Who, armed with golden rodAnd winged with the celestial azure, bearestThe message of some God.
Thou art the Muse, who far from crowded citiesHauntest the sylvan streams,Playing on pipes of reed the artless dittiesThat come to us as dreams.
O flower-de-luce, bloom on, and let the riverLinger to kiss thy feet!O flower of song, bloom on, and make foreverThe world more fair and sweet.
I lay upon the headland-height, and listenedTo the incessant sobbing of the seaIn caverns under me,And watched the waves, that tossed and fled and glistened,Until the rolling meadows of amethystMelted away in mist.
Then suddenly, as one from sleep, I started;For round about me all the sunny capesSeemed peopled with the shapesOf those whom I had known in days departed,Apparelled in the loveliness which gleamsOn faces seen in dreams.
A moment only, and the light and gloryFaded away, and the disconsolate shoreStood lonely as before;And the wild-roses of the promontoryAround me shuddered in the wind, and shedTheir petals of pale red.
There was an old belief that in the embersOf all things their primordial form exists,And cunning alchemistsCould re-create the rose with all its membersFrom its own ashes, but without the bloom,Without the lost perfume.
Ah me! what wonder-working, occult scienceCan from the ashes in our hearts once moreThe rose of youth restore?What craft of alchemy can bid defianceTo time and change, and for a single hourRenew this phantom-flower?
"O, give me back," I cried, "the vanished splendors,The breath of morn, and the exultant strife,When the swift stream of lifeBounds o'er its rocky channel, and surrendersThe pond, with all its lilies, for the leapInto the unknown deep!"
And the sea answered, with a lamentation,Like some old prophet wailing, and it said,"Alas! thy youth is dead!It breathes no more, its heart has no pulsation;In the dark places with the dead of oldIt lies forever cold!"
Then said I, "From its consecrated cerementsI will not drag this sacred dust again,Only to give me pain;But, still remembering all the lost endearments,Go on my way, like one who looks before,And turns to weep no more."
Into what land of harvests, what plantationsBright with autumnal foliage and the glowOf sunsets burning low;Beneath what midnight skies, whose constellationsLight up the spacious avenues betweenThis world and the unseen!
Amid what friendly greetings and caresses,What households, though not alien, yet not mine,What bowers of rest divine;To what temptations in lone wildernesses,What famine of the heart, what pain and loss,The bearing of what cross!
I do not know; nor will I vainly questionThose pages of the mystic book which holdThe story still untold,But without rash conjecture or suggestionTurn its last leaves in reverence and good heed,Until "The End" I read.
Burn, O evening hearth, and wakenPleasant visions, as of old!Though the house by winds be shaken,Safe I keep this room of gold!
Ah, no longer wizard FancyBuilds her castles in the air,Luring me by necromancyUp the never-ending stair!
But, instead, she builds me bridgesOver many a dark ravine,Where beneath the gusty ridgesCataracts dash and roar unseen.
And I cross them, little heedingBlast of wind or torrent's roar,As I follow the recedingFootsteps that have gone before.
Naught avails the imploring gesture,Naught avails the cry of pain!When I touch the flying vesture,'T is the gray robe of the rain.
Baffled I return, and, leaningO'er the parapets of cloud,Watch the mist that interveningWraps the valley in its shroud.
And the sounds of life ascendingFaintly, vaguely, meet the ear,Murmur of bells and voices blendingWith the rush of waters near.
Well I know what there lies hidden,Every tower and town and farm,And again the land forbiddenReassumes its vanished charm.
Well I know the secret places,And the nests in hedge and tree;At what doors are friendly faces,In what hearts are thoughts of me.
Through the mist and darkness sinking,Blown by wind and beaten by shower,Down I fling the thought I'm thinking,Down I toss this Alpine flower.
MAY 23, 1864
How beautiful it was, that one bright dayIn the long week of rain!Though all its splendor could not chase awayThe omnipresent pain.
The lovely town was white with apple-blooms,And the great elms o'erheadDark shadows wove on their aerial loomsShot through with golden thread.
Across the meadows, by the gray old manse,The historic river flowed:I was as one who wanders in a trance,Unconscious of his road.
The faces of familiar friends seemed strange;Their voices I could hear,And yet the words they uttered seemed to changeTheir meaning to my ear.
For the one face I looked for was not there,The one low voice was mute;Only an unseen presence filled the air,And baffled my pursuit.
Now I look back, and meadow, manse, and streamDimly my thought defines;I only see—a dream within a dream—The hill-top hearsed with pines.
I only hear above his place of restTheir tender undertone,The infinite longings of a troubled breast,The voice so like his own.
There in seclusion and remote from menThe wizard hand lies cold,Which at its topmost speed let fall the pen,And left the tale half told.
Ah! who shall lift that wand of magic power,And the lost clew regain?The unfinished window in Aladdin's towerUnfinished must remain!
I heard the bells on Christmas DayTheir old, familiar carols play,And wild and sweetThe words repeatOf peace on earth, good-will to men!
And thought how, as the day had come,The belfries of all ChristendomHad rolled alongThe unbroken songOf peace on earth, good-will to men!
Till, ringing, singing on its way,The world revolved from night to day,A voice, a chime,A chant sublimeOf peace on earth, good-will to men!
Then from each black, accursed mouthThe cannon thundered in the South,And with the soundThe carols drownedOf peace on earth, good-will to men!
It was as if an earthquake rentThe hearth-stones of a continent,And made forlornThe households bornOf peace on earth, good-will to men!
And in despair I bowed my head;"There is no peace on earth," I said:"For hate is strong,And mocks the songOf peace on earth, good-will to men!"
Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:"God is not dead; nor doth he sleep!The Wrong shall fail,The Right prevail,With peace on earth, good-will to men!"
See, the fire is sinking low,Dusky red the embers glow,While above them still I cower,While a moment more I linger,Though the clock, with lifted finger,Points beyond the midnight hour.
Sings the blackened log a tuneLearned in some forgotten JuneFrom a school-boy at his play,When they both were young together,Heart of youth and summer weatherMaking all their holiday.
And the night-wind rising, hark!How above there in the dark,In the midnight and the snow,Ever wilder, fiercer, grander,Like the trumpets of Iskander,All the noisy chimneys blow!
Every quivering tongue of flameSeems to murmur some great name,Seems to say to me, "Aspire!"But the night-wind answers, "HollowAre the visions that you follow,Into darkness sinks your fire!"
Then the flicker of the blazeGleams on volumes of old days,Written by masters of the art,Loud through whose majestic pagesRolls the melody of ages,Throb the harp-strings of the heart.
And again the tongues of flameStart exulting and exclaim:"These are prophets, bards, and seers;In the horoscope of nations,Like ascendant constellations,They control the coming years."
But the night-wind cries: "Despair!Those who walk with feet of airLeave no long-enduring marks;At God's forges incandescentMighty hammers beat incessant,These are but the flying sparks.
"Dust are all the hands that wrought;Books are sepulchres of thought;The dead laurels of the deadRustle for a moment only,Like the withered leaves in lonelyChurchyards at some passing tread."
Suddenly the flame sinks down;Sink the rumors of renown;And alone the night-wind drearClamors louder, wilder, vaguer,—"'T is the brand of MeleagerDying on the hearth-stone here!"
And I answer,—"Though it be,Why should that discomfort me?No endeavor is in vain;Its reward is in the doing,And the rapture of pursuingIs the prize the vanquished gain."
HEARD AT NAHANT
O curfew of the setting sun! O Bells of Lynn! O requiem of the dying day! O Bells of Lynn!
From the dark belfries of yon cloud-cathedral wafted, Your sounds aerial seem to float, O Bells of Lynn!
Borne on the evening wind across the crimson twilight, O'er land and sea they rise and fall, O Bells of Lynn!
The fisherman in his boat, far out beyond the headland, Listens, and leisurely rows ashore, O Bells of Lynn!
Over the shining sands the wandering cattle homeward Follow each other at your call, O Bells of Lynn!
The distant lighthouse hears, and with his flaming signal Answers you, passing the watchword on, O Bells of Lynn!
And down the darkening coast run the tumultuous surges, And clap their hands, and shout to you, O Bells of Lynn!
Till from the shuddering sea, with your wild incantations, Ye summon up the spectral moon, O Bells of Lynn!
And startled at the sight like the weird woman of Endor, Ye cry aloud, and then are still, O Bells of Lynn!
He is dead, the beautiful youth, The heart of honor, the tongue of truth, He, the life and light of us all, Whose voice was blithe as a bugle-call, Whom all eyes followed with one consent, The cheer of whose laugh, and whose pleasant word, Hushed all murmurs of discontent.
Only last night, as we rode along, Down the dark of the mountain gap, To visit the picket-guard at the ford, Little dreaming of any mishap, He was humming the words of some old song: "Two red roses he had on his cap, And another he bore at the point of his sword."
Sudden and swift a whistling ball Came out of a wood, and the voice was still; Something I heard in the darkness fall, And for a moment my blood grew chill; I spake in a whisper, as he who speaks In a room where some one is lying dead; But he made no answer to what I said.
We lifted him up to his saddle again, And through the mire and the mist and the rain Carried him back to the silent camp, And laid him as if asleep on his bed; And I saw by the light of the surgeon's lamp Two white roses upon his cheeks, And one, just over his heart, blood-red!
And I saw in a vision how far and fleet That fatal bullet went speeding forth, Till it reached a town in the distant North, Till it reached a house in a sunny street, Till it reached a heart that ceased to beat Without a murmur, without a cry; And a bell was tolled, in that far-off town, For one who had passed from cross to crown, And the neighbors wondered that she should die.
How many lives, made beautiful and sweetBy self-devotion and by self-restraint,Whose pleasure is to run without complaintOn unknown errands of the Paraclete,Wanting the reverence of unshodden feet,Fail of the nimbus which the artists paintAround the shining forehead of the saint,And are in their completeness incomplete!In the old Tuscan town stands Giotto's tower,The lily of Florence blossoming in stone,—A vision, a delight, and a desire,—The builder's perfect and centennial flower,That in the night of ages bloomed alone,But wanting still the glory of the spire.
'T is late at night, and in the realm of sleepMy little lambs are folded like the flocks;From room to room I hear the wakeful clocksChallenge the passing hour, like guards that keepTheir solitary watch on tower and steep;Far off I hear the crowing of the cocks,And through the opening door that time unlocksFeel the fresh breathing of To-morrow creep.To-morrow! the mysterious, unknown guest,Who cries to me: "Remember Barmecide,And tremble to be happy with the rest."And I make answer: "I am satisfied;I dare not ask; I know not what is best;God hath already said what shall betide."
Oft have I seen at some cathedral doorA laborer, pausing in the dust and heat,Lay down his burden, and with reverent feetEnter, and cross himself, and on the floorKneel to repeat his paternoster o'er;Far off the noises of the world retreat;The loud vociferations of the streetBecome an undistinguishable roar.So, as I enter here from day to day,And leave my burden at this minster gate,Kneeling in prayer, and not ashamed to pray,The tumult of the time disconsolateTo inarticulate murmurs dies away,While the eternal ages watch and wait.
How strange the sculptures that adorn these towers!This crowd of statues, in whose folded sleevesBirds build their nests; while canopied with leavesParvis and portal bloom like trellised bowers,And the vast minster seems a cross of flowers!But fiends and dragons on the gargoyled eavesWatch the dead Christ between the living thieves,And, underneath, the traitor Judas lowers!Ah! from what agonies of heart and brain,What exultations trampling on despair,What tenderness, what tears, what hate of wrong,What passionate outcry of a soul in pain,Uprose this poem of the earth and air,This medieval miracle of song!
I enter, and I see thee in the gloomOf the long aisles, O poet saturnine!And strive to make my steps keep pace with thine.The air is filled with some unknown perfume;The congregation of the dead make roomFor thee to pass; the votive tapers shine;Like rooks that haunt Ravenna's groves of pineThe hovering echoes fly from tomb to tomb.From the confessionals I hear ariseRehearsals of forgotten tragedies,And lamentations from the crypts below;And then a voice celestial, that beginsWith the pathetic words, "Although your sinsAs scarlet be," and ends with "as the snow."
With snow-white veil and garments as of flame,She stands before thee, who so long agoFilled thy young heart with passion and the woeFrom which thy song and all its splendors came;And while with stern rebuke she speaks thy name,The ice about thy heart melts as the snowOn mountain height; and in swift overflowComes gushing from thy lips in sobs of shame.Thou makest full confession; and a gleam,As of the dawn on some dark forest cast,Seems on thy lifted forehead to increase;Lethe and Eunoe—the remembered dreamAnd the forgotten sorrow—bring at lastThat perfect pardon which is perfect peace.
I lift mine eyes, and all the windows blazeWith forms of saints and holy men who died,Here martyred and hereafter glorified;And the great Rose upon its leaves displaysChrist's Triumph, and the angelic roundelays,With splendor upon splendor multiplied;And Beatrice again at Dante's sideNo more rebukes, but smiles her words of praise.And then the organ sounds, and unseen choirsSing the old Latin hymns of peace and love,And benedictions of the Holy Ghost;And the melodious bells among the spiresO'er all the house-tops and through heaven aboveProclaim the elevation of the Host!
O star of morning and of liberty!O bringer of the light, whose splendor shinesAbove the darkness of the Apennines,Forerunner of the day that is to be!The voices of the city and the sea,The voices of the mountains and the pines,Repeat thy song, till the familiar linesAre footpaths for the thought of Italy!Thy fame is blown abroad from all the heights,Through all the nations, and a sound is heard,As of a mighty wind, and men devout,Strangers of Rome, and the new proselytes,In their own language hear thy wondrous word,And many are amazed and many doubt.
ENVOYE A M. AGASSIZ, LA VEILLE DE NOËL 1864, AVEC UN PANIER DE VINS DIVERS
L'Academie en respect,Nonobstant l'incorrectionA la faveur du sujet,Ture-lure,N'y fera point de rature;Noël! ture-lure-lure.— Gui Barozai
Quand les astres de NoëlBrillaient, palpitaient au ciel,Six gaillards, et chacun ivre,Chantaient gaiment dans le givre,"Bons amis,Allons donc chez Agassiz!"
Ces illustres PelerinsD'Outre-Mer adroits et fins,Se donnant des airs de pretre,A l'envi se vantaient d'etre"Bons amis,De Jean Rudolphe Agassiz!"
Oeil-de-Perdrix, grand farceur,Sans reproche et sans pudeur,Dans son patois de Bourgogne,Bredouillait comme un ivrogne,"Bons amis,J'ai danse chez Agassiz!"
Verzenay le Champenois,Bon Francais, point New-Yorquois,Mais des environs d'Avize,Fredonne a mainte reprise,"Bons amis,J'ai chante chez Agassiz!"
A cote marchait un vieuxHidalgo, mais non mousseux;Dans le temps de CharlemagneFut son pere Grand d'Espagne!"Bons amis,J'ai dine chez Agassiz!"
Derriere eux un Bordelais,Gascon, s'il en fut jamais,Parfume de poesieRiait, chantait, plein de vie,"Bons amis,J'ai soupe chez Agassiz!"
Avec ce beau cadet roux,Bras dessus et bras dessous,Mine altiere et couleur terne,Vint le Sire de Sauterne;"Bons amis,J'ai couche chez Agassiz!"
Mais le dernier de ces preux,Etait un pauvre Chartreux,Qui disait, d'un ton robuste,"Benedictions sur le Juste!Bons amis,Benissons Pere Agassiz!"
Ils arrivent trois a trois,Montent l'escalier de boisClopin-clopant! quel gendarmePeut permettre ce vacarme,Bons amis,A la porte d'Agassiz!
"Ouvrer donc, mon bon Seigneur,Ouvrez vite et n'ayez peur;Ouvrez, ouvrez, car nous sommesGens de bien et gentilshommes,Bons amisDe la famille Agassiz!"
Chut, ganaches! taisez-vous!C'en est trop de vos glouglous;Epargnez aux PhilosophesVos abominables strophes!Bons amis,Respectez mon Agassiz!