ULTIMA THULEDEDICATIONTO G.W.G.With favoring winds, o'er sunlit seas, We sailed for the Hesperides, The land where golden apples grow; But that, ah! that was long ago.How far, since then, the ocean streams Have swept us from that land of dreams, That land of fiction and of truth, The lost Atlantis of our youth!Whither, oh, whither? Are not these The tempest-haunted Hebrides, Where sea gulls scream, and breakers roar, And wreck and sea-weed line the shore?Ultima Thule! Utmost Isle! Here in thy harbors for a while We lower our sails; a while we rest From the unending, endless quest.POEMSBAYARD TAYLORDead he lay among his books! The peace of God was in his looks.As the statues in the gloom Watch o'er Maximilian's tomb,So those volumes from their shelves Watched him, silent as themselves.Ah! his hand will nevermore Turn their storied pages o'er;Nevermore his lips repeat Songs of theirs, however sweet.Let the lifeless body rest! He is gone, who was its guest;Gone, as travellers haste to leave An inn, nor tarry until eve.Traveller! in what realms afar, In what planet, in what star,In what vast, aerial space, Shines the light upon thy face?In what gardens of delight Rest thy weary feet to-night?Poet! thou, whose latest verse Was a garland on thy hearse;Thou hast sung, with organ tone, In Deukalion's life, thine own;On the ruins of the Past Blooms the perfect flower at last.Friend! but yesterday the bells Rang for thee their loud farewells;And to-day they toll for thee, Lying dead beyond the sea;Lying dead among thy books, The peace of God in all thy looks!THE CHAMBER OVER THE GATEIs it so far from theeThou canst no longer see,In the Chamber over the Gate,That old man desolate,Weeping and wailing soreFor his son, who is no more?O Absalom, my son!Is it so long agoThat cry of human woeFrom the walled city came,Calling on his dear name,That it has died awayIn the distance of to-day?O Absalom, my son!There is no far or near,There is neither there nor here,There is neither soon nor late,In that Chamber over the Gate,Nor any long agoTo that cry of human woe,O Absalom, my son!From the ages that are pastThe voice sounds like a blast,Over seas that wreck and drown,Over tumult of traffic and town;And from ages yet to beCome the echoes back to me,O Absalom, my son!Somewhere at every hourThe watchman on the towerLooks forth, and sees the fleetApproach of the hurrying feetOf messengers, that bearThe tidings of despair.O Absalom, my son!He goes forth from the doorWho shall return no more.With him our joy departs;The light goes out in our hearts;In the Chamber over the GateWe sit disconsolate.O Absalom, my son!That 't is a common griefBringeth but slight relief;Ours is the bitterest loss,Ours is the heaviest cross;And forever the cry will be"Would God I had died for thee,O Absalom, my son!"FROM MY ARM-CHAIRTO THE CHILDREN OF CAMBRIDGEWho presented to me on my Seventy-second Birth-day, February 27, 1879, this Chair, made from the Wood of the Village Blacksmith's Chestnut Tree.Am I a king, that I should call my ownThis splendid ebon throne?Or by what reason, or what right divine,Can I proclaim it mine?Only, perhaps, by right divine of songIt may to me belong;Only because the spreading chestnut treeOf old was sung by me.Well I remember it in all its prime,When in the summer-timeThe affluent foliage of its branches madeA cavern of cool shade.There, by the blacksmith's forge, beside the street,Its blossoms white and sweetEnticed the bees, until it seemed alive,And murmured like a hive.And when the winds of autumn, with a shout,Tossed its great arms about,The shining chestnuts, bursting from the sheath,Dropped to the ground beneath.And now some fragments of its branches bare,Shaped as a stately chair,Have by my hearthstone found a home at last,And whisper of the past.The Danish king could not in all his prideRepel the ocean tide,But, seated in this chair, I can in rhymeRoll back the tide of Time.I see again, as one in vision sees,The blossoms and the bees,And hear the children's voices shout and call,And the brown chestnuts fall.I see the smithy with its fires aglow,I hear the bellows blow,And the shrill hammers on the anvil beatThe iron white with heat!And thus, dear children, have ye made for meThis day a jubilee,And to my more than three-score years and tenBrought back my youth again.The heart hath its own memory, like the mind,And in it are enshrinedThe precious keepsakes, into which is wroughtThe giver's loving thought.Only your love and your remembrance couldGive life to this dead wood,And make these branches, leafless now so long,Blossom again in song.JUGURTHAHow cold are thy baths, Apollo!Cried the African monarch, the splendid,As down to his death in the hollowDark dungeons of Rome he descended,Uncrowned, unthroned, unattended;How cold are thy baths, Apollo!How cold are thy baths, Apollo!Cried the Poet, unknown, unbefriended,As the vision, that lured him to follow,With the mist and the darkness blended,And the dream of his life was ended;How cold are thy baths, Apollo!THE IRON PENMade from a fetter of Bonnivard, the Prisoner of Chillon; the handle of wood from the Frigate Constitution, and bound with a circlet of gold, inset with three precious stones from Siberia, Ceylon, and Maine.I thought this Pen would ariseFrom the casket where it lies—Of itself would arise and writeMy thanks and my surprise.When you gave it me under the pines,I dreamed these gems from the minesOf Siberia, Ceylon, and MaineWould glimmer as thoughts in the lines;That this iron link from the chainOf Bonnivard might retainSome verse of the Poet who sangOf the prisoner and his pain;That this wood from the frigate's mastMight write me a rhyme at last,As it used to write on the skyThe song of the sea and the blast.But motionless as I wait,Like a Bishop lying in stateLies the Pen, with its mitre of gold,And its jewels inviolate.Then must I speak, and sayThat the light of that summer dayIn the garden under the pinesShall not fade and pass away.I shall see you standing there,Caressed by the fragrant air,With the shadow on your face,And the sunshine on your hair.I shall hear the sweet low toneOf a voice before unknown,Saying, "This is from me to you—From me, and to you alone."And in words not idle and vainI shall answer and thank you againFor the gift, and the grace of the gift,O beautiful Helen of Maine!And forever this gift will beAs a blessing from you to me,As a drop of the dew of your youthOn the leaves of an aged tree.ROBERT BURNSI see amid the fields of AyrA ploughman, who, in foul and fair,Sings at his taskSo clear, we know not if it isThe laverock's song we hear, or his,Nor care to ask.For him the ploughing of those fieldsA more ethereal harvest yieldsThan sheaves of grain;Songs flush with Purple bloom the rye,The plover's call, the curlew's cry,Sing in his brain.Touched by his hand, the wayside weedBecomes a flower; the lowliest reedBeside the streamIs clothed with beauty; gorse and grassAnd heather, where his footsteps pass,The brighter seem.He sings of love, whose flame illumesThe darkness of lone cottage rooms;He feels the force,The treacherous undertow and stressOf wayward passions, and no lessThe keen remorse.At moments, wrestling with his fate,His voice is harsh, but not with hate;The brushwood, hungAbove the tavern door, lets fallIts bitter leaf, its drop of gallUpon his tongue.But still the music of his songRises o'er all elate and strong;Its master-chordsAre Manhood, Freedom, Brotherhood,Its discords but an interludeBetween the words.And then to die so young and leaveUnfinished what he might achieve!Yet better sureIs this, than wandering up and downAn old man in a country town,Infirm and poor.For now he haunts his native landAs an immortal youth; his handGuides every plough;He sits beside each ingle-nook,His voice is in each rushing brook,Each rustling bough.His presence haunts this room to-night,A form of mingled mist and lightFrom that far coast.Welcome beneath this roof of mine!Welcome! this vacant chair is thine,Dear guest and ghost!HELEN OF TYREWhat phantom is this that appearsThrough the purple mist of the years,Itself but a mist like these?A woman of cloud and of fire;It is she; it is Helen of Tyre,The town in the midst of the seas.O Tyre! in thy crowded streetsThe phantom appears and retreats,And the Israelites that sellThy lilies and lions of brass,Look up as they see her pass,And murmur "Jezebel!"Then another phantom is seenAt her side, in a gray gabardine,With beard that floats to his waist;It is Simon Magus, the Seer;He speaks, and she pauses to hearThe words he utters in haste.He says: "From this evil fame,From this life of sorrow and shame,I will lift thee and make thee mine;Thou hast been Queen Candace,And Helen of Troy, and shalt beThe Intelligence Divine!"Oh, sweet as the breath of morn,To the fallen and forlornAre whispered words of praise;For the famished heart believesThe falsehood that tempts and deceives,And the promise that betrays.So she follows from land to landThe wizard's beckoning hand,As a leaf is blown by the gust,Till she vanishes into night.O reader, stoop down and writeWith thy finger in the dust.O town in the midst of the seas,With thy rafts of cedar trees,Thy merchandise and thy ships,Thou, too, art become as naught,A phantom, a shadow, a thought,A name upon men's lips.ELEGIACDark is the morning with mist; in the narrow mouth of the harborMotionless lies the sea, under its curtain of cloud;Dreamily glimmer the sails of ships on the distant horizon,Like to the towers of a town, built on the verge of the sea.Slowly and stately and still, they sail forth into the ocean;With them sail my thoughts over the limitless deep,Farther and farther away, borne on by unsatisfied longings,Unto Hesperian isles, unto Ausonian shores.Now they have vanished away, have disappeared in the ocean;Sunk are the towers of the town into the depths of the sea!AU have vanished but those that, moored in the neighboringroadstead,Sailless at anchor ride, looming so large in the mist.Vanished, too, are the thoughts, the dim, unsatisfied longings;Sunk are the turrets of cloud into the ocean of dreams;While in a haven of rest my heart is riding at anchor,Held by the chains of love, held by the anchors of trust!OLD ST. DAVID'S AT RADNORWhat an image of peace and restIs this little church among its graves!All is so quiet; the troubled breast,The wounded spirit, the heart oppressed,Here may find the repose it craves.See, how the ivy climbs and expandsOver this humble hermitage,And seems to caress with its little handsThe rough, gray stones, as a child that standsCaressing the wrinkled cheeks of age!You cross the threshold; and dim and smallIs the space that serves for the Shepherd's Fold;The narrow aisle, the bare, white wall,The pews, and the pulpit quaint and tall,Whisper and say: "Alas! we are old."Herbert's chapel at BemertonHardly more spacious is than this;But Poet and Pastor, blent in one,Clothed with a splendor, as of the sun,That lowly and holy edifice.It is not the wall of stone withoutThat makes the building small or greatBut the soul's light shining round about,And the faith that overcometh doubt,And the love that stronger is than hate.Were I a pilgrim in search of peace,Were I a pastor of Holy Church,More than a Bishop's dioceseShould I prize this place of rest, and releaseFrom farther longing and farther search.Here would I stay, and let the worldWith its distant thunder roar and roll;Storms do not rend the sail that is furled;Nor like a dead leaf, tossed and whirledIn an eddy of wind, is the anchored soul.FOLK SONGSTHE SIFTING OF PETERIn St. Luke's Gospel we are toldHow Peter in the days of oldWas sifted;And now, though ages intervene,Sin is the same, while time and sceneAre shifted.Satan desires us, great and small,As wheat to sift us, and we allAre tempted;Not one, however rich or great,Is by his station or estateExempted.No house so safely guarded isBut he, by some device of his,Can enter;No heart hath armor so completeBut he can pierce with arrows fleetIts centre.For all at last the cock will crow,Who hear the warning voice, but goUnheeding,Till thrice and more they have deniedThe Man of Sorrows, crucifiedAnd bleeding.One look of that pale suffering faceWill make us feel the deep disgraceOf weakness;We shall be sifted till the strengthOf self-conceit be changed at lengthTo meekness.Wounds of the soul, though healed will ache;The reddening scars remain, and makeConfession;Lost innocence returns no more;We are not what we were beforeTransgression.But noble souls, through dust and heat,Rise from disaster and defeatThe stronger,And conscious still of the divineWithin them, lie on earth supineNo longer.MAIDEN AND WEATHERCOCKMAIDEN O weathercock on the village spire, With your golden feathers all on fire, Tell me, what can you see from your perch Above there over the tower of the church?WEATHERCOCK. I can see the roofs and the streets below, And the people moving to and fro, And beyond, without either roof or street, The great salt sea, and the fisherman's fleet.I can see a ship come sailing in Beyond the headlands and harbor of Lynn, And a young man standing on the deck, With a silken kerchief round his neck.Now he is pressing it to his lips, And now he is kissing his finger-tips, And now he is lifting and waving his hand And blowing the kisses toward the land.MAIDEN. Ah, that is the ship from over the sea, That is bringing my lover back to me, Bringing my lover so fond and true, Who does not change with the wind like you.WEATHERCOCK. If I change with all the winds that blow, It is only because they made me so, And people would think it wondrous strange, If I, a Weathercock, should not change.O pretty Maiden, so fine and fair, With your dreamy eyes and your golden hair, When you and your lover meet to-day You will thank me for looking some other way.THE WINDMILLBehold! a giant am I!Aloft here in my tower,With my granite jaws I devourThe maize, and the wheat, and the rye,And grind them into flour.I look down over the farms;In the fields of grain I seeThe harvest that is to be,And I fling to the air my arms,For I know it is all for me.I hear the sound of flailsFar off, from the threshing-floorsIn barns, with their open doors,And the wind, the wind in my sails,Louder and louder roars.I stand here in my place,With my foot on the rock below,And whichever way it may blowI meet it face to face,As a brave man meets his foe.And while we wrestle and striveMy master, the miller, standsAnd feeds me with his hands;For he knows who makes him thrive,Who makes him lord of lands.On Sundays I take my rest;Church-going bells beginTheir low, melodious din;I cross my arms on my breast,And all is peace within.THE TIDE RISES, THE TIDE FALLSThe tide rises, the tide falls,The twilight darkens, the curlew calls;Along the sea-sands damp and brownThe traveller hastens toward the town,And the tide rises, the tide falls.Darkness settles on roofs and walls,But the sea in the darkness calls and calls;The little waves, with their soft, white hands,Efface the footprints in the sands,And the tide rises, the tide falls.The morning breaks; the steeds in their stallsStamp and neigh, as the hostler calls;The day returns, but nevermoreReturns the traveller to the shore,And the tide rises, the tide falls.SONNETSMY CATHEDRALLike two cathedral towers these stately pinesUplift their fretted summits tipped with cones;The arch beneath them is not built with stones,Not Art but Nature traced these lovely lines,And carved this graceful arabesque of vines;No organ but the wind here sighs and moans,No sepulchre conceals a martyr's bones.No marble bishop on his tomb reclines.Enter! the pavement, carpeted with leaves,Gives back a softened echo to thy tread!Listen! the choir is singing; all the birds,In leafy galleries beneath the eaves,Are singing! listen, ere the sound be fled,And learn there may be worship with out words.THE BURIAL OF THE POETRICHARD HENRY DANAIn the old churchyard of his native town,And in the ancestral tomb beside the wall,We laid him in the sleep that comes to all,And left him to his rest and his renown.The snow was falling, as if Heaven dropped downWhite flowers of Paradise to strew his pall;—The dead around him seemed to wake, and callHis name, as worthy of so white a crown.And now the moon is shining on the scene,And the broad sheet of snow is written o'erWith shadows cruciform of leafless trees,As once the winding-sheet of SaladinWith chapters of the Koran; but, ah! moreMysterious and triumphant signs are these.NIGHTInto the darkness and the hush of nightSlowly the landscape sinks, and fades away,And with it fade the phantoms of the day,The ghosts of men and things, that haunt the light,The crowd, the clamor, the pursuit, the flight,The unprofitable splendor and display,The agitations, and the cares that preyUpon our hearts, all vanish out of sight.The better life begins; the world no moreMolests us; all its records we eraseFrom the dull common-place book of our lives,That like a palimpsest is written o'erWith trivial incidents of time and place,And lo! the ideal, hidden beneath, revives.L'ENVOITHE POET AND HIS SONGSAs the birds come in the Spring,We know not from where;As the stars come at eveningFrom depths of the air;As the rain comes from the cloud,And the brook from the ground;As suddenly, low or loud,Out of silence a sound;As the grape comes to the vine,The fruit to the tree;As the wind comes to the pine,And the tide to the sea;As come the white sails of shipsO'er the ocean's verge;As comes the smile to the lips,The foam to the surge;So come to the Poet his songs,All hitherward blownFrom the misty realm, that belongsTo the vast unknown.His, and not his, are the laysHe sings; and their fameIs his, and not his; and the praiseAnd the pride of a name.For voices pursue him by day,And haunt him by night,And he listens, and needs must obey,When the Angel says: "Write!"
TO G.W.G.
With favoring winds, o'er sunlit seas, We sailed for the Hesperides, The land where golden apples grow; But that, ah! that was long ago.
How far, since then, the ocean streams Have swept us from that land of dreams, That land of fiction and of truth, The lost Atlantis of our youth!
Whither, oh, whither? Are not these The tempest-haunted Hebrides, Where sea gulls scream, and breakers roar, And wreck and sea-weed line the shore?
Ultima Thule! Utmost Isle! Here in thy harbors for a while We lower our sails; a while we rest From the unending, endless quest.
Dead he lay among his books! The peace of God was in his looks.
As the statues in the gloom Watch o'er Maximilian's tomb,
So those volumes from their shelves Watched him, silent as themselves.
Ah! his hand will nevermore Turn their storied pages o'er;
Nevermore his lips repeat Songs of theirs, however sweet.
Let the lifeless body rest! He is gone, who was its guest;
Gone, as travellers haste to leave An inn, nor tarry until eve.
Traveller! in what realms afar, In what planet, in what star,
In what vast, aerial space, Shines the light upon thy face?
In what gardens of delight Rest thy weary feet to-night?
Poet! thou, whose latest verse Was a garland on thy hearse;
Thou hast sung, with organ tone, In Deukalion's life, thine own;
On the ruins of the Past Blooms the perfect flower at last.
Friend! but yesterday the bells Rang for thee their loud farewells;
And to-day they toll for thee, Lying dead beyond the sea;
Lying dead among thy books, The peace of God in all thy looks!
Is it so far from theeThou canst no longer see,In the Chamber over the Gate,That old man desolate,Weeping and wailing soreFor his son, who is no more?O Absalom, my son!
Is it so long agoThat cry of human woeFrom the walled city came,Calling on his dear name,That it has died awayIn the distance of to-day?O Absalom, my son!
There is no far or near,There is neither there nor here,There is neither soon nor late,In that Chamber over the Gate,Nor any long agoTo that cry of human woe,O Absalom, my son!
From the ages that are pastThe voice sounds like a blast,Over seas that wreck and drown,Over tumult of traffic and town;And from ages yet to beCome the echoes back to me,O Absalom, my son!
Somewhere at every hourThe watchman on the towerLooks forth, and sees the fleetApproach of the hurrying feetOf messengers, that bearThe tidings of despair.O Absalom, my son!
He goes forth from the doorWho shall return no more.With him our joy departs;The light goes out in our hearts;In the Chamber over the GateWe sit disconsolate.O Absalom, my son!
That 't is a common griefBringeth but slight relief;Ours is the bitterest loss,Ours is the heaviest cross;And forever the cry will be"Would God I had died for thee,O Absalom, my son!"
TO THE CHILDREN OF CAMBRIDGE
Who presented to me on my Seventy-second Birth-day, February 27, 1879, this Chair, made from the Wood of the Village Blacksmith's Chestnut Tree.
Am I a king, that I should call my ownThis splendid ebon throne?Or by what reason, or what right divine,Can I proclaim it mine?
Only, perhaps, by right divine of songIt may to me belong;Only because the spreading chestnut treeOf old was sung by me.
Well I remember it in all its prime,When in the summer-timeThe affluent foliage of its branches madeA cavern of cool shade.
There, by the blacksmith's forge, beside the street,Its blossoms white and sweetEnticed the bees, until it seemed alive,And murmured like a hive.
And when the winds of autumn, with a shout,Tossed its great arms about,The shining chestnuts, bursting from the sheath,Dropped to the ground beneath.
And now some fragments of its branches bare,Shaped as a stately chair,Have by my hearthstone found a home at last,And whisper of the past.
The Danish king could not in all his prideRepel the ocean tide,But, seated in this chair, I can in rhymeRoll back the tide of Time.
I see again, as one in vision sees,The blossoms and the bees,And hear the children's voices shout and call,And the brown chestnuts fall.
I see the smithy with its fires aglow,I hear the bellows blow,And the shrill hammers on the anvil beatThe iron white with heat!
And thus, dear children, have ye made for meThis day a jubilee,And to my more than three-score years and tenBrought back my youth again.
The heart hath its own memory, like the mind,And in it are enshrinedThe precious keepsakes, into which is wroughtThe giver's loving thought.
Only your love and your remembrance couldGive life to this dead wood,And make these branches, leafless now so long,Blossom again in song.
How cold are thy baths, Apollo!Cried the African monarch, the splendid,As down to his death in the hollowDark dungeons of Rome he descended,Uncrowned, unthroned, unattended;How cold are thy baths, Apollo!
How cold are thy baths, Apollo!Cried the Poet, unknown, unbefriended,As the vision, that lured him to follow,With the mist and the darkness blended,And the dream of his life was ended;How cold are thy baths, Apollo!
Made from a fetter of Bonnivard, the Prisoner of Chillon; the handle of wood from the Frigate Constitution, and bound with a circlet of gold, inset with three precious stones from Siberia, Ceylon, and Maine.
I thought this Pen would ariseFrom the casket where it lies—Of itself would arise and writeMy thanks and my surprise.
When you gave it me under the pines,I dreamed these gems from the minesOf Siberia, Ceylon, and MaineWould glimmer as thoughts in the lines;
That this iron link from the chainOf Bonnivard might retainSome verse of the Poet who sangOf the prisoner and his pain;
That this wood from the frigate's mastMight write me a rhyme at last,As it used to write on the skyThe song of the sea and the blast.
But motionless as I wait,Like a Bishop lying in stateLies the Pen, with its mitre of gold,And its jewels inviolate.
Then must I speak, and sayThat the light of that summer dayIn the garden under the pinesShall not fade and pass away.
I shall see you standing there,Caressed by the fragrant air,With the shadow on your face,And the sunshine on your hair.
I shall hear the sweet low toneOf a voice before unknown,Saying, "This is from me to you—From me, and to you alone."
And in words not idle and vainI shall answer and thank you againFor the gift, and the grace of the gift,O beautiful Helen of Maine!
And forever this gift will beAs a blessing from you to me,As a drop of the dew of your youthOn the leaves of an aged tree.
I see amid the fields of AyrA ploughman, who, in foul and fair,Sings at his taskSo clear, we know not if it isThe laverock's song we hear, or his,Nor care to ask.
For him the ploughing of those fieldsA more ethereal harvest yieldsThan sheaves of grain;Songs flush with Purple bloom the rye,The plover's call, the curlew's cry,Sing in his brain.
Touched by his hand, the wayside weedBecomes a flower; the lowliest reedBeside the streamIs clothed with beauty; gorse and grassAnd heather, where his footsteps pass,The brighter seem.
He sings of love, whose flame illumesThe darkness of lone cottage rooms;He feels the force,The treacherous undertow and stressOf wayward passions, and no lessThe keen remorse.
At moments, wrestling with his fate,His voice is harsh, but not with hate;The brushwood, hungAbove the tavern door, lets fallIts bitter leaf, its drop of gallUpon his tongue.
But still the music of his songRises o'er all elate and strong;Its master-chordsAre Manhood, Freedom, Brotherhood,Its discords but an interludeBetween the words.
And then to die so young and leaveUnfinished what he might achieve!Yet better sureIs this, than wandering up and downAn old man in a country town,Infirm and poor.
For now he haunts his native landAs an immortal youth; his handGuides every plough;He sits beside each ingle-nook,His voice is in each rushing brook,Each rustling bough.
His presence haunts this room to-night,A form of mingled mist and lightFrom that far coast.Welcome beneath this roof of mine!Welcome! this vacant chair is thine,Dear guest and ghost!
What phantom is this that appearsThrough the purple mist of the years,Itself but a mist like these?A woman of cloud and of fire;It is she; it is Helen of Tyre,The town in the midst of the seas.
O Tyre! in thy crowded streetsThe phantom appears and retreats,And the Israelites that sellThy lilies and lions of brass,Look up as they see her pass,And murmur "Jezebel!"
Then another phantom is seenAt her side, in a gray gabardine,With beard that floats to his waist;It is Simon Magus, the Seer;He speaks, and she pauses to hearThe words he utters in haste.
He says: "From this evil fame,From this life of sorrow and shame,I will lift thee and make thee mine;Thou hast been Queen Candace,And Helen of Troy, and shalt beThe Intelligence Divine!"
Oh, sweet as the breath of morn,To the fallen and forlornAre whispered words of praise;For the famished heart believesThe falsehood that tempts and deceives,And the promise that betrays.
So she follows from land to landThe wizard's beckoning hand,As a leaf is blown by the gust,Till she vanishes into night.O reader, stoop down and writeWith thy finger in the dust.
O town in the midst of the seas,With thy rafts of cedar trees,Thy merchandise and thy ships,Thou, too, art become as naught,A phantom, a shadow, a thought,A name upon men's lips.
Dark is the morning with mist; in the narrow mouth of the harborMotionless lies the sea, under its curtain of cloud;Dreamily glimmer the sails of ships on the distant horizon,Like to the towers of a town, built on the verge of the sea.
Slowly and stately and still, they sail forth into the ocean;With them sail my thoughts over the limitless deep,Farther and farther away, borne on by unsatisfied longings,Unto Hesperian isles, unto Ausonian shores.
Now they have vanished away, have disappeared in the ocean;Sunk are the towers of the town into the depths of the sea!AU have vanished but those that, moored in the neighboringroadstead,Sailless at anchor ride, looming so large in the mist.
Vanished, too, are the thoughts, the dim, unsatisfied longings;Sunk are the turrets of cloud into the ocean of dreams;While in a haven of rest my heart is riding at anchor,Held by the chains of love, held by the anchors of trust!
What an image of peace and restIs this little church among its graves!All is so quiet; the troubled breast,The wounded spirit, the heart oppressed,Here may find the repose it craves.
See, how the ivy climbs and expandsOver this humble hermitage,And seems to caress with its little handsThe rough, gray stones, as a child that standsCaressing the wrinkled cheeks of age!
You cross the threshold; and dim and smallIs the space that serves for the Shepherd's Fold;The narrow aisle, the bare, white wall,The pews, and the pulpit quaint and tall,Whisper and say: "Alas! we are old."
Herbert's chapel at BemertonHardly more spacious is than this;But Poet and Pastor, blent in one,Clothed with a splendor, as of the sun,That lowly and holy edifice.
It is not the wall of stone withoutThat makes the building small or greatBut the soul's light shining round about,And the faith that overcometh doubt,And the love that stronger is than hate.
Were I a pilgrim in search of peace,Were I a pastor of Holy Church,More than a Bishop's dioceseShould I prize this place of rest, and releaseFrom farther longing and farther search.
Here would I stay, and let the worldWith its distant thunder roar and roll;Storms do not rend the sail that is furled;Nor like a dead leaf, tossed and whirledIn an eddy of wind, is the anchored soul.
In St. Luke's Gospel we are toldHow Peter in the days of oldWas sifted;And now, though ages intervene,Sin is the same, while time and sceneAre shifted.
Satan desires us, great and small,As wheat to sift us, and we allAre tempted;Not one, however rich or great,Is by his station or estateExempted.
No house so safely guarded isBut he, by some device of his,Can enter;No heart hath armor so completeBut he can pierce with arrows fleetIts centre.
For all at last the cock will crow,Who hear the warning voice, but goUnheeding,Till thrice and more they have deniedThe Man of Sorrows, crucifiedAnd bleeding.
One look of that pale suffering faceWill make us feel the deep disgraceOf weakness;We shall be sifted till the strengthOf self-conceit be changed at lengthTo meekness.
Wounds of the soul, though healed will ache;The reddening scars remain, and makeConfession;Lost innocence returns no more;We are not what we were beforeTransgression.
But noble souls, through dust and heat,Rise from disaster and defeatThe stronger,And conscious still of the divineWithin them, lie on earth supineNo longer.
MAIDEN O weathercock on the village spire, With your golden feathers all on fire, Tell me, what can you see from your perch Above there over the tower of the church?
WEATHERCOCK. I can see the roofs and the streets below, And the people moving to and fro, And beyond, without either roof or street, The great salt sea, and the fisherman's fleet.
I can see a ship come sailing in Beyond the headlands and harbor of Lynn, And a young man standing on the deck, With a silken kerchief round his neck.
Now he is pressing it to his lips, And now he is kissing his finger-tips, And now he is lifting and waving his hand And blowing the kisses toward the land.
MAIDEN. Ah, that is the ship from over the sea, That is bringing my lover back to me, Bringing my lover so fond and true, Who does not change with the wind like you.
WEATHERCOCK. If I change with all the winds that blow, It is only because they made me so, And people would think it wondrous strange, If I, a Weathercock, should not change.
O pretty Maiden, so fine and fair, With your dreamy eyes and your golden hair, When you and your lover meet to-day You will thank me for looking some other way.
Behold! a giant am I!Aloft here in my tower,With my granite jaws I devourThe maize, and the wheat, and the rye,And grind them into flour.
I look down over the farms;In the fields of grain I seeThe harvest that is to be,And I fling to the air my arms,For I know it is all for me.
I hear the sound of flailsFar off, from the threshing-floorsIn barns, with their open doors,And the wind, the wind in my sails,Louder and louder roars.
I stand here in my place,With my foot on the rock below,And whichever way it may blowI meet it face to face,As a brave man meets his foe.
And while we wrestle and striveMy master, the miller, standsAnd feeds me with his hands;For he knows who makes him thrive,Who makes him lord of lands.
On Sundays I take my rest;Church-going bells beginTheir low, melodious din;I cross my arms on my breast,And all is peace within.
The tide rises, the tide falls,The twilight darkens, the curlew calls;Along the sea-sands damp and brownThe traveller hastens toward the town,And the tide rises, the tide falls.
Darkness settles on roofs and walls,But the sea in the darkness calls and calls;The little waves, with their soft, white hands,Efface the footprints in the sands,And the tide rises, the tide falls.
The morning breaks; the steeds in their stallsStamp and neigh, as the hostler calls;The day returns, but nevermoreReturns the traveller to the shore,And the tide rises, the tide falls.
Like two cathedral towers these stately pinesUplift their fretted summits tipped with cones;The arch beneath them is not built with stones,Not Art but Nature traced these lovely lines,And carved this graceful arabesque of vines;No organ but the wind here sighs and moans,No sepulchre conceals a martyr's bones.No marble bishop on his tomb reclines.Enter! the pavement, carpeted with leaves,Gives back a softened echo to thy tread!Listen! the choir is singing; all the birds,In leafy galleries beneath the eaves,Are singing! listen, ere the sound be fled,And learn there may be worship with out words.
RICHARD HENRY DANA
In the old churchyard of his native town,And in the ancestral tomb beside the wall,We laid him in the sleep that comes to all,And left him to his rest and his renown.The snow was falling, as if Heaven dropped downWhite flowers of Paradise to strew his pall;—The dead around him seemed to wake, and callHis name, as worthy of so white a crown.And now the moon is shining on the scene,And the broad sheet of snow is written o'erWith shadows cruciform of leafless trees,As once the winding-sheet of SaladinWith chapters of the Koran; but, ah! moreMysterious and triumphant signs are these.
Into the darkness and the hush of nightSlowly the landscape sinks, and fades away,And with it fade the phantoms of the day,The ghosts of men and things, that haunt the light,The crowd, the clamor, the pursuit, the flight,The unprofitable splendor and display,The agitations, and the cares that preyUpon our hearts, all vanish out of sight.The better life begins; the world no moreMolests us; all its records we eraseFrom the dull common-place book of our lives,That like a palimpsest is written o'erWith trivial incidents of time and place,And lo! the ideal, hidden beneath, revives.
As the birds come in the Spring,We know not from where;As the stars come at eveningFrom depths of the air;
As the rain comes from the cloud,And the brook from the ground;As suddenly, low or loud,Out of silence a sound;
As the grape comes to the vine,The fruit to the tree;As the wind comes to the pine,And the tide to the sea;
As come the white sails of shipsO'er the ocean's verge;As comes the smile to the lips,The foam to the surge;
So come to the Poet his songs,All hitherward blownFrom the misty realm, that belongsTo the vast unknown.
His, and not his, are the laysHe sings; and their fameIs his, and not his; and the praiseAnd the pride of a name.
For voices pursue him by day,And haunt him by night,And he listens, and needs must obey,When the Angel says: "Write!"