Thereto a thrilling calm succeeds,Till presently the silence breedsA little breeze among the reedsThat seems to blow by sea-marsh weeds:Then from the gentle stir and fretSings out the melting clarionet,Like as a lady sings while yetHer eyes with salty tears are wet."O Trade! O Trade!" the Lady said,"I too will wish thee utterly deadIf all thy heart is in thy head.For O my God! and O my God!What shameful ways have women trodAt beckoning of Trade's golden rod!Alas when sighs are traders' lies,And heart's-ease eyes and violet eyesAre merchandise!O purchased lips that kiss with pain!O cheeks coin-spotted with smirch and stain!O trafficked hearts that break in twain!— And yet what wonder at my sisters' crime?So hath Trade withered up Love's sinewy prime,Men love not women as in olden time.Ah, not in these cold merchantable daysDeem men their life an opal gray, where playsThe one red Sweet of gracious ladies'-praise.Now, comes a suitor with sharp prying eye —Says, `Here, you Lady, if you'll sell, I'll buy:Come, heart for heart — a trade? What! weeping? why?'Shame on such wooers' dapper mercery!I would my lover kneeling at my feetIn humble manliness should cry, `O sweet!I know not if thy heart my heart will greet:I ask not if thy love my love can meet:Whate'er thy worshipful soft tongue shall say,I'll kiss thine answer, be it yea or nay:I do but know I love thee, and I prayTo be thy knight until my dying day.'Woe him that cunning trades in hearts contrives!Base love good women to base loving drives.If men loved larger, larger were our lives;And wooed they nobler, won they nobler wives."
There thrust the bold straightforward hornTo battle for that lady lorn,With heartsome voice of mellow scorn,Like any knight in knighthood's morn."Now comfort thee," said he,"Fair Lady.For God shall right thy grievous wrong,And man shall sing thee a true-love song,Voiced in act his whole life long,Yea, all thy sweet life long,Fair Lady.Where's he that craftily hath said,The day of chivalry is dead?I'll prove that lie upon his head,Or I will die instead,Fair Lady.Is Honor gone into his grave?Hath Faith become a caitiff knave,And Selfhood turned into a slaveTo work in Mammon's cave,Fair Lady?Will Truth's long blade ne'er gleam again?Hath Giant Trade in dungeons slainAll great contempts of mean-got gainAnd hates of inward stain,Fair Lady?For aye shall name and fame be sold,And place be hugged for the sake of gold,And smirch-robed Justice feebly scoldAt Crime all money-bold,Fair Lady?Shall self-wrapt husbands aye forgetKiss-pardons for the daily fretWherewith sweet wifely eyes are wet —Blind to lips kiss-wise set —Fair Lady?Shall lovers higgle, heart for heart,Till wooing grows a trading martWhere much for little, and all for part,Make love a cheapening art,Fair Lady?Shall woman scorch for a single sinThat her betrayer may revel in,And she be burnt, and he but grinWhen that the flames begin,Fair Lady?Shall ne'er prevail the woman's plea,`We maids would far, far whiter beIf that our eyes might sometimes seeMen maids in purity,'Fair Lady?Shall Trade aye salve his conscience-achesWith jibes at Chivalry's old mistakes —The wars that o'erhot knighthood makesFor Christ's and ladies' sakes,Fair Lady?Now by each knight that e'er hath prayedTo fight like a man and love like a maid,Since Pembroke's life, as Pembroke's blade,I' the scabbard, death, was laid,Fair Lady,I dare avouch my faith is brightThat God doth right and God hath might.Nor time hath changed His hair to white,Nor His dear love to spite,Fair Lady.I doubt no doubts: I strive, and shrive my clay,And fight my fight in the patient modern wayFor true love and for thee — ah me! and prayTo be thy knight until my dying day,Fair Lady."Made end that knightly horn, and spurred awayInto the thick of the melodious fray.
And then the hautboy played and smiled,And sang like any large-eyed child,Cool-hearted and all undefiled."Huge Trade!" he said,"Would thou wouldst lift me on thy headAnd run where'er my finger led!Once said a Man — and wise was He —`Never shalt thou the heavens see,Save as a little child thou be.'"Then o'er sea-lashings of commingling tunesThe ancient wise bassoons,Like weirdGray-beardOld harpers sitting on the high sea-dunes,Chanted runes:"Bright-waved gain, gray-waved loss,The sea of all doth lash and toss,One wave forward and one across:But now 'twas trough, now 'tis crest,And worst doth foam and flash to best,And curst to blest.
Life! Life! thou sea-fugue, writ from east to west,Love, Love alone can poreOn thy dissolving scoreOf harsh half-phrasings,Blotted ere writ,And double erasingsOf chords most fit.Yea, Love, sole music-master blest,May read thy weltering palimpsest.To follow Time's dying melodies through,And never to lose the old in the new,And ever to solve the discords true —Love alone can do.And ever Love hears the poor-folks' crying,And ever Love hears the women's sighing,And ever sweet knighthood's death-defying,And ever wise childhood's deep implying,But never a trader's glozing and lying.
And yet shall Love himself be heard,Though long deferred, though long deferred:O'er the modern waste a dove hath whirred:Music is Love in search of a word."
____ Baltimore, 1875.
My Springs.
In the heart of the Hills of Life, I knowTwo springs that with unbroken flowForever pour their lucent streamsInto my soul's far Lake of Dreams.
Not larger than two eyes, they lieBeneath the many-changing skyAnd mirror all of life and time,— Serene and dainty pantomime.
Shot through with lights of stars and dawns,And shadowed sweet by ferns and fawns,— Thus heaven and earth together vieTheir shining depths to sanctify.
Always when the large Form of LoveIs hid by storms that rage above,I gaze in my two springs and seeLove in his very verity.
Always when Faith with stifling stressOf grief hath died in bitterness,I gaze in my two springs and seeA Faith that smiles immortally.
Always when Charity and Hope,In darkness bounden, feebly grope,I gaze in my two springs and seeA Light that sets my captives free.
Always, when Art on perverse wingFlies where I cannot hear him sing,I gaze in my two springs and seeA charm that brings him back to me.
When Labor faints, and Glory fails,And coy Reward in sighs exhales,I gaze in my two springs and seeAttainment full and heavenly.
O Love, O Wife, thine eyes are they,— My springs from out whose shining grayIssue the sweet celestial streamsThat feed my life's bright Lake of Dreams.
Oval and large and passion-pureAnd gray and wise and honor-sure;Soft as a dying violet-breathYet calmly unafraid of death;
Thronged, like two dove-cotes of gray doves,With wife's and mother's and poor-folk's loves,And home-loves and high glory-lovesAnd science-loves and story-loves,
And loves for all that God and manIn art and nature make or plan,And lady-loves for spidery laceAnd broideries and supple grace
And diamonds and the whole sweet roundOf littles that large life compound,And loves for God and God's bare truth,And loves for Magdalen and Ruth,
Dear eyes, dear eyes and rare complete —Being heavenly-sweet and earthly-sweet,— I marvel that God made you mine,For when He frowns, 'tis then ye shine!
____ Baltimore, 1874.
In Absence.
The storm that snapped our fate's one ship in twainHath blown my half o' the wreck from thine apart.O Love! O Love! across the gray-waved mainTo thee-ward strain my eyes, my arms, my heart.I ask my God if e'en in His sweet place,Where, by one waving of a wistful wing,My soul could straightway tremble face to faceWith thee, with thee, across the stellar ring —Yea, where thine absence I could ne'er bewailLonger than lasts that little blank of blissWhen lips draw back, with recent pressure pale,To round and redden for another kiss —Would not my lonesome heart still sigh for theeWhat time the drear kiss-intervals must be?
So do the mottled formulas of SenseGlide snakewise through our dreams of Aftertime;So errors breed in reeds and grasses denseThat bank our singing rivulets of rhyme.By Sense rule Space and Time; but in God's LandTheir intervals are not, save such as lieBetwixt successive tones in concords blandWhose loving distance makes the harmony.Ah, there shall never come 'twixt me and theeGross dissonances of the mile, the year;But in the multichords of ecstasyOur souls shall mingle, yet be featured clear,And absence, wrought to intervals divine,Shall part, yet link, thy nature's tone and mine.
Look down the shining peaks of all my daysBase-hidden in the valleys of deep night,So shalt thou see the heights and depths of praiseMy love would render unto love's delight;For I would make each day an Alp sublimeOf passionate snow, white-hot yet icy-clear,— One crystal of the true-loves of all timeSpiring the world's prismatic atmosphere;And I would make each night an awful valeDeep as thy soul, obscure as modesty,With every star in heaven trembling paleO'er sweet profounds where only Love can see.Oh, runs not thus the lesson thou hast taught? —When life's all love, 'tis life: aught else, 'tis naught.
Let no man say, `He at his lady's feetLays worship that to Heaven alone belongs;Yea, swings the incense that for God is meetIn flippant censers of light lover's songs.'Who says it, knows not God, nor love, nor thee;For love is large as is yon heavenly dome:In love's great blue, each passion is full freeTo fly his favorite flight and build his home.Did e'er a lark with skyward-pointing beakStab by mischance a level-flying dove?Wife-love flies level, his dear mate to seek:God-love darts straight into the skies above.Crossing, the windage of each other's wingsBut speeds them both upon their journeyings.
____ Baltimore, 1874.
Acknowledgment.
O Age that half believ'st thou half believ'st,Half doubt'st the substance of thine own half doubt,And, half perceiving that thou half perceiv'st,Stand'st at thy temple door, heart in, head out!Lo! while thy heart's within, helping the choir,Without, thine eyes range up and down the time,Blinking at o'er-bright science, smit with desireTo see and not to see. Hence, crime on crime.Yea, if the Christ (called thine) now paced yon street,Thy halfness hot with His rebuke would swell;Legions of scribes would rise and run and beatHis fair intolerable Wholeness twice to hell.`Nay' (so, dear Heart, thou whisperest in my soul),`'Tis a half time, yet Time will make it whole.'
Now at thy soft recalling voice I riseWhere thought is lord o'er Time's complete estate,Like as a dove from out the gray sedge fliesTo tree-tops green where cooes his heavenly mate.From these clear coverts high and cool I seeHow every time with every time is knit,And each to all is mortised cunningly,And none is sole or whole, yet all are fit.Thus, if this Age but as a comma show'Twixt weightier clauses of large-worded years,My calmer soul scorns not the mark: I knowThis crooked point Time's complex sentence clears.Yet more I learn while, Friend! I sit by thee:Who sees all time, sees all eternity.
If I do ask, How God can dumbness keepWhile Sin creeps grinning through His house of Time,Stabbing His saintliest children in their sleep,And staining holy walls with clots of crime? —Or, How may He whose wish but names a factRefuse what miser's-scanting of supplyWould richly glut each void where man hath lackedOf grace or bread? — or, How may Power denyWholeness to th' almost-folk that hurt our hope —These heart-break Hamlets who so barely failIn life or art that but a hair's more scopeHad set them fair on heights they ne'er may scale? —Somehow by thee, dear Love, I win content:Thy Perfect stops th' Imperfect's argument.
By the more height of thy sweet stature grown,Twice-eyed with thy gray vision set in mine,I ken far lands to wifeless men unknown,I compass stars for one-sexed eyes too fine.No text on sea-horizons cloudily writ,No maxim vaguely starred in fields or skies,But this wise thou-in-me deciphers it:Oh, thou'rt the Height of heights, the Eye of eyes.Not hardest Fortune's most unbounded stressCan blind my soul nor hurl it from on high,Possessing thee, the self of loftiness,And very light that Light discovers by.Howe'er thou turn'st, wrong Earth! still Love's in sight:For we are taller than the breadth of night.
____ Baltimore, 1874-5.
Laus Mariae.
Across the brook of Time man leaping goesOn stepping-stones of epochs, that upriseFixed, memorable, midst broad shallow flowsOf neutrals, kill-times, sleeps, indifferencies.So twixt each morn and night rise salient heaps:Some cross with but a zigzag, jaded paceFrom meal to meal: some with convulsive leapsShake the green tussocks of malign disgrace:And some advance by system and deep artO'er vantages of wealth, place, learning, tact.But thou within thyself, dear manifold heart,Dost bind all epochs in one dainty Fact.Oh, sweet, my pretty sum of history,I leapt the breadth of Time in loving thee!
____ Baltimore, 1874-5.
Special Pleading.
Time, hurry my Love to me:Haste, haste! Lov'st not good company?Here's but a heart-break sandy waste'Twixt Now and Then. Why, killing hasteWere best, dear Time, for thee, for thee!
Oh, would that I might divineThy name beyond the zodiac signWherefrom our times-to-come descend.He called thee `Sometime'. Change it, friend:`Now-time' sounds so much more fine!
Sweet Sometime, fly fast to me:Poor Now-time sits in the Lonesome-treeAnd broods as gray as any dove,And calls, `When wilt thou come, O Love?'And pleads across the waste to thee.
Good Moment, that giv'st him me,Wast ever in love? Maybe, maybeThou'lt be this heavenly velvet timeWhen Day and Night as rhyme and rhymeSet lip to lip dusk-modestly;
Or haply some noon afar,— O life's top bud, mixt rose and star,How ever can thine utmost sweetBe star-consummate, rose-complete,Till thy rich reds full opened are?
Well, be it dusk-time or noon-time,I ask but one small boon, Time:Come thou in night, come thou in day,I care not, I care not: have thine own way,But only, but only, come soon, Time.
____ Baltimore, 1875.
The Bee.
What time I paced, at pleasant morn,A deep and dewy wood,I heard a mellow hunting-hornMake dim report of Dian's lustihoodFar down a heavenly hollow.Mine ear, though fain, had pain to follow:`Tara!' it twanged, `tara-tara!' it blew,Yet wavered oft, and flewMost ficklewise about, or here, or there,A music now from earth and now from air.But on a sudden, lo!I marked a blossom shiver to and froWith dainty inward storm; and there withinA down-drawn trump of yellow jessamineA beeThrust up its sad-gold body lustily,All in a honey madness hotly boundOn blissful burglary.A cunning soundIn that wing-music held me: down I layIn amber shades of many a golden spray,Where looping low with languid arms the VineIn wreaths of ravishment did overtwineHer kneeling Live-Oak, thousand-fold to plightHerself unto her own true stalwart knight.
As some dim blur of distant music nearsThe long-desiring sense, and slowly clearsTo forms of time and apprehensive tune,So, as I lay, full soonInterpretation throve: the bee's fanfare,Through sequent films of discourse vague as air,Passed to plain words, while, fanning faint perfume,The bee o'erhung a rich, unrifled bloom:"O Earth, fair lordly Blossom, soft a-shineUpon the star-pranked universal vine,Hast nought for me?To theeCome I, a poet, hereward haply blown,From out another worldflower lately flown.Wilt ask, `What profit e'er a poet brings?'He beareth starry stuff about his wingsTo pollen thee and sting thee fertile: nay,If still thou narrow thy contracted way,— Worldflower, if thou refuse me —— Worldflower, if thou abuse me,And hoist thy stamen's spear-point highTo wound my wing and mar mine eye —Nathless I'll drive me to thy deepest sweet,Yea, richlier shall that pain the pollen beatFrom me to thee, for oft these pollens beFine dust from wars that poets wage for thee.But, O beloved Earthbloom soft a-shineUpon the universal Jessamine,Prithee, abuse me not,Prithee, refuse me not,Yield, yield the heartsome honey love to meHid in thy nectary!"And as I sank into a dimmer dreamThe pleading bee's song-burthen sole did seem:"Hast ne'er a honey-drop of love for meIn thy huge nectary?"
____ Tampa, Florida, 1877.
The Harlequin of Dreams.
Swift, through some trap mine eyes have never found,Dim-panelled in the painted scene of Sleep,Thou, giant Harlequin of Dreams, dost leapUpon my spirit's stage. Then Sight and Sound,Then Space and Time, then Language, Mete and Bound,And all familiar Forms that firmly keepMan's reason in the road, change faces, peepBetwixt the legs and mock the daily round.Yet thou canst more than mock: sometimes my tearsAt midnight break through bounden lids — a signThou hast a heart: and oft thy little leavenOf dream-taught wisdom works me bettered years.In one night witch, saint, trickster, fool divine,I think thou'rt Jester at the Court of Heaven!
____ Baltimore, 1878.
Street Cries.
Oft seems the Time a market-townWhere many merchant-spirits meetWho up and down and up and downCry out along the street
Their needs, as wares; one THUS, one SO:Till all the ways are full of sound:— But still come rain, and sun, and snow,And still the world goes round.
I. Remonstrance.
"Opinion, let me alone: I am not thine.Prim Creed, with categoric point, forbearTo feature me my Lord by rule and line.Thou canst not measure Mistress Nature's hair,Not one sweet inch: nay, if thy sight is sharp,Would'st count the strings upon an angel's harp?Forbear, forbear.
"Oh let me love my Lord more fathom deepThan there is line to sound with: let me loveMy fellow not as men that mandates keep:Yea, all that's lovable, below, above,That let me love by heart, by heart, because(Free from the penal pressure of the laws)I find it fair.
"The tears I weep by day and bitter night,Opinion! for thy sole salt vintage fall.— As morn by morn I rise with fresh delight,Time through my casement cheerily doth call`Nature is new, 'tis birthday every day,Come feast with me, let no man say me nay,Whate'er befall.'
"So fare I forth to feast: I sit besideSome brother bright: but, ere good-morrow's passed,Burly Opinion wedging in hath cried`Thou shalt not sit by us, to break thy fast,Save to our Rubric thou subscribe and swear —`Religion hath blue eyes and yellow hair:'She's Saxon, all.'
"Then, hard a-hungered for my brother's graceTill well-nigh fain to swear his folly's true,In sad dissent I turn my longing faceTo him that sits on the left: `Brother, — with you?'— `Nay, not with me, save thou subscribe and swear`Religion hath black eyes and raven hair:'Nought else is true.'
"Debarred of banquets that my heart could makeWith every man on every day of life,I homeward turn, my fires of pain to slakeIn deep endearments of a worshipped wife.`I love thee well, dear Love,' quoth she, `and yetWould that thy creed with mine completely met,As one, not two.'
"Assassin! Thief! Opinion, 'tis thy work.By Church, by throne, by hearth, by every goodThat's in the Town of Time, I see thee lurk,And e'er some shadow stays where thou hast stood.Thou hand'st sweet Socrates his hemlock sour;Thou sav'st Barabbas in that hideous hour,And stabb'st the good
"Deliverer Christ; thou rack'st the souls of men;Thou tossest girls to lions and boys to flames;Thou hew'st Crusader down by Saracen;Thou buildest closets full of secret shames;Indifferent cruel, thou dost blow the blazeRound Ridley or Servetus; all thy daysSmell scorched; I would
"— Thou base-born Accident of time and place —Bigot Pretender unto Judgment's throne —Bastard, that claimest with a cunning faceThose rights the true, true Son of Man doth ownBy Love's authority — thou Rebel coldAt head of civil wars and quarrels old —Thou Knife on a throne —
"I would thou left'st me free, to live with love,And faith, that through the love of love doth findMy Lord's dear presence in the stars above,The clods below, the flesh without, the mindWithin, the bread, the tear, the smile.Opinion, damned Intriguer, gray with guile,Let me alone."
____ Baltimore, 1878-9.
II. The Ship of Earth.
"Thou Ship of Earth, with Death, and Birth, and Life, and Sex aboard,And fires of Desires burning hotly in the hold,I fear thee, O! I fear thee, for I hear the tongue and swordAt battle on the deck, and the wild mutineers are bold!
"The dewdrop morn may fall from off the petal of the sky,But all the deck is wet with blood and stains the crystal red.A pilot, GOD, a pilot! for the helm is left awry,And the best sailors in the ship lie there among the dead!"
____ Prattville, Alabama, 1868.
III. How Love Looked for Hell.
"To heal his heart of long-time painOne day Prince Love for to travel was fainWith Ministers Mind and Sense.`Now what to thee most strange may be?'Quoth Mind and Sense. `All things above,One curious thing I first would see —Hell,' quoth Love.
"Then Mind rode in and Sense rode out:They searched the ways of man about.First frightfully groaneth Sense.`'Tis here, 'tis here,' and spurreth in fearTo the top of the hill that hangeth aboveAnd plucketh the Prince: `Come, come, 'tis here —'`Where?' quoth Love —
"`Not far, not far,' said shivering SenseAs they rode on. `A short way hence,— But seventy paces hence:Look, King, dost see where suddenlyThis road doth dip from the height above?Cold blew a mouldy wind by me'(`Cold?' quoth Love)
"`As I rode down, and the River was black,And yon-side, lo! an endless wrackAnd rabble of souls,' sighed Sense,`Their eyes upturned and begged and burnedIn brimstone lakes, and a Hand aboveBeat back the hands that upward yearned —'`Nay!' quoth Love —
"`Yea, yea, sweet Prince; thyself shalt see,Wilt thou but down this slope with me;'Tis palpable,' whispered Sense.— At the foot of the hill a living rillShone, and the lilies shone white above;`But now 'twas black, 'twas a river, this rill,'(`Black?' quoth Love)
"`Ay, black, but lo! the lilies grow,And yon-side where was woe, was woe,— Where the rabble of souls,' cried Sense,`Did shrivel and turn and beg and burn,Thrust back in the brimstone from above —Is banked of violet, rose, and fern:'`How?' quoth Love:
"`For lakes of pain, yon pleasant plainOf woods and grass and yellow grainDoth ravish the soul and sense:And never a sigh beneath the sky,And folk that smile and gaze above —'`But saw'st thou here, with thine own eye,Hell?' quoth Love.
"`I saw true hell with mine own eye,True hell, or light hath told a lie,True, verily,' quoth stout Sense.Then Love rode round and searched the ground,The caves below, the hills above;`But I cannot find where thou hast foundHell,' quoth Love.
"There, while they stood in a green woodAnd marvelled still on Ill and Good,Came suddenly Minister Mind.`In the heart of sin doth hell begin:'Tis not below, 'tis not above,It lieth within, it lieth within:'(`Where?' quoth Love)
"`I saw a man sit by a corse;`Hell's in the murderer's breast: remorse!'Thus clamored his mind to his mind:Not fleshly dole is the sinner's goal,Hell's not below, nor yet above,'Tis fixed in the ever-damned soul —'`Fixed?' quoth Love —
"`Fixed: follow me, would'st thou but see:He weepeth under yon willow tree,Fast chained to his corse,' quoth Mind.Full soon they passed, for they rode fast,Where the piteous willow bent above.`Now shall I see at last, at last,Hell,' quoth Love.
"There when they came Mind suffered shame:`These be the same and not the same,'A-wondering whispered Mind.Lo, face by face two spirits paceWhere the blissful willow waves above:One saith: `Do me a friendly grace —'(`Grace!' quoth Love)
"`Read me two Dreams that linger long,Dim as returns of old-time songThat flicker about the mind.I dreamed (how deep in mortal sleep!)I struck thee dead, then stood above,With tears that none but dreamers weep;'`Dreams,' quoth Love;
"`In dreams, again, I plucked a flowerThat clung with pain and stung with power,Yea, nettled me, body and mind.'`'Twas the nettle of sin, 'twas medicine;No need nor seed of it here Above;In dreams of hate true loves begin.'`True,' quoth Love.
"`Now strange,' quoth Sense, and `Strange,' quoth Mind,`We saw it, and yet 'tis hard to find,— But we saw it,' quoth Sense and Mind.Stretched on the ground, beautiful-crownedOf the piteous willow that wreathed above,`But I cannot find where ye have foundHell,' quoth Love."
____ Baltimore, 1878-9.
IV. Tyranny.
"Spring-germs, spring-germs,I charge you by your life, go back to death.This glebe is sick, this wind is foul of breath.Stay: feed the worms.
"Oh! every clodIs faint, and falters from the war of growthAnd crumbles in a dreary dust of sloth,Unploughed, untrod.
"What need, what need,To hide with flowers the curse upon the hills,Or sanctify the banks of sluggish rillsWhere vapors breed?
"And — if needs must —Advance, O Summer-heats! upon the land,And bake the bloody mould to shards and sandAnd dust.
"Before your birth,Burn up, O Roses! with your dainty flame.Good Violets, sweet Violets, hide shameBelow the earth.
"Ye silent Mills,Reject the bitter kindness of the moss.O Farms! protest if any tree embossThe barren hills.
"Young Trade is dead,And swart Work sullen sits in the hillside fernAnd folds his arms that find no bread to earn,And bows his head.
"Spring-germs, spring-germs,Albeit the towns have left you place to play,I charge you, sport not. Winter owns to-day,Stay: feed the worms."
____ Prattville, Alabama, 1868.
V. Life and Song.
"If life were caught by a clarionet,And a wild heart, throbbing in the reed,Should thrill its joy and trill its fret,And utter its heart in every deed,
"Then would this breathing clarionetType what the poet fain would be;For none o' the singers ever yetHas wholly lived his minstrelsy,
"Or clearly sung his true, true thought,Or utterly bodied forth his life,Or out of life and song has wroughtThe perfect one of man and wife;
"Or lived and sung, that Life and SongMight each express the other's all,Careless if life or art were longSince both were one, to stand or fall:
"So that the wonder struck the crowd,Who shouted it about the land:`His song was only living aloud,His work, a singing with his hand!'"
____ 1868.
VI. To Richard Wagner.
"I saw a sky of stars that rolled in grime.All glory twinkled through some sweat of fight,From each tall chimney of the roaring timeThat shot his fire far up the sooty nightMixt fuels — Labor's Right and Labor's Crime —Sent upward throb on throb of scarlet lightTill huge hot blushes in the heavens blentWith golden hues of Trade's high firmament.
"Fierce burned the furnaces; yet all seemed well,Hope dreamed rich music in the rattling mills.`Ye foundries, ye shall cast my church a bell,'Loud cried the Future from the farthest hills:`Ye groaning forces, crack me every shellOf customs, old constraints, and narrow ills;Thou, lithe Invention, wake and pry and guess,Till thy deft mind invents me Happiness.'
"And I beheld high scaffoldings of creedsCrumbling from round Religion's perfect Fane:And a vast noise of rights, wrongs, powers, needs,— Cries of new Faiths that called `This Way is plain,'— Grindings of upper against lower greeds —— Fond sighs for old things, shouts for new, — did reignBelow that stream of golden fire that broke,Mottled with red, above the seas of smoke.
"Hark! Gay fanfares from halls of old RomanceStrike through the clouds of clamor: who be theseThat, paired in rich processional, advanceFrom darkness o'er the murk mad factoriesInto yon flaming road, and sink, strange Ministrants!Sheer down to earth, with many minstrelsiesAnd motions fine, and mix about the sceneAnd fill the Time with forms of ancient mien?
"Bright ladies and brave knights of Fatherland;Sad mariners, no harbor e'er may hold,A swan soft floating tow'rds a magic strand;Dim ghosts, of earth, air, water, fire, steel, gold,Wind, grief, and love; a lewd and lurking bandOf Powers — dark Conspiracy, Cunning cold,Gray Sorcery; magic cloaks and rings and rods;Valkyries, heroes, Rhinemaids, giants, gods!
* * * * *
"O Wagner, westward bring thy heavenly art,No trifler thou: Siegfried and Wotan beNames for big ballads of the modern heart.Thine ears hear deeper than thine eyes can see.Voice of the monstrous mill, the shouting mart,Not less of airy cloud and wave and tree,Thou, thou, if even to thyself unknown,Hast power to say the Time in terms of tone."
____ 1877.
VII. A Song of Love.
"Hey, rose, just bornTwin to a thorn;Was't so with you, O Love and Scorn?
"Sweet eyes that smiled,Now wet and wild;O Eye and Tear — mother and child.
"Well: Love and PainBe kinsfolk twain:Yet would, Oh would I could love again."
To Beethoven.
In o'er-strict calyx lingering,Lay music's bud too long unblown,Till thou, Beethoven, breathed the spring:Then bloomed the perfect rose of tone.
O Psalmist of the weak, the strong,O Troubadour of love and strife,Co-Litanist of right and wrong,Sole Hymner of the whole of life,
I know not how, I care not why, —Thy music sets my world at ease,And melts my passion's mortal cryIn satisfying symphonies.
It soothes my accusations sour'Gainst thoughts that fray the restless soul:The stain of death; the pain of power;The lack of love 'twixt part and whole;
The yea-nay of Freewill and Fate,Whereof both cannot be, yet are;The praise a poet wins too lateWho starves from earth into a star;
The lies that serve great parties well,While truths but give their Christ a cross;The loves that send warm souls to hell,While cold-blood neuters take no loss;
Th' indifferent smile that nature's graceOn Jesus, Judas, pours alike;Th' indifferent frown on nature's faceWhen luminous lightnings strangely strike
The sailor praying on his kneesAnd spare his mate that's cursing God;How babes and widows starve and freeze,Yet Nature will not stir a clod;
Why Nature blinds us in each actYet makes no law in mercy bend,No pitfall from our feet retract,No storm cry out `Take shelter, friend;'
Why snakes that crawl the earth should plyRattles, that whoso hears may shun,While serpent lightnings in the sky,But rattle when the deed is done;
How truth can e'er be good for themThat have not eyes to bear its strength,And yet how stern our lights condemnDelays that lend the darkness length;
To know all things, save knowingness;To grasp, yet loosen, feeling's rein;To waste no manhood on success;To look with pleasure upon pain;
Though teased by small mixt social claims,To lose no large simplicity,And midst of clear-seen crimes and shamesTo move with manly purity;
To hold, with keen, yet loving eyes,Art's realm from Cleverness apart,To know the Clever good and wise,Yet haunt the lonesome heights of Art;
O Psalmist of the weak, the strong,O Troubadour of love and strife,Co-Litanist of right and wrong,Sole Hymner of the whole of life,
I know not how, I care not why,Thy music brings this broil at ease,And melts my passion's mortal cryIn satisfying symphonies.
Yea, it forgives me all my sins,Fits life to love like rhyme to rhyme,And tunes the task each day beginsBy the last trumpet-note of Time.
____ 1876-7.
An Frau Nannette Falk-Auerbach.
Als du im Saal mit deiner himmlischen KunstBeethoven zeigst, und seinem Willen nachMit den zehn Fingern fuehrst der Leute Gunst,Zehn Zungen sagen was der Meister sprach.Schauend dich an, ich seh', dass nicht alleinDu sitzest: jetzt herab die Toene ziehnBeethovens Geist: er steht bei dir, ganz rein:Fuer dich mit Vaters Stolz sein' Augen gluehn:Er sagt, "Ich hoerte dich aus Himmelsluft,Die kommt ja naeher, wo ein Kuenstler spielt:Mein Kind (ich sagte) mich zur Erde ruft:Ja, weil mein Arm kein Kind im Leben hielt,Gott hat mir dich nach meinem Tod gegeben,Nannette, Tochter! dich, mein zweites Leben!"
____ Baltimore, 1878.
To Nannette Falk-Auerbach.
Oft as I hear thee, wrapt in heavenly art,The massive message of Beethoven tellWith thy ten fingers to the people's heartAs if ten tongues told news of heaven and hell, —Gazing on thee, I mark that not alone,Ah, not alone, thou sittest: there, by thee,Beethoven's self, dear living lord of tone,Doth stand and smile upon thy mastery.Full fain and fatherly his great eyes glow:He says, "From Heaven, my child, I heard thee call(For, where an artist plays, the sky is low):Yea, since my lonesome life did lack love's all,In death, God gives me thee: thus, quit of pain,Daughter, Nannette! in thee I live again."
____ Baltimore, 1878.
To Our Mocking-Bird.
Died of a cat, May, 1878.
Trillets of humor, — shrewdest whistle-wit, —Contralto cadences of grave desireSuch as from off the passionate Indian pyreDrift down through sandal-odored flames that splitAbout the slim young widow who doth sitAnd sing above, — midnights of tone entire, —Tissues of moonlight shot with songs of fire; —Bright drops of tune, from oceans infiniteOf melody, sipped off the thin-edged waveAnd trickling down the beak, — discourses braveOf serious matter that no man may guess, —Good-fellow greetings, cries of light distress —All these but now within the house we heard:O Death, wast thou too deaf to hear the bird?
Ah me, though never an ear for song, thou hastA tireless tooth for songsters: thus of lateThou camest, Death, thou Cat! and leap'st my gate,And, long ere Love could follow, thou hadst passedWithin and snatched away, how fast, how fast,My bird — wit, songs, and all — thy richest freightSince that fell time when in some wink of fateThy yellow claws unsheathed and stretched, and castSharp hold on Keats, and dragged him slow away,And harried him with hope and horrid play —Ay, him, the world's best wood-bird, wise with song —Till thou hadst wrought thine own last mortal wrong.'Twas wrong! 'twas wrong! I care not, WRONG's the word —To munch our Keats and crunch our mocking-bird.
Nay, Bird; my grief gainsays the Lord's best right.The Lord was fain, at some late festal time,That Keats should set all Heaven's woods in rhyme,And thou in bird-notes. Lo, this tearful night,Methinks I see thee, fresh from death's despite,Perched in a palm-grove, wild with pantomime,O'er blissful companies couched in shady thyme,— Methinks I hear thy silver whistlings brightMix with the mighty discourse of the wise,Till broad Beethoven, deaf no more, and Keats,'Midst of much talk, uplift their smiling eyes,And mark the music of thy wood-conceits,And halfway pause on some large, courteous word,And call thee "Brother", O thou heavenly Bird!
____ Baltimore, 1878.
The Dove.
If haply thou, O Desdemona Morn,Shouldst call along the curving sphere, "Remain,Dear Night, sweet Moor; nay, leave me not in scorn!"With soft halloos of heavenly love and pain; —
Shouldst thou, O Spring! a-cower in coverts dark,'Gainst proud supplanting Summer sing thy plea,And move the mighty woods through mailed barkTill mortal heart-break throbbed in every tree; —
Or (grievous `if' that may be `yea' o'er-soon!),If thou, my Heart, long holden from thy Sweet,Shouldst knock Death's door with mellow shocks of tune,Sad inquiry to make — `When may we meet?'
Nay, if ye three, O Morn! O Spring! O Heart!Should chant grave unisons of grief and love;Ye could not mourn with more melodious artThan daily doth yon dim sequestered dove.
____ Chadd's Ford, Pennsylvania, 1877.
To ——, with a Rose.
I asked my heart to saySome word whose worth my love's devoir might payUpon my Lady's natal day.
Then said my heart to me:`Learn from the rhyme that now shall come to theeWhat fits thy Love most lovingly.'
This gift that learning shows;For, as a rhyme unto its rhyme-twin goes,I send a rose unto a Rose.
____ Philadelphia, 1876.
On Huntingdon's "Miranda".
The storm hath blown thee a lover, sweet,And laid him kneeling at thy feet.But, — guerdon rich for favor rare!The wind hath all thy holy hairTo kiss and to sing through and to flareLike torch-flames in the passionate air,About thee, O Miranda.
Eyes in a blaze, eyes in a daze,Bold with love, cold with amaze,Chaste-thrilling eyes, fast-filling eyesWith daintiest tears of love's surprise,Ye draw my soul unto your blueAs warm skies draw the exhaling dew,Divine eyes of Miranda.
And if I were yon stolid stone,Thy tender arm doth lean upon,Thy touch would turn me to a heart,And I would palpitate and start,— Content, when thou wert gone, to beA dumb rock by the lonesome seaForever, O Miranda.
____ Baltimore, 1874.
Ode to the Johns Hopkins University.
Read on the Fourth Commemoration Day, February, 1880.
How tall among her sisters, and how fair, —How grave beyond her youth, yet debonairAs dawn, 'mid wrinkled Matres of old landsOur youngest Alma Mater modest stands!In four brief cycles round the punctual sunHas she, old Learning's latest daughter, wonThis grace, this stature, and this fruitful fame.Howbeit she was bornUnnoised as any stealing summer morn.From far the sages saw, from far they cameAnd ministered to her,Led by the soaring-genius'd SylvesterThat, earlier, loosed the knot great Newton tied,And flung the door of Fame's locked temple wide.As favorable fairies thronged of old and blessedThe cradled princess with their several best,So, gifts and dowers meetTo lay at Wisdom's feet,These liberal masters largely brought —Dear diamonds of their long-compressed thought,Rich stones from out the labyrinthine caveOf research, pearls from Time's profoundest waveAnd many a jewel brave, of brilliant ray,Dug in the far obscure CathayOf meditation deep —With flowers, of such as keepTheir fragrant tissues and their heavenly huesFresh-bathed forever in eternal dews —The violet with her low-drooped eye,For learned modesty, —The student snow-drop, that doth hang and poreUpon the earth, like Science, evermore,And underneath the clod doth grope and grope, —The astronomer heliotrope,That watches heaven with a constant eye, —The daring crocus, unafraid to try(When Nature calls) the February snows, —And patience' perfect rose.Thus sped with helps of love and toil and thought,Thus forwarded of faith, with hope thus fraught,In four brief cycles round the stringent sunThis youngest sister hath her stature won.
Nay, why regardThe passing of the years? Nor made, nor marr'd,By help or hindrance of slow Time was she:O'er this fair growth Time had no mastery:So quick she bloomed, she seemed to bloom at birth,As Eve from Adam, or as he from earth.Superb o'er slow increase of day on day,Complete as Pallas she began her way;Yet not from Jove's unwrinkled forehead sprung,But long-time dreamed, and out of trouble wrung,Fore-seen, wise-plann'd, pure child of thought and pain,Leapt our Minerva from a mortal brain.
And here, O finer Pallas, long remain, —Sit on these Maryland hills, and fix thy reign,And frame a fairer Athens than of yoreIn these blest bounds of Baltimore, —Here, where the climates meetThat each may make the other's lack complete, —Where Florida's soft Favonian airs beguileThe nipping North, — where nature's powers smile, —Where Chesapeake holds frankly forth her handsSpread wide with invitation to all lands, —Where now the eager people yearn to findThe organizing hand that fast may bindLoose straws of aimless aspiration fainIn sheaves of serviceable grain, —Here, old and new in one,Through nobler cycles round a richer sunO'er-rule our modern ways,O blest Minerva of these larger days!Call here thy congress of the great, the wise,The hearing ears, the seeing eyes, —Enrich us out of every farthest clime, —Yea, make all ages native to our time,Till thou the freedom of the city grantTo each most antique habitantOf Fame, —Bring Shakespeare back, a man and not a name, —Let every player that shall mimic usIn audience see old godlike Aeschylus, —Bring Homer, Dante, Plato, Socrates, —Bring Virgil from the visionary seasOf old romance, — bring Milton, no more blind, —Bring large Lucretius, with unmaniac mind, —Bring all gold hearts and high resolved willsTo be with us about these happy hills, —Bring old RenownTo walk familiar citizen of the town, —Bring Tolerance, that can kiss and disagree, —Bring Virtue, Honor, Truth, and Loyalty, —Bring Faith that sees with undissembling eyes, —Bring all large Loves and heavenly Charities, —Till man seem less a riddle unto manAnd fair Utopia less Utopian,And many peoples call from shore to shore,`The world has bloomed again, at Baltimore!'
____ Baltimore, 1880.
To Dr. Thomas Shearer.
Presenting a portrait-bust of the author.
Since you, rare friend! have tied my living tongueWith thanks more large than man e'er said or sung,So let the dumbness of this image beMy eloquence, and still interpret me.
____ Baltimore, 1880.
Martha Washington.
Written for the "Martha Washington Court Journal".
Down cold snow-stretches of our bitter time,When windy shams and the rain-mocking sleetOf Trade have cased us in such icy rimeThat hearts are scarcely hot enough to beat,Thy fame, O Lady of the lofty eyes,Doth fall along the age, like as a laneOf Spring, in whose most generous boundariesFull many a frozen virtue warms again.To-day I saw the pale much-burdened formOf Charity come limping o'er the line,And straighten from the bending of the stormAnd flush with stirrings of new strength divine,Such influence and sweet gracious impulse cameOut of the beams of thine immortal name!
____ Baltimore, February 22d, 1875.
Psalm of the West.
Land of the willful gospel, thou worst and thou best;Tall Adam of lands, new-made of the dust of the West;Thou wroughtest alone in the Garden of God, unblestTill He fashioned lithe Freedom to lie for thine Eve on thy breast —Till out of thy heart's dear neighborhood, out of thy side,He fashioned an intimate Sweet one and brought thee a Bride.Cry hail! nor bewail that the wound of her coming was wide.Lo, Freedom reached forth where the world as an apple hung red;`Let us taste the whole radiant round of it,' gayly she said:`If we die, at the worst we shall lie as the first of the dead.'Knowledge of Good and of Ill, O Land! she hath given thee;Perilous godhoods of choosing have rent thee and riven thee;Will's high adoring to Ill's low exploring hath driven thee —Freedom, thy Wife, hath uplifted thy life and clean shriven thee!Her shalt thou clasp for a balm to the scars of thy breast,Her shalt thou kiss for a calm to thy wars of unrest,Her shalt extol in the psalm of the soul of the West.For Weakness, in freedom, grows stronger than Strength with a chain;And Error, in freedom, will come to lamenting his stain,Till freely repenting he whiten his spirit again;And Friendship, in freedom, will blot out the bounding of race;And straight Law, in freedom, will curve to the rounding of grace;And Fashion, in freedom, will die of the lie in her face;And Desire flame white on the sense as a fire on a height,And Sex flame white in the soul as a star in the night,And Marriage plight sense unto soul as the two-colored lightOf the fire and the star shines one with a duplicate might;And Science be known as the sense making love to the All,And Art be known as the soul making love to the All,And Love be known as the marriage of man with the All —Till Science to knowing the Highest shall lovingly turn,Till Art to loving the Highest shall consciously burn,Till Science to Art as a man to a woman shall yearn,— Then morn!When Faith from the wedding of Knowing and Loving shall purely be born,And the Child shall smile in the West, and the West to the East give morn,And the Time in that ultimate Prime shall forget old regretting and scorn,Yea, the stream of the light shall give off in a shimmerthe dream of the night forlorn.
Once on a time a soulToo full of his doleIn a querulous dream went crying from pole to pole —Went sobbing and cryingFor ever a sorrowful song of living and dying,How `life was the dropping and death the dryingOf a Tear that fell in a day when God was sighing.'And ever Time tossed him bitterly to and froAs a shuttle inlaying a perilous warp of woeIn the woof of things from terminal snow to snow,Till, lo!Rest.And he sank on the grass of the earth as a lark on its nest,And he lay in the midst of the way from the east to the west.Then the East came out from the east and the West from the west,And, behold! in the gravid deeps of the lower dark,While, above, the wind was fanning the dawn as a spark,The East and the West took form as the wings of a lark.One wing was feathered with facts of the uttermost Past,And one with the dreams of a prophet; and both sailed fastAnd met where the sorrowful Soul on the earth was cast.Then a Voice said: `Thine, if thou lovest enough to use;'But another: `To fly and to sing is pain: refuse!'Then the Soul said: `Come, O my wings! I cannot but choose.'And the Soul was a-tremble like as a new-born thing,Till the spark of the dawn wrought a conscience in heart as in wing,Saying, `Thou art the lark of the dawn; it is time to sing.'
Then that artist began in a lark's low circling to pass;And first he sang at the height of the top of the grassA song of the herds that are born and die in the mass.And next he sang a celestial-passionate roundAt the height of the lips of a woman above the ground,How `Love was a fair true Lady, and Death a wild hound,And she called, and he licked her hand and with girdle was bound.'And then with a universe-love he was hot in the wings,And the sun stretched beams to the worlds as the shining stringsOf the large hid harp that sounds when an all-lover sings;And the sky's blue traction prevailed o'er the earth's in might,And the passion of flight grew mad with the glory of heightAnd the uttering of song was like to the giving of light;And he learned that hearing and seeing wrought nothing alone,And that music on earth much light upon Heaven had thrown,And he melted-in silvery sunshine with silvery tone;And the spirals of music e'er higher and higher he woundTill the luminous cinctures of melody up from the groundArose as the shaft of a tapering tower of sound —Arose for an unstricken full-finished Babel of sound.But God was not angry, nor ever confused his tongue,For not out of selfish nor impudent travail was wrungThe song of all men and all things that the all-lover sung.Then he paused at the top of his tower of song on high,And the voice of the God of the artist from far in the skySaid, `Son, look down: I will cause that a Time gone byShall pass, and reveal his heart to thy loving eye.'
Far spread, below,The sea that fast hath locked in his loose flowAll secrets of Atlantis' drowned woeLay bound about with night on every hand,Save down the eastern brink a shining bandOf day made out a little way from land.Then from that shore the wind upbore a cry:`Thou Sea, thou Sea of Darkness! why, oh whyDost waste thy West in unthrift mystery?'But ever the idiot sea-mouths foam and fill,And never a wave doth good for man or ill,And Blank is king, and Nothing hath his will;And like as grim-beaked pelicans level fileAcross the sunset toward their nightly isleOn solemn wings that wave but seldomwhile,So leanly sails the day behind the dayTo where the Past's lone Rock o'erglooms the spray,And down its mortal fissures sinks away.
Master, Master, break this ban:The wave lacks Thee.Oh, is it not to widen manStretches the sea?Oh, must the sea-bird's idle vanAlone be free?
Into the Sea of the Dark doth creepBjoerne's pallid sail,As the face of a walker in his sleep,Set rigid and most pale,About the night doth peer and peepIn a dream of an ancient tale.
Lo, here is made a hasty cry:`Land, land, upon the west! —God save such land! Go by, go by:Here may no mortal rest,Where this waste hell of slate doth lieAnd grind the glacier's breast.'
The sail goeth limp: hey, flap and strain!Round eastward slanteth the mast;As the sleep-walker waked with pain,White-clothed in the midnight blast,Doth stare and quake, and stride againTo houseward all aghast.
Yet as, `A ghost!' his household cry:`He hath followed a ghost in flight.Let us see the ghost' — his household flyWith lamps to search the night —So Norsemen's sails run out and tryThe Sea of the Dark with light.
Stout Are Marson, southward whirledFrom out the tempest's hand,Doth skip the sloping of the worldTo Huitramannaland,Where Georgia's oaks with moss-beards curledWave by the shining strand,
And sway in sighs from Florida's SpringOr Carolina's Palm —What time the mocking-bird doth bringThe woods his artist's-balm,Singing the Song of EverythingConsummate-sweet and calm —
Land of large merciful-hearted skies,Big bounties, rich increase,Green rests for Trade's blood-shotten eyes,For o'er-beat brains surcease,For Love the dear woods' sympathies,For Grief the wise woods' peace,
For Need rich givings of hid powersIn hills and vales quick-won,For Greed large exemplary flowersThat ne'er have toiled nor spun,For Heat fair-tempered winds and showers,For Cold the neighbor sun.
Land where the Spirits of June-HeatFrom out their forest-mazeStray forth at eve with loitering feet,And fervent hymns upraiseIn bland accord and passion sweetAlong the Southern ways: —
"O Darkness, tawny Twin whose Twin hath ceased,Thou Odor from the day-flower's crushing born,Thou visible Sigh out of the mournful East,That cannot see her lord again till morn:O Leaves, with hollow palms uplifted highTo catch the stars' most sacred rain of light:O pallid Lily-petals fain to dieSoul-stung by subtle passion of the night:O short-breath'd Winds beneath the gracious moonRunning mild errands for mild violets,Or carrying sighs from the red lips of JuneWhat wavering way the odor-current sets:O Stars wreathed vinewise round yon heavenly dells,Or thrust from out the sky in curving sprays,Or whorled, or looped with pendent flower-bells,Or bramble-tangled in a brilliant maze,Or lying like young lilies in a lakeAbout the great white Lily of the moon,Or drifting white from where in heaven shakeStar-portraitures of apple trees in June,Or lapp'd as leaves of a great rose of stars,Or shyly clambering up cloud-lattices,Or trampled pale in the red path of Mars,Or trim-set quaint in gardeners'-fantasies:O long June Night-sounds crooned among the leaves;O whispered confidence of Dark and Green;O murmurs in old moss about old eaves;O tinklings floating over water-sheen."
Then Leif, bold son of Eric the Red,To the South of the West doth flee —Past slaty Helluland is sped,Past Markland's woody lea,Till round about fair Vinland's head,Where Taunton helps the sea,
The Norseman calls, the anchor falls,The mariners hurry a-strand:They wassail with fore-drunken skalsWhere prophet wild grapes stand;They lift the Leifsbooth's hasty wallsThey stride about the land —
New England, thee! whose ne'er-spent wineAs blood doth stretch each vein,And urge thee, sinewed like thy vine,Through peril and all painTo grasp Endeavor's towering Pine,And, once ahold, remain —
Land where the strenuous-handed WindWith sarcasm of a friendDoth smite the man would lag behindTo frontward of his end;Yea, where the taunting fall and grindOf Nature's Ill doth send
Such mortal challenge of a clownRude-thrust upon the soul,That men but smile where mountains frownOr scowling waters roll,And Nature's front of battle downDo hurl from pole to pole.
Now long the Sea of Darkness glimmers lowWith sails from Northland flickering to and fro —Thorwald, Karlsefne, and those twin heirs of woe,Hellboge and Finnge, in treasonable bedSlain by the ill-born child of Eric Red,Freydisa false. Till, as much time is fled,Once more the vacant airs with darkness fill,Once more the wave doth never good nor ill,And Blank is king, and Nothing works his will;And leanly sails the day behind the dayTo where the Past's lone Rock o'erglooms the spray,And down its mortal fissures sinks away,As when the grim-beaked pelicans level fileAcross the sunset to their seaward isleOn solemn wings that wave but seldomwhile.
Master, Master, poets sing;The Time calls Thee;Yon Sea binds hard on everythingMan longs to be:Oh, shall the sea-bird's aimless wingAlone move free?
`Santa Maria', well thou tremblest down the wave,Thy `Pinta' far abow, thy `Nina' nigh astern:Columbus stands in the night alone, and, passing grave,Yearns o'er the sea as tones o'er under-silence yearn.Heartens his heart as friend befriends his friend less brave,Makes burn the faiths that cool, and cools the doubts that burn: —
"'Twixt this and dawn, three hours my soul will smiteWith prickly seconds, or less tolerablyWith dull-blade minutes flatwise slapping me.Wait, Heart! Time moves. — Thou lithe young Western Night,Just-crowned king, slow riding to thy right,Would God that I might straddle mutinyCalm as thou sitt'st yon never-managed sea,Balk'st with his balking, fliest with his flight,Giv'st supple to his rearings and his falls,Nor dropp'st one coronal star about thy browWhilst ever dayward thou art steadfast drawn!Yea, would I rode these mad contentious brawlsNo damage taking from their If and How,Nor no result save galloping to my Dawn!
"My Dawn? my Dawn? How if it never break?How if this West by other Wests is pieced,And these by vacant Wests on Wests increased —One Pain of Space, with hollow ache on acheThrobbing and ceasing not for Christ's own sake? —Big perilous theorem, hard for king and priest:`Pursue the West but long enough, 'tis East!'Oh, if this watery world no turning take!Oh, if for all my logic, all my dreams,Provings of that which is by that which seems,Fears, hopes, chills, heats, hastes, patiences, droughts, tears,Wife-grievings, slights on love, embezzled years,Hates, treaties, scorns, upliftings, loss and gain, —This earth, no sphere, be all one sickening plane!
"Or, haply, how if this contrarious West,That me by turns hath starved, by turns hath fed,Embraced, disgraced, beat back, solicited,Have no fixed heart of Law within his breast,Or with some different rhythm doth e'er contestNature in the East? Why, 'tis but three weeks fledI saw my Judas needle shake his headAnd flout the Pole that, east, he Lord confessed!God! if this West should own some other Pole,And with his tangled ways perplex my soulUntil the maze grow mortal, and I dieWhere distraught Nature clean hath gone astray,On earth some other wit than Time's at play,Some other God than mine above the sky!
"Now speaks mine other heart with cheerier seeming:`Ho, Admiral! o'er-defalking to thy crewAgainst thyself, thyself far overfewTo front yon multitudes of rebel scheming?'Come, ye wild twenty years of heavenly dreaming!Come, ye wild weeks since first this canvas drewOut of vexed Palos ere the dawn was blue,O'er milky waves about the bows full-creaming!Come set me round with many faithful spearsOf confident remembrance — how I crushedCat-lived rebellions, pitfalled treasons, hushedScared husbands' heart-break cries on distant wives,Made cowards blush at whining for their lives,Watered my parching souls, and dried their tears.
"Ere we Gomera cleared, a coward cried,`Turn, turn: here be three caravels ahead,From Portugal, to take us: we are dead!'`Hold Westward, pilot,' calmly I replied.So when the last land down the horizon died,`Go back, go back!' they prayed: `our hearts are lead.' —`Friends, we are bound into the West,' I said.Then passed the wreck of a mast upon our side.`See' (so they wept) `God's Warning! Admiral, turn!' —`Steersman,' I said, `hold straight into the West.'Then down the night we saw the meteor burn.`So do the very heavens in fire protest:Good Admiral, put about! O Spain, dear Spain!' —`Hold straight into the West,' I said again.