A CHOUAN.

I served the Lord ten years and a day,In Saint Cadoc’s church by the surging bay;And housed with the gathering webs and must,’Mid whirring of velvety wings outside,In calm and in wind, brooding over the tide,And the bright massed roofs, and the crags’ array,My strong life, innocent and just,Fell of a sudden to ashes and dust,And on my neck hotly the demon laid the bare rod of his sway!How it befell, I know not yet,(Sailor, with wonder thou hearest me),Save that a passionate sharp regret,An exile’s longing, o’ermastered not,Seared thought like a pestilential spot,And sent my day-dreams traitorouslyBack to the place where my life began,To the long blue mornings, blown and wet,To the pyre by the sacred rivulet,And the chanting Cappadocian.No more a Christian bell was I!For all became, which seemed so good,Vile thraldom, in my bitter moodThat thrust the old conformance by.Sullen and harsh, to the acolyteI answered of a Sabbath night,And sprang on the organ’s withdrawing pealTo shatter its pomp, like a charge of steel.The good monks puzzled and prayed, I trow:But against their Heaven I set my brow.

How it befell, I know not yet,(Sailor, with wonder thou hearest me),Save that a passionate sharp regret,An exile’s longing, o’ermastered not,Seared thought like a pestilential spot,And sent my day-dreams traitorouslyBack to the place where my life began,To the long blue mornings, blown and wet,To the pyre by the sacred rivulet,And the chanting Cappadocian.No more a Christian bell was I!For all became, which seemed so good,Vile thraldom, in my bitter moodThat thrust the old conformance by.Sullen and harsh, to the acolyteI answered of a Sabbath night,And sprang on the organ’s withdrawing pealTo shatter its pomp, like a charge of steel.The good monks puzzled and prayed, I trow:But against their Heaven I set my brow.

To me, by the ancient, triple-roped,Lone, tortuous stair, whereby I madeA tingling silence, a heavy concentric shade,The twelve-years’ child of the Lord Llewellyn groped:With May-wreaths laden, the loving strange child came!And my pulses that throbbed at sight of her, ten years gone,Chilled and recoiled at her delicate finger-touch, guessingAlong my brazen-wrought margin, the laud and the blessingTraced, thro’ the vine, thro’ the tangle of star and of sun,By her dead father’s name, by Llewellyn’s magnificent name.And even as she stood in the dark, the doom and the horror rushed on me;(I had weakened my soul, and they won me!)I felt the desire at my vitals, the unbearable joy that is pain:With one mad tigerish spring against the dim rafter,I smote the sweet child in my rage, I smote her with laughter,And a sound like the rainWhirled east on the casement, died after:And I knew that the life in her brainI had quenched at the stroke, and flung even my darling of yoreDown the resonant, tottering stair, down, down to the centuried door!Then the swift hurricane,The clamoring army thronged up from below, myallegiance to claim!Lean goblins, brown-flecked like a toad, the gnomic horned ghosts,Imps flickering, quarry-sprites grim, all the din of the dolorous hosts,All the glory and glee of the cursèd hissed round me and round, as a flame.And they loosened my hold from the tower, and my hope from the hemOf the garment of Him who could save, as they jeered! and with speedCrashed down past the rocks and the wrecks; and the horrible deedWas done. I was theirs; and I gave up my spirit to them.

In a mossy minaretFathoms under, I am set.All the sea-shapes undulatingAt my gates forlorn are waiting,All the dreary faint-eyed peopleWatch me in my hollow steeple,While the glass-clear city heavesOft beneath its earthy eaves.So in sorrow, sorrow, sorrowYestereven and to-morrow,Thro’ the æons, in a cellHangs Saint Cadoc’s loveless bell,Orbèd, like a mortal’s tear,On the moony atmosphere,Bearing, the refrain of time,Memory, and unrest, and crime.Thou that hast the world sublime!I that was free, I am lost, I am damned, I am here!And whenever a child among men by a blow is dead,Docile for aye from the deeps must I lift my head,And from the heathen heart of me that breaks,The unextinguishable music wakes,Naught availing, naught deterred.And the sailor heareth me,Even as thou, alas! hast heard,Fallen in awe upon thy knee,Tolling and wailing, bursting and failing, afar in the ominous sea.

FFROM the school-porch at VannesWeaponed, the children ran;One little voice began,Lark-like ascended:‘Treason is on the wing,Black vows, and menacing:March, boys! God save the King!’Allio ended.Singing, with sunny head,Battleward straight he led,Stones for his captain’s bed,Herbs for his diet:He and his legion brave,Trouble enough they gave!Ere the Blues’ bullets draveThem into quiet.Spared, with a few as bold,Once the storm over-rolled,Allio, twelve years old,Crept from the clamor;Came, when the days were brief,To the old desk in grief,Thumbing anew the leafOf the old grammar.Kings out!... rang the chime,Kings in!... answered Time.In his ignoring clime,Silent, he studied;Till, ere his youth was done,For him, the chosen one,Shepherd disclaimed of none,Aaron’s rod budded.Long, in unbroken round,Peace on his paths he found;Saw the glad Breton groundHusbanded, quarried:Blessed it, the record saith,All the years he had breath,Till the dim eightiethSnowed on his forehead.President!... Emperor!...President!... On the floorSpake a sharp SenatorWidening his ranges:‘From Paris I impeachVannes for disloyal speech;Send thither troops to teach,How the world changes!’Down on the peasants thenRode the Republic’s men,Trampling the corn again,Miring the flowers;Hewed thro’ the rebels nigh,Scoffed at the women’s cry,Set the tricolor highOn the church towers.Pale in his cot that day,Dying, the pastor lay,Where still his eye could strayUp valleys gleaming;Watchers were at his side;Prayer unto prayer replied:Hush! what was that he spied,Pinnacle-streaming?(Nothing was he awareIn his deaf Breton air,—So gray traditions thereThrove unforgotten,—That, by a final chance,Kings all were led a dance;Long since, in fickle France,Sceptres were rotten!)Sprang the old lion, stillLive with prodigious will,To his stone casement-sill;Foolish and true one!Snatched up the blade he bore,Rough with its rust of yore,Kissed it, a saint no more—Only a Chouan!Barred from the charging massIn the choked market-pass,All he could do, alas!Now, was to clang it:Nay, more:—’God save the King!’With a last clarion ring,Shot ere he ceased to sing,Allio sang it.

FFROM the school-porch at VannesWeaponed, the children ran;One little voice began,Lark-like ascended:

‘Treason is on the wing,Black vows, and menacing:March, boys! God save the King!’Allio ended.

Singing, with sunny head,Battleward straight he led,Stones for his captain’s bed,Herbs for his diet:

He and his legion brave,Trouble enough they gave!Ere the Blues’ bullets draveThem into quiet.

Spared, with a few as bold,Once the storm over-rolled,Allio, twelve years old,Crept from the clamor;

Came, when the days were brief,To the old desk in grief,Thumbing anew the leafOf the old grammar.

Kings out!... rang the chime,Kings in!... answered Time.In his ignoring clime,Silent, he studied;

Till, ere his youth was done,For him, the chosen one,Shepherd disclaimed of none,Aaron’s rod budded.

Long, in unbroken round,Peace on his paths he found;Saw the glad Breton groundHusbanded, quarried:

Blessed it, the record saith,All the years he had breath,Till the dim eightiethSnowed on his forehead.

President!... Emperor!...President!... On the floorSpake a sharp SenatorWidening his ranges:

‘From Paris I impeachVannes for disloyal speech;Send thither troops to teach,How the world changes!’

Down on the peasants thenRode the Republic’s men,Trampling the corn again,Miring the flowers;

Hewed thro’ the rebels nigh,Scoffed at the women’s cry,Set the tricolor highOn the church towers.

Pale in his cot that day,Dying, the pastor lay,Where still his eye could strayUp valleys gleaming;

Watchers were at his side;Prayer unto prayer replied:Hush! what was that he spied,Pinnacle-streaming?

(Nothing was he awareIn his deaf Breton air,—So gray traditions thereThrove unforgotten,—

That, by a final chance,Kings all were led a dance;Long since, in fickle France,Sceptres were rotten!)

Sprang the old lion, stillLive with prodigious will,To his stone casement-sill;Foolish and true one!

Snatched up the blade he bore,Rough with its rust of yore,Kissed it, a saint no more—Only a Chouan!

Barred from the charging massIn the choked market-pass,All he could do, alas!Now, was to clang it:

Nay, more:—’God save the King!’With a last clarion ring,Shot ere he ceased to sing,Allio sang it.

LLET us hymn thee for our silent brothers,Freely as the wild impellent wind blows,Briefly, rudely, in the smoky pausesOf a battle, in the stress and scourgingOf the sail apast thy heavenly margin;Let us hymn thee, while the gallant pulsesIn high heart and limbs one kingliest instant,Boom and flash thy name and their allegiance;‘Once, and for one only,’ let us hymn thee,O Delight, O Sunrise, O sole Answer,Empery unbought, supreme Adventure,Youth, ah, Youth! all men’s desire and sorrow.Let us hymn thee, we, the passing, dying,Out of bondage by a vision lifted,Since by chance sublime, in secret places,Goddess! we, Aktaion-like, have seen thee.Tho’ our voice as a spent eagle’s voice is,Let us hymn thee, while the doom is forging;Holding, losing, thro’ one first last moment,One mad moment worth dull life forever,Triumphing in anguish, let us hymn thee!Thine, beholden Beauty, thine this heart-break,Thine, O Hope forsworn! this salutation,Youth, ah, Youth! all men’s desire and sorrow.

Let us hymn thee, we, the passing, dying,Out of bondage by a vision lifted,Since by chance sublime, in secret places,Goddess! we, Aktaion-like, have seen thee.Tho’ our voice as a spent eagle’s voice is,Let us hymn thee, while the doom is forging;Holding, losing, thro’ one first last moment,One mad moment worth dull life forever,Triumphing in anguish, let us hymn thee!Thine, beholden Beauty, thine this heart-break,Thine, O Hope forsworn! this salutation,Youth, ah, Youth! all men’s desire and sorrow.

HHOW hath he stumbled hither, in search of love and praise,A tardy comer and goer across the world’s highways,A kind shape from the thicket, a wanderer all his days?He finds a rocky seat where the moiling town recedes:The altered shepherds flout him; but O he little heeds!Incredulous he swings there, and drones upon his reeds.He stamps his cloven heel, and he laughs adown the wind,With eye that wanes and waxes at doings of mankind.Slow, slow creeps the invader upon that happy mind.The apple breasts his fellow; doves wheel by two and three,And ever dance in circle the shallops on the sea;The goats and deer are many; but playmate none hath he,Nor nymph nor child to follow upon his signals rude;He smiles: there is no frolic; he snarls: there is no feud.He feels his poor heart sinking at every interlude.His shaggy ear and freakish resents the wail and din;Earth’s rumors chill his veins with their ghostly gliding in;He aches to slip these tethers, and be where he hath been.Elsewhere is waking glory, and here the dream, the thrall.Hush! hear the sunless waters, the wrestling leaves that call!He lops the grass, and whistles; and while he cheats them all,Obeys, is gone, gone wholly. From alien air too cold,The Faun, with garlands flying, with sylvan ditties trolled,Being homesick, being patient, regains his greenwood old.

HHOW hath he stumbled hither, in search of love and praise,A tardy comer and goer across the world’s highways,A kind shape from the thicket, a wanderer all his days?

He finds a rocky seat where the moiling town recedes:The altered shepherds flout him; but O he little heeds!Incredulous he swings there, and drones upon his reeds.

He stamps his cloven heel, and he laughs adown the wind,With eye that wanes and waxes at doings of mankind.Slow, slow creeps the invader upon that happy mind.

The apple breasts his fellow; doves wheel by two and three,And ever dance in circle the shallops on the sea;The goats and deer are many; but playmate none hath he,Nor nymph nor child to follow upon his signals rude;He smiles: there is no frolic; he snarls: there is no feud.He feels his poor heart sinking at every interlude.

His shaggy ear and freakish resents the wail and din;Earth’s rumors chill his veins with their ghostly gliding in;He aches to slip these tethers, and be where he hath been.

Elsewhere is waking glory, and here the dream, the thrall.Hush! hear the sunless waters, the wrestling leaves that call!He lops the grass, and whistles; and while he cheats them all,

Obeys, is gone, gone wholly. From alien air too cold,The Faun, with garlands flying, with sylvan ditties trolled,Being homesick, being patient, regains his greenwood old.

WWHEN down the filmy lanesThe too wise sun goes grieving,A wake of splendor leavingUpbillowed from the ground;When at the window-panesThe hooded chestnuts rattle,And there is clash of battleNew England’s oaks around:Oh, then we knights of weather,We birds of sober feather,Fill up the woods with revelThat summer’s pomp is slain;And make a mighty shoutingFor King October’s outing,The Saracen OctoberAstride the hurricane!When dappled butterfliesHave crept away to cover,And one persistent ploverIs coaxing from the fen;When apples show the skiesTheir bubbly lush vermilion,And from a rent pavilionLaugh down on maids and men:Oh, then we knights of weather,We birds of sober feather,Fill up the woods with revelThat summer’s pomp is slain;And make a mighty shoutingFor King October’s outing,The Saracen OctoberAstride the hurricane!When pricks the winy air;When o’er the meadows clamberCloud-masonries of amber;When brooks are silver-clear;When conquering colors dareThe hills and cliffy places,To hold, with braggart graces,High wassail of the year:Oh, then we knights of weather,We birds of sober feather,Fill up the woods with revelThat summer’s pomp is slain;And make a mighty shoutingFor King October’s outing,The Saracen OctoberAstride the hurricane!

When dappled butterfliesHave crept away to cover,And one persistent ploverIs coaxing from the fen;When apples show the skiesTheir bubbly lush vermilion,And from a rent pavilionLaugh down on maids and men:Oh, then we knights of weather,We birds of sober feather,Fill up the woods with revelThat summer’s pomp is slain;And make a mighty shoutingFor King October’s outing,The Saracen OctoberAstride the hurricane!

When pricks the winy air;When o’er the meadows clamberCloud-masonries of amber;When brooks are silver-clear;When conquering colors dareThe hills and cliffy places,To hold, with braggart graces,High wassail of the year:Oh, then we knights of weather,We birds of sober feather,Fill up the woods with revelThat summer’s pomp is slain;And make a mighty shoutingFor King October’s outing,The Saracen OctoberAstride the hurricane!

TTHE young sun rides the mists anew; his cohorts follow from the sea.Let Aztec children shout and sue, the Persian lend a thankful knee:Those glad auroral eyes shall beam not anywhere henceforth on me.Up with the banners on the height, set every matin bell astir!The tree-top choirs carouse in light; the dew’s on phlox and lavender:Ah, mockery! for, worlds away, the heart of morning beats with her.

Up with the banners on the height, set every matin bell astir!The tree-top choirs carouse in light; the dew’s on phlox and lavender:Ah, mockery! for, worlds away, the heart of morning beats with her.

TTO lie beside a stream, upon the sodAt ease, while weary shepherds homeward plod,And feel benignly by, as daylight mellows,The mountains in their weathering period;Aye so, with silence shodTo lie in depth of grass with man’s meek fellows,The cattle large and calm, aware of God,And, keen as if to flesh the spirit sprang,To hear,—O but to hear that silvern clangOf young hale melody! and hither rallyThe thrill, the aspiration, and the pangAgain, as once it rangSovereign and clear thro’ all the Saco valley,Whose slaves were we that heard, and he that sang!Happy the spot, the hour, the spanning strainPrecious and far, the rainbow of the rain,The seal of patience, dark endeavor’s summing,The heaven-bright close of Pergolese’s pain!Sighs bid it back in vain,Nor win its peer, till craftsmen aftercomingLost art, lost heart, from shipwrecked years regain.How, like an angel, it effaced the crime,The moil and heat of our tempestuous time,And brought from dewier air, to us who waited,The breath of peace, the healing breath sublime!As falls, at midnight’s chimeTo an old pilgrim, plodding on belated,The thought of Love’s remote sunshining prime.There flits upon the wind’s wing, as we gaze,Our northern springtime, virgin-green three days;The racy water shallowing, the gloryOf jonquils strewn, the wafted apple-sprays:O let it be thy praise,Child-song too lovely and too transitory!Thou art as they; thy feet have gone their ways.O beauty unassailable! O brideOf memory! while yet thou didst abideThe yester joy was ours, the joy to-morrow,Life’s brimming whole: and since to earth denied,Soft ebbed thy dreamy tide,To us the first, the full, the only sorrow,Wild as when Abel out of Eden died.

And, keen as if to flesh the spirit sprang,To hear,—O but to hear that silvern clangOf young hale melody! and hither rallyThe thrill, the aspiration, and the pangAgain, as once it rangSovereign and clear thro’ all the Saco valley,Whose slaves were we that heard, and he that sang!

Happy the spot, the hour, the spanning strainPrecious and far, the rainbow of the rain,The seal of patience, dark endeavor’s summing,The heaven-bright close of Pergolese’s pain!Sighs bid it back in vain,Nor win its peer, till craftsmen aftercomingLost art, lost heart, from shipwrecked years regain.

How, like an angel, it effaced the crime,The moil and heat of our tempestuous time,And brought from dewier air, to us who waited,The breath of peace, the healing breath sublime!As falls, at midnight’s chimeTo an old pilgrim, plodding on belated,The thought of Love’s remote sunshining prime.

There flits upon the wind’s wing, as we gaze,Our northern springtime, virgin-green three days;The racy water shallowing, the gloryOf jonquils strewn, the wafted apple-sprays:O let it be thy praise,Child-song too lovely and too transitory!Thou art as they; thy feet have gone their ways.

O beauty unassailable! O brideOf memory! while yet thou didst abideThe yester joy was ours, the joy to-morrow,Life’s brimming whole: and since to earth denied,Soft ebbed thy dreamy tide,To us the first, the full, the only sorrow,Wild as when Abel out of Eden died.

AAS a pool beset with liliesIn the May-green copses hid,Far from wayfarers and wrongers,Clangors, rumors, disillusions,Neighbored by the wild-grape only,By the hemlock’s dreamy host,By the Rhodian nightingale,O remote, remote, O lonely!—So thy life is.Whence and wherefore is itNever peace may be co-dwellerWith my lakeletToo belovèd and too sheltered,That, secure from broil of cities,From a secret regnant springTo its own wild depth awaking,Makes but moaning and resistance,Undiminishable protest;Mimicking with pain and furyOf humanity the struggle;Fretting, foaming, pacing everRound and round its fragrant cloister,All within itself perplexèd,Every heart-vein bruised but eager;And its clear soul, doubt-o’erladen,’Neath the stirred and floating foulness,Long abased, long dumb, ah! long?—So thy life is.Comes the respite, comes the guerdon;The perfect truce arrivesIn the honey-dropping twilight,The southwestering pallid sunshine,The magian clouds a-fire,The mooring galleon-wind:At whose spell,Potent daily,The lulled water is beguiledBack to saneness, back to sweetness.All its arrowy hissing atomsGather from the chase forsaken;The sphered galaxy of bubbles,Fragments, motes, the lees unrestful,Disunite, as to heard music,Like weird dancers, from their wreathingsEach to its cool grotto swaying;Till there follows, on their fervor,Depth, and crystal clarity.So thy life is, so thy life!Darkling to beatitude,Shaken in the saving change.And the spirit made wise, not wearyBy the throes that youth endureth,When old age falls, evening-placid,On the mystery unriddled,Yet in empire, yet in honor,In submission not ignoble,Glistens to a central quiet,Leal to the most lovely moon.

Whence and wherefore is itNever peace may be co-dwellerWith my lakeletToo belovèd and too sheltered,That, secure from broil of cities,From a secret regnant springTo its own wild depth awaking,Makes but moaning and resistance,Undiminishable protest;Mimicking with pain and furyOf humanity the struggle;Fretting, foaming, pacing everRound and round its fragrant cloister,All within itself perplexèd,Every heart-vein bruised but eager;And its clear soul, doubt-o’erladen,’Neath the stirred and floating foulness,Long abased, long dumb, ah! long?—So thy life is.

Comes the respite, comes the guerdon;The perfect truce arrivesIn the honey-dropping twilight,The southwestering pallid sunshine,The magian clouds a-fire,The mooring galleon-wind:At whose spell,Potent daily,The lulled water is beguiledBack to saneness, back to sweetness.All its arrowy hissing atomsGather from the chase forsaken;The sphered galaxy of bubbles,Fragments, motes, the lees unrestful,Disunite, as to heard music,Like weird dancers, from their wreathingsEach to its cool grotto swaying;Till there follows, on their fervor,Depth, and crystal clarity.So thy life is, so thy life!Darkling to beatitude,Shaken in the saving change.And the spirit made wise, not wearyBy the throes that youth endureth,When old age falls, evening-placid,On the mystery unriddled,Yet in empire, yet in honor,In submission not ignoble,Glistens to a central quiet,Leal to the most lovely moon.

SSIGH not to be remembered, dear,Nor for Time’s fickle graces strive;Vex not thy spirit’s songful cheerWith the sick ardor to survive.But be content, thou quick bright thingA while than lasting stars more fair:A lone high-flashing skylark’s wingAcross obliterating air.O rich in immortality!Not thee Fame’s graven stones benight;But ever, to some world-worn eye,All Heaven is bluer for thy flight.

SSIGH not to be remembered, dear,Nor for Time’s fickle graces strive;Vex not thy spirit’s songful cheerWith the sick ardor to survive.

But be content, thou quick bright thingA while than lasting stars more fair:A lone high-flashing skylark’s wingAcross obliterating air.

O rich in immortality!Not thee Fame’s graven stones benight;But ever, to some world-worn eye,All Heaven is bluer for thy flight.

TTHE skilfullest of mankind!So praise him, reckoningBy shot in the sea-gull’s wing,By doubts in boyhood’s mind.

SSCARRED hemlock roots,Oaks in mail, and willow-shootsSpring’s first-knighted;Clinging aspens grouped between,Slender, misty-green,Faintly affrighted:Far hills behind,Sombre growth, with sunlight lined,On their edges;Banks hemmed in with maiden-hair,And the straight and fairPhalanx of sedges:Wee wings and eyes,Wild blue gemmy dragon-flies,Fearless rangers;Drowsy turtles in a tribeDiving, with a gibeMuttered at strangers;Wren, bobolink,Robin, at the grassy brink;Great frogs jesting;And the beetle, for no griefHalf-across his leafSighing and resting;In the keel’s way,Unwithdrawing bream at play,Till from branchesChestnut-blossoms, loosed aloft,Graze them with their softFull avalanches!This is very odd!Boldly sings the river-god:‘Pilgrim rowing!From the Hyperborean airWherefore, and O whereShould man be going?’Slave to a dream,Me no urgings and no themeCan embolden;Now no more the oars swing back,Drip, dip, till blackWaters froth golden.Musketaquid!I have loved thee, all unbid,Earliest, longest;Thou hast taught me thine own thrift:Here I sit, and driftWhere the wind’s strongest.If, furthermore,There be any pact ashore,I forget it!If, upon a busy dayBeauty make delay,Once over, let it!Only,—despiteThee, who wouldst unnerve me quiteLike a craven,—Best the current be not so,Heart and I must rowInto our haven!

SSCARRED hemlock roots,Oaks in mail, and willow-shootsSpring’s first-knighted;Clinging aspens grouped between,Slender, misty-green,Faintly affrighted:

Far hills behind,Sombre growth, with sunlight lined,On their edges;Banks hemmed in with maiden-hair,And the straight and fairPhalanx of sedges:

Wee wings and eyes,Wild blue gemmy dragon-flies,Fearless rangers;Drowsy turtles in a tribeDiving, with a gibeMuttered at strangers;

Wren, bobolink,Robin, at the grassy brink;Great frogs jesting;And the beetle, for no griefHalf-across his leafSighing and resting;

In the keel’s way,Unwithdrawing bream at play,Till from branchesChestnut-blossoms, loosed aloft,Graze them with their softFull avalanches!

This is very odd!Boldly sings the river-god:‘Pilgrim rowing!From the Hyperborean airWherefore, and O whereShould man be going?’

Slave to a dream,Me no urgings and no themeCan embolden;Now no more the oars swing back,Drip, dip, till blackWaters froth golden.

Musketaquid!I have loved thee, all unbid,Earliest, longest;Thou hast taught me thine own thrift:Here I sit, and driftWhere the wind’s strongest.

If, furthermore,There be any pact ashore,I forget it!If, upon a busy dayBeauty make delay,Once over, let it!

Only,—despiteThee, who wouldst unnerve me quiteLike a craven,—Best the current be not so,Heart and I must rowInto our haven!

YYOUR bays shall all men bring,And flowers the children strew you.Once, as I stood in a thick west wood,I took from a fissure a precious thing,The homage whereof be to you!A thing pearl-pale, yet stungWith fire, as the morning’s beam is;Hid underground thro’ a solar round,Hardy and fragile, antique and young,More exquisite than a dream is.No rose had so bright birth;No gem of romance surpassed it,By a minstrel-knight, for his maid’s delight,Borne from the moon-burnt marge of the earth,Where Paynim breakers cast it.Rude-named, memorial, quaint,The dews and the darkness mould it:Scarce twice in an age is our heritageThis glory and mystery without taint.Dear Stevenson, do you hold itA text of grace, ah! muchBeyond what the praising throng say:Only your art is its peer at heart,Only your touch is a wonder such,My wild little loving song says!

YYOUR bays shall all men bring,And flowers the children strew you.Once, as I stood in a thick west wood,I took from a fissure a precious thing,The homage whereof be to you!

A thing pearl-pale, yet stungWith fire, as the morning’s beam is;Hid underground thro’ a solar round,Hardy and fragile, antique and young,More exquisite than a dream is.

No rose had so bright birth;No gem of romance surpassed it,By a minstrel-knight, for his maid’s delight,Borne from the moon-burnt marge of the earth,Where Paynim breakers cast it.

Rude-named, memorial, quaint,The dews and the darkness mould it:Scarce twice in an age is our heritageThis glory and mystery without taint.Dear Stevenson, do you hold it

A text of grace, ah! muchBeyond what the praising throng say:Only your art is its peer at heart,Only your touch is a wonder such,My wild little loving song says!

DDOWN the long road bent and brown,Youth, that dearly loves a vision,Ventures to the gates Elysian,As a palmer from the town,Coming not so late, so far,Rocks and birches! for your story,Nor to prate of vanished gloryWhere of old was quenched a star;Where, of old, in lapse of toil,Time, that has for weeds a dower,Bade the supersensual flowerStarve in our New England soil.But to Youth, whose radiant eyesShatter mists of grief and daunting,Lost glad voices still are chanting’Neath those unremaining skies;Still the dreams of fellowshipBeat their wings of aspiration;And a smile of soft elationTrembles from his haughty lip,If another dare derideHopes heroic snapped and parted,Disillusion so high-hearted,All success is mean beside!

DDOWN the long road bent and brown,Youth, that dearly loves a vision,Ventures to the gates Elysian,As a palmer from the town,

Coming not so late, so far,Rocks and birches! for your story,Nor to prate of vanished gloryWhere of old was quenched a star;

Where, of old, in lapse of toil,Time, that has for weeds a dower,Bade the supersensual flowerStarve in our New England soil.

But to Youth, whose radiant eyesShatter mists of grief and daunting,Lost glad voices still are chanting’Neath those unremaining skies;Still the dreams of fellowshipBeat their wings of aspiration;And a smile of soft elationTrembles from his haughty lip,

If another dare derideHopes heroic snapped and parted,Disillusion so high-hearted,All success is mean beside!

M‘MY times are in Thy hands!’It rumbles from the sea;It jingles ever, inland far,From the reddening rowan-tree.Let me not sit inert,Let me not be afraid!Teach me to dare and to resistLike the first mortal made,To whom of fate’s dread strengthNo sickening rumors ran;Who with whatever grim eventGrappled, as man with man.Seal to my utmost ageWhat now my youth hath known:‘My times are in Thy hands,’ O most!When wholly in my own.

M‘MY times are in Thy hands!’It rumbles from the sea;It jingles ever, inland far,From the reddening rowan-tree.

Let me not sit inert,Let me not be afraid!Teach me to dare and to resistLike the first mortal made,

To whom of fate’s dread strengthNo sickening rumors ran;Who with whatever grim eventGrappled, as man with man.

Seal to my utmost ageWhat now my youth hath known:‘My times are in Thy hands,’ O most!When wholly in my own.

TTHE spring being at her blessed carpentry,This morning makes a stem, this noon a leaf,And jewels her sparse greenery with a bud;Fostress of happy growth is she. But thou,O too disdainful spirit, or too shy!Passive dost thou inhabit, like a mole,The porch elect of darkness; for thy tradeIs underground, a barren industry,Shivering true ardor on the nether air,Shaping the thousandth tendril, and all yearWebbing the silver nothings to and fro.What wonder if the gardener think thee dead,When every punctual neighbor-root now goesAdventurously skyward for a flower?Up, laggard! climb thine inch; thyself fulfil;Thou only hast no sign, no pageantry,Save these fine gropings: soon from thy small plotThe seasonable sunshine steals away.

UUNTO the constant heart whom saints befriendAfar in peace, what were our gaudy praise?His course is ended, and his faith is kept.Honor in silence to that memory! sweetEqually in the forum of the schools,And in the sufferer’s hovel. His, threefold,The lowliness of Isai’s chosen son,And zeal that fired the warring Macchabee,About him like a wedding-garment, wornThe day of his acceptance; and we knowThat for the sake of some such soul as this,—So brave, so clean, compassionate and just,Alert in its most meek security,—Love beareth yet with all that stains the world.

PPAST the cold gates, a wraith without a name,Sullen and withered, like a thing half-tameStill for its jungle moaning, came by night,Before the Judgment’s awful Angel came.‘Answer, Immortal! at my high decreeGlory or shame shall flood thee as the sea:What of the power, the skill, the graciousness,The star-strong soul the Lord hath lent to thee?’But the lone spectre raised a mournful hand:‘Call me not that! Release me from this land!What words are Heaven and Hell? They fall on meAs on a sphere the fooled and slipping sand.‘Discerning, thou the good mayst yet belie,By some last test, the sinner sanctify.My guilt is neutral-safe, like innocence:No boon nor bane of deathless days gain I,‘Whose life is hollow shell and broken bowl,Of all which was its treasury, the wholeUtterly, vilely squandered. O most Just!Put down thy scales: for I have spent my soul.’

PPAST the cold gates, a wraith without a name,Sullen and withered, like a thing half-tameStill for its jungle moaning, came by night,Before the Judgment’s awful Angel came.

‘Answer, Immortal! at my high decreeGlory or shame shall flood thee as the sea:What of the power, the skill, the graciousness,The star-strong soul the Lord hath lent to thee?’

But the lone spectre raised a mournful hand:‘Call me not that! Release me from this land!What words are Heaven and Hell? They fall on meAs on a sphere the fooled and slipping sand.

‘Discerning, thou the good mayst yet belie,By some last test, the sinner sanctify.My guilt is neutral-safe, like innocence:No boon nor bane of deathless days gain I,

‘Whose life is hollow shell and broken bowl,Of all which was its treasury, the wholeUtterly, vilely squandered. O most Just!Put down thy scales: for I have spent my soul.’

YYOU sang, you sang! you mountain brookScarce by your tangly banks held in,As running from a rocky nook,You leaped the world, the sea to win,Sun-bright past many a foamy crook,And headlong as a javelin.Now men do check and still your courseTo serve a village enterprise,And wheelward drive your sullen force,What wonder, slave! that in no wiseBreaks from you, pooled ’mid reeds and gorse,The voice you had in Paradise?

Now men do check and still your courseTo serve a village enterprise,And wheelward drive your sullen force,What wonder, slave! that in no wiseBreaks from you, pooled ’mid reeds and gorse,The voice you had in Paradise?

IICOME where the wry road leadsThro’ the pines and the alder scents,Sated of books, with a start,Sharp on the gang to-day:Scarce see the Romany steeds,Scarce hear the flap of the tents,When hillo! my heart, my heartIs out of its leash, and away.Gypsies, gypsies, the wholeTatterdemalion crew!Brown and sly and severeWith curious trades in hand.A string snaps in my soul,The one high answer dueIf an exile chance to hearThe songs of his fatherland.... To be abroad with the rain,And at home with the forest hush,With the crag, and the flower-urn,And the wan sleek mist upcurled;To break the lens and the plane,To burn the pen and the brush,And, clean and alive, returnInto the old wild world!...How is it? O wind that bearsThe arrow from its mark,The sea-bird from the sea,The moth from his midnight lamp,Fate’s self, thou mocker of prayers!Whirl up from the mighty dark,And even so, even meBlow far from the gypsy camp!

Gypsies, gypsies, the wholeTatterdemalion crew!Brown and sly and severeWith curious trades in hand.A string snaps in my soul,The one high answer dueIf an exile chance to hearThe songs of his fatherland.

... To be abroad with the rain,And at home with the forest hush,With the crag, and the flower-urn,And the wan sleek mist upcurled;To break the lens and the plane,To burn the pen and the brush,And, clean and alive, returnInto the old wild world!...

How is it? O wind that bearsThe arrow from its mark,The sea-bird from the sea,The moth from his midnight lamp,Fate’s self, thou mocker of prayers!Whirl up from the mighty dark,And even so, even meBlow far from the gypsy camp!

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