Chapter 4

Yestermorn the air was dryAs the winds of Araby,While the sun, with pitiless heat,Glared upon the glaring street,And the meadow fountains sealed,Till the people everywhere,And the cattle in the field,And the birds in middle air,And the thirsty little flowers,Sent to heaven a fainting prayerFor the blessed summer showers.Not in vain the prayer was said;For at sunset, overhead,Sailing from the gorgeous West,Came the pioneers, abreast,Of a wondrous argosy,—The Armada of the sky!Far along I saw them sail,Wafted by an upper gale;Saw them, on their lustrous route,Fling a thousand banners out:Yellow, violet, crimson, blue,Orange, sapphire,—every hueThat the gates of Heaven put on,To the sainted eyes of John,In that hallowed Patmos isleTheir skyey pennons wore; and whileI drank the glory of the sightSunset faded into night.Then diverging, far and wide,To the dim horizon’s side,Silently and swiftly there,Every galleon of the air,Manned by some celestial crew,Out its precious cargo threw,And the gentle summer rainCooled the fevered Earth again.Through the night I heard it fallTenderly and musical;And this morning not a sighOf wind uplifts the briony leaves,But the ashen-tinted skyStill for earthly turmoil grieves,While the melody of the rain,Dropping on the window-pane,On the lilac and the rose,Round us all its pleasance throws,Till our souls are yielded whollyTo its constant melancholy,And, like the burden of its song,Passionate moments glide along.Pinks and hyacinths perfumeAll our garden-fronted room;Hither, close beside me, Love!Do not whisper, do not move.Here we two will softly stay,Side by side, the livelong day.Lean thy head upon my breast:Ever shall it give thee rest,Ever would I gaze to meetEyes of thine up-glancing, Sweet!What enchanted dreams are ours!While the murmur of the showersDropping on the tranquil ground,Dropping on the leaves and flowers,Wraps our yearning souls aroundIn the drapery of its sound.Still the plenteous streamlets fall:Here two hearts are all in allTo each other; and they beatWith no evanescent heat,Put softly, steadily, hour by hour,With the calm, melodious powerOf the gentle summer rain,That in Heaven so long hath lain,And from out that shoreless seaPours its blessings tenderly.Freer yet its currents swell!Here are streams that flow as well,Rivulets of the constant heart;But a little space apartGlide they now, and soon shall run,Love-united, into one.It shall chance, in future days,That again the lurid raysOf that hidden sun shall shineOn the floweret and the vine,And again the meadow-springsFly away on misty wings:But no glare of Fate adverseShall on us achieve its curse,Never any baneful gleamWaste our clear, perennial stream;For its fountains lie belowThat malign and ominous glow,—Lie in shadowy grottoes cool,Where all kindly spirits rule;Calmly ever shall it flowToward the waters of the sea,—That serene Eternity!

Yestermorn the air was dry

As the winds of Araby,

While the sun, with pitiless heat,

Glared upon the glaring street,

And the meadow fountains sealed,

Till the people everywhere,

And the cattle in the field,

And the birds in middle air,

And the thirsty little flowers,

Sent to heaven a fainting prayer

For the blessed summer showers.

Not in vain the prayer was said;For at sunset, overhead,Sailing from the gorgeous West,Came the pioneers, abreast,Of a wondrous argosy,—The Armada of the sky!Far along I saw them sail,Wafted by an upper gale;Saw them, on their lustrous route,Fling a thousand banners out:Yellow, violet, crimson, blue,Orange, sapphire,—every hueThat the gates of Heaven put on,To the sainted eyes of John,In that hallowed Patmos isleTheir skyey pennons wore; and whileI drank the glory of the sightSunset faded into night.

Not in vain the prayer was said;

For at sunset, overhead,

Sailing from the gorgeous West,

Came the pioneers, abreast,

Of a wondrous argosy,—

The Armada of the sky!

Far along I saw them sail,

Wafted by an upper gale;

Saw them, on their lustrous route,

Fling a thousand banners out:

Yellow, violet, crimson, blue,

Orange, sapphire,—every hue

That the gates of Heaven put on,

To the sainted eyes of John,

In that hallowed Patmos isle

Their skyey pennons wore; and while

I drank the glory of the sight

Sunset faded into night.

Then diverging, far and wide,To the dim horizon’s side,Silently and swiftly there,Every galleon of the air,Manned by some celestial crew,Out its precious cargo threw,And the gentle summer rainCooled the fevered Earth again.

Then diverging, far and wide,

To the dim horizon’s side,

Silently and swiftly there,

Every galleon of the air,

Manned by some celestial crew,

Out its precious cargo threw,

And the gentle summer rain

Cooled the fevered Earth again.

Through the night I heard it fallTenderly and musical;And this morning not a sighOf wind uplifts the briony leaves,But the ashen-tinted skyStill for earthly turmoil grieves,While the melody of the rain,Dropping on the window-pane,On the lilac and the rose,Round us all its pleasance throws,Till our souls are yielded whollyTo its constant melancholy,And, like the burden of its song,Passionate moments glide along.

Through the night I heard it fall

Tenderly and musical;

And this morning not a sigh

Of wind uplifts the briony leaves,

But the ashen-tinted sky

Still for earthly turmoil grieves,

While the melody of the rain,

Dropping on the window-pane,

On the lilac and the rose,

Round us all its pleasance throws,

Till our souls are yielded wholly

To its constant melancholy,

And, like the burden of its song,

Passionate moments glide along.

Pinks and hyacinths perfumeAll our garden-fronted room;Hither, close beside me, Love!Do not whisper, do not move.Here we two will softly stay,Side by side, the livelong day.Lean thy head upon my breast:Ever shall it give thee rest,Ever would I gaze to meetEyes of thine up-glancing, Sweet!What enchanted dreams are ours!While the murmur of the showersDropping on the tranquil ground,Dropping on the leaves and flowers,Wraps our yearning souls aroundIn the drapery of its sound.

Pinks and hyacinths perfume

All our garden-fronted room;

Hither, close beside me, Love!

Do not whisper, do not move.

Here we two will softly stay,

Side by side, the livelong day.

Lean thy head upon my breast:

Ever shall it give thee rest,

Ever would I gaze to meet

Eyes of thine up-glancing, Sweet!

What enchanted dreams are ours!

While the murmur of the showers

Dropping on the tranquil ground,

Dropping on the leaves and flowers,

Wraps our yearning souls around

In the drapery of its sound.

Still the plenteous streamlets fall:Here two hearts are all in allTo each other; and they beatWith no evanescent heat,Put softly, steadily, hour by hour,With the calm, melodious powerOf the gentle summer rain,That in Heaven so long hath lain,And from out that shoreless seaPours its blessings tenderly.

Still the plenteous streamlets fall:

Here two hearts are all in all

To each other; and they beat

With no evanescent heat,

Put softly, steadily, hour by hour,

With the calm, melodious power

Of the gentle summer rain,

That in Heaven so long hath lain,

And from out that shoreless sea

Pours its blessings tenderly.

Freer yet its currents swell!Here are streams that flow as well,Rivulets of the constant heart;But a little space apartGlide they now, and soon shall run,Love-united, into one.It shall chance, in future days,That again the lurid raysOf that hidden sun shall shineOn the floweret and the vine,And again the meadow-springsFly away on misty wings:But no glare of Fate adverseShall on us achieve its curse,Never any baneful gleamWaste our clear, perennial stream;For its fountains lie belowThat malign and ominous glow,—Lie in shadowy grottoes cool,Where all kindly spirits rule;Calmly ever shall it flowToward the waters of the sea,—That serene Eternity!

Freer yet its currents swell!

Here are streams that flow as well,

Rivulets of the constant heart;

But a little space apart

Glide they now, and soon shall run,

Love-united, into one.

It shall chance, in future days,

That again the lurid rays

Of that hidden sun shall shine

On the floweret and the vine,

And again the meadow-springs

Fly away on misty wings:

But no glare of Fate adverse

Shall on us achieve its curse,

Never any baneful gleam

Waste our clear, perennial stream;

For its fountains lie below

That malign and ominous glow,—

Lie in shadowy grottoes cool,

Where all kindly spirits rule;

Calmly ever shall it flow

Toward the waters of the sea,—

That serene Eternity!

Crouch no more by the ivied walls,Weep no longer over her grave,Strew no flowers when evening falls:Idly you lost what angels gave!Sunbeams cover that silent moundWith a warmer hue than your roses’ red;To-morrow’s rain will bedew the groundWith a purer stream than the tears you shed.But neither the sweets of the scattered flowers,Nor the morning sunlight’s soft command,Nor all the songs of the summer showers,Can charm her back from that distant land.Tenderest vows are ever too late!She, who has gone, can only knowThe cruel sorrow that was her fate,And the words that were a mortal woe.Earth to earth, and a vain despair;For the gentle spirit has flown away,And you can never her wrongs repair,Till ye meet again at the Judgment Day.

Crouch no more by the ivied walls,Weep no longer over her grave,Strew no flowers when evening falls:Idly you lost what angels gave!

Crouch no more by the ivied walls,

Weep no longer over her grave,

Strew no flowers when evening falls:

Idly you lost what angels gave!

Sunbeams cover that silent moundWith a warmer hue than your roses’ red;To-morrow’s rain will bedew the groundWith a purer stream than the tears you shed.

Sunbeams cover that silent mound

With a warmer hue than your roses’ red;

To-morrow’s rain will bedew the ground

With a purer stream than the tears you shed.

But neither the sweets of the scattered flowers,Nor the morning sunlight’s soft command,Nor all the songs of the summer showers,Can charm her back from that distant land.

But neither the sweets of the scattered flowers,

Nor the morning sunlight’s soft command,

Nor all the songs of the summer showers,

Can charm her back from that distant land.

Tenderest vows are ever too late!She, who has gone, can only knowThe cruel sorrow that was her fate,And the words that were a mortal woe.

Tenderest vows are ever too late!

She, who has gone, can only know

The cruel sorrow that was her fate,

And the words that were a mortal woe.

Earth to earth, and a vain despair;For the gentle spirit has flown away,And you can never her wrongs repair,Till ye meet again at the Judgment Day.

Earth to earth, and a vain despair;

For the gentle spirit has flown away,

And you can never her wrongs repair,

Till ye meet again at the Judgment Day.

Voice of the western wind!Thou singest from afar,Rich with the music of a landWhere all my memories are;But in thy song I only hearThe echo of a toneThat fell divinely on my earIn days forever flown.Star of the western sky!Thou beamest from afar,With lustre caught from eyes I knew,Whose orbs were each a star;But, oh, those eyes—too wildly bright—No more eclipse thine own,And never shall I find the lightOf days forever flown!

Voice of the western wind!Thou singest from afar,Rich with the music of a landWhere all my memories are;But in thy song I only hearThe echo of a toneThat fell divinely on my earIn days forever flown.

Voice of the western wind!

Thou singest from afar,

Rich with the music of a land

Where all my memories are;

But in thy song I only hear

The echo of a tone

That fell divinely on my ear

In days forever flown.

Star of the western sky!Thou beamest from afar,With lustre caught from eyes I knew,Whose orbs were each a star;But, oh, those eyes—too wildly bright—No more eclipse thine own,And never shall I find the lightOf days forever flown!

Star of the western sky!

Thou beamest from afar,

With lustre caught from eyes I knew,

Whose orbs were each a star;

But, oh, those eyes—too wildly bright—

No more eclipse thine own,

And never shall I find the light

Of days forever flown!

Just at sunrise, when the land-breeze cooled the fevered air once more,From a restless couch I wandered to the sounding ocean shore;Strolling down through furrowed sand-hills, while the splendor of the dayFlashed across the trembling waters to the West and far away.There I saw, in distant moorings, many an anchored vessel tall;Heard with cheery morning voices sailor unto sailor call.Crowned with trailing plumes of sable, right afront my standing-placeMoved a swarthy ocean-steamer in her storm-resisting grace.Prophet-like, she clove the waters toward the ancient mother-land,And I heard her clamorous engine and the echo of command,While the long Atlantic billows to my feet came rolling on,With the multitudinous music of a thousand ages gone.There I stood, with careless ankles half in sand and half in spray,Till the baleful mist of midnight from my being passed away;Then, with eager inhalations opening all my mantle wide,Felt my spirit rise exultant with the rising of the tide;Felt the joyous morning breezes run afresh through every vein,Till the natural pulse of manhood beat the call-to-arms again.Then came utterance self-condemning,—oh, how wild with sudden scornOf the chain that held me circling in a little round forlorn!Of the sloth which, like a vapor, hugs the dull, insensate heart,That can act in meek submission to the lowness of its part,—In the broad terrestrial drama play the herald or the clown,While the warrior wins his garlands and the monarch wears his crown!“Shame” I said, “upon the craven who can rest, content to savePaltry handfuls of the riches that his guardian-angel gave!Shame upon all listless dreamers early hiding from the strife,Sated with some little gleaning of the harvest-fields of life!Shame upon God’s toiling thinkers, who make profit of their brains,Getting store of scornful pittance for their slow-decaying pains!Give me purpose, steadfast purpose, and the grandeur of a soulBorn to lead the van of armies or a people to control.Let me float away and ever, from this shore of bog and mire,On the mounting waves of effort, buoyed by the soul’s desire!Would that it were mine to govern yon large wonder of our time:Such a life were worth the living! thus to sail through every clime,From a hundred spicy shorelands bearing treasures manifold;Foremost to achieve discovery of the peerless lands of gold;Or to thrid the crashing hummocks for the silent Northern Pole,And those solemn open waters that beyond the ice-plains roll,—Cold and shining sea of ages! like a silver fillet setOn the Earth’s eternal forehead, for her bridal coronet.Or to close with some tall frigate, for my country and the right,Gunwale grinding into gunwale through the rolling cloud of fight.When the din of cannonading and the jarring war should cease,From the lion’s mouth of battle there should flow the sweets of peace.I should count repose in cities from my seventy years a loss,—Resting only on the waters, like the dusk-winged albatross.I should lay the wire-wrought cable—a ghostly depth below—Along the marly summit of the plummet-found plateau;To the old Antipodes with the olive branch should roam,Joining swart Mongolian races to the ranks of Christendom.Oftentimes our stately presence in a tyrant’s port should saveCaptives, rash in freedom-loving, from the dungeon and the grave;And a hymn should greet our coming, far across the orient sea,Like the glad apostles’ anthem, when an angel set them free.Such the nobler life heroic! life which ancient Homer sungOf the sinewy Grecian worthies, when the blithesome Earth was young,And a hundred marvellous legends lay about the misty landWhere the wanton Sirens carolled and the cliffs of Scylla stand.How their lusty strokes made answer, when Ulysses held the helm,And with subtle words of wisdom spake of many a wondrous realm!Neither Circè, nor the languor of enchanted nights and daysSoothed their eager-eyed disquiet,—tamed their venturous, epic ways;And the dread Sicilian monster, in his cavern by the shore,Felt the shadow of their coming, and was blind for evermore.So lived all those stalwart captains of the loyal Saxon blood,Grasping morsels of adventure as an eagle grasps his food;Fought till death for queen and country, hating Antichrist and Spain;Sacked the rich Castilian cities of the glittering western main;Hacked and hewed the molten idols of each gray cathedral pile,And with Carthaginian silver dowered the virgin English isle.Up and down the proud Antilles still the ringing echoes go:Ho! a Raleigh! Ho! a Drake!—and, forever,Westward Ho!Why should not my later pæan catch the swell of that refrain,And, with bursts of fresh endeavor, send it down the age again?But I know, that, while the mariner wafts along the golden year,Broader continents of action open up in every sphere.And I deem those noble also, who, with strong persuasive art,Strike the chords of aspiration in a people’s lyric heart.If in mine—of all republics the Atlantis and supreme—There be little cause for mouthing on the old, undying theme—Yet I falter while I say it:—ours of every crime the worst!For the long revenge of Heaven crying loud and calling first:But if fiery Carolina and all the sensual South,Like the world before the deluge, laugh to scorn the warning mouth,—In the lap of hoary Europe lie her children ill at rest,Reaching hands of supplication to their brethren of the West;Pale about the lifeless fountain of their ancient freedom, waitTill the angel move its waters and avenge their stricken state.Let me then, a new crusader, to the eastward set my face,Wake the fires of old tradition on each sacred altar-place,Till a trodden people rouse them, with a clamor as divineAs the winds of autumn roaring through the clumps of forest-pine.I myself would seize their banner; they should follow where it led,To the triumph of the victors or the pallor of the dead.It were better than to conquer—from the light of life to goWith such words as once were uttered, off the isle of Floreo:Here die I, Sir Richard Grenvile, of a free and joyful mood:Ending earth for God and honor, as a valiant soldier should!But my present life—what is it? mated, housed, like other men;Thoughtful of the cost of feeding, valiant only with the pen;Lying, walled about with custom, on an iron bed of creeds;Peering out through grated windows at the joy my spirit needs.And I hear the sound of chanting,—mailed men are passing by;Crumble, walls, and loosen, fetters! I will join them, ere I die!”So the sleeping thoughts of boyhood oped their eyes and newly stirred,And my muscles cried for usage, till the man their plainings heard:While the star that lit me ever in the dark and thorny ways,Mine by natal consecration, by the choice of after days,—Seen through all the sorrow thickening round the hopes of younger years,—Rayless grew, and left me groping in the valley of my tears.Seaward now the steamer hovered; seaward far her pennons trailed,Where the blueness of the heavens at the clear horizon paled;Where the mingled sky and water faded into fairy-land,Smaller than her tiny model, deftly launched from childhood’s hand.With a statelier swell and longer, up the glacis of the shore,Came the waves that leapt so freshly in their youth, an hour before.So I made an end and, turning, reached a scallop-crested rock,In the stormy spring-tides hurling back the tumult of their shock.There reclining, gazed a moment at the pebbles by my feet,Left behind the billowy armies on their oceanward retreat;Thousands lying close together, where the hosts a passage wore,Many-hued, and tesselated in a quaint mosaic floor.Thinking then upon their fitness,—each adjusted to its place,Fairly strewn, and smoothed by Nature with her own exceeding grace,—All at once some unseen warder drew the curtains wide apart,That awhile had cast their shadow on the picture of my heart;Told me—“Thou thyself hast said it; in thy calling be of cheer:Broader continents of action open up in every sphere!Hold thy lot as great as any: each shall magnify his own,Each shall find his time to enter, though unheralded and lone,On the inner life’s arena—there to sound his battle-cry,Self with self in secret tourney, underneath the silent sky.Strong of faith in that mute umpire, some have conquered, and withstoodAll the pangs of long endurance, the dear pains of fortitude;Felt a harsh misapprehension gall the wounds of martyrdom;In the present rancor measured even the scorn of days to come;Known that never should the whiteness of their virtue shine revealed,Never should the truer Future rub the tarnish from the shield.That diviner abnegation hath not yet been asked of thee:Art thou able to attain it, if perchance it were to be?O, our feeble tests of greatness! Look for one so calm of soulAs to take the even chalice of his life and drink the whole.Noble deeds are held in honor, but the wide world sorely needsHearts of patience to unravel this,—the worth of common deeds.”As the darkened earth forever to the morning turns again;As the dreaming soldier, after all the perilous campaign,Struggling long with horse and rider, in his sleep smites fiercely out,And, with sudden pang awaking, through the darkness peers about,—Hearing but the crickets chirrup loud, beneath his chimney-stone,Feeling but the warm heart throbbing, in the form beside his own,—Then to knowledge of his hamlet, dearer for the toil he knows,Comes at last, content to nestle in the sweets of his repose,So fell I, from those high fancies, to the quiet of a heartKnowing well how Duty maketh each one’s share the better part.As again I looked about me—North and South, and East and West—Now of all the wide world over still my haven seemed the best.Calm, and slowly lifting upward, rose the eastern glory higher,Gilding sea, and shore, and vessel, and the city-crowning spire.Then the sailors shook their canvas to the dryness of the sun,And along the harbor-channel glided schooners, one by one.At the last I sought my cottage; there, before the garden gate,By the lilac, stood my darling, looking for her truant mate.Stooping at the porch, we entered;—where the morning meal was laid,Turning over holy pages, one as pure and holy played,—Little Paul, who links more firmly our two hearts than clasp of gold;And I caught a blessed sentence, while I took him to my hold:“Peace,” it said, “O restless spirit, eager as the climbing wave!With my peace there flows a largesse such as monarchs never gave.”

Just at sunrise, when the land-breeze cooled the fevered air once more,

From a restless couch I wandered to the sounding ocean shore;

Strolling down through furrowed sand-hills, while the splendor of the day

Flashed across the trembling waters to the West and far away.

There I saw, in distant moorings, many an anchored vessel tall;

Heard with cheery morning voices sailor unto sailor call.

Crowned with trailing plumes of sable, right afront my standing-place

Moved a swarthy ocean-steamer in her storm-resisting grace.

Prophet-like, she clove the waters toward the ancient mother-land,

And I heard her clamorous engine and the echo of command,

While the long Atlantic billows to my feet came rolling on,

With the multitudinous music of a thousand ages gone.

There I stood, with careless ankles half in sand and half in spray,Till the baleful mist of midnight from my being passed away;Then, with eager inhalations opening all my mantle wide,Felt my spirit rise exultant with the rising of the tide;Felt the joyous morning breezes run afresh through every vein,Till the natural pulse of manhood beat the call-to-arms again.Then came utterance self-condemning,—oh, how wild with sudden scornOf the chain that held me circling in a little round forlorn!Of the sloth which, like a vapor, hugs the dull, insensate heart,That can act in meek submission to the lowness of its part,—In the broad terrestrial drama play the herald or the clown,While the warrior wins his garlands and the monarch wears his crown!

There I stood, with careless ankles half in sand and half in spray,

Till the baleful mist of midnight from my being passed away;

Then, with eager inhalations opening all my mantle wide,

Felt my spirit rise exultant with the rising of the tide;

Felt the joyous morning breezes run afresh through every vein,

Till the natural pulse of manhood beat the call-to-arms again.

Then came utterance self-condemning,—oh, how wild with sudden scorn

Of the chain that held me circling in a little round forlorn!

Of the sloth which, like a vapor, hugs the dull, insensate heart,

That can act in meek submission to the lowness of its part,—

In the broad terrestrial drama play the herald or the clown,

While the warrior wins his garlands and the monarch wears his crown!

“Shame” I said, “upon the craven who can rest, content to savePaltry handfuls of the riches that his guardian-angel gave!Shame upon all listless dreamers early hiding from the strife,Sated with some little gleaning of the harvest-fields of life!Shame upon God’s toiling thinkers, who make profit of their brains,Getting store of scornful pittance for their slow-decaying pains!Give me purpose, steadfast purpose, and the grandeur of a soulBorn to lead the van of armies or a people to control.Let me float away and ever, from this shore of bog and mire,On the mounting waves of effort, buoyed by the soul’s desire!Would that it were mine to govern yon large wonder of our time:Such a life were worth the living! thus to sail through every clime,From a hundred spicy shorelands bearing treasures manifold;Foremost to achieve discovery of the peerless lands of gold;Or to thrid the crashing hummocks for the silent Northern Pole,And those solemn open waters that beyond the ice-plains roll,—Cold and shining sea of ages! like a silver fillet setOn the Earth’s eternal forehead, for her bridal coronet.Or to close with some tall frigate, for my country and the right,Gunwale grinding into gunwale through the rolling cloud of fight.When the din of cannonading and the jarring war should cease,From the lion’s mouth of battle there should flow the sweets of peace.I should count repose in cities from my seventy years a loss,—Resting only on the waters, like the dusk-winged albatross.I should lay the wire-wrought cable—a ghostly depth below—Along the marly summit of the plummet-found plateau;To the old Antipodes with the olive branch should roam,Joining swart Mongolian races to the ranks of Christendom.Oftentimes our stately presence in a tyrant’s port should saveCaptives, rash in freedom-loving, from the dungeon and the grave;And a hymn should greet our coming, far across the orient sea,Like the glad apostles’ anthem, when an angel set them free.

“Shame” I said, “upon the craven who can rest, content to save

Paltry handfuls of the riches that his guardian-angel gave!

Shame upon all listless dreamers early hiding from the strife,

Sated with some little gleaning of the harvest-fields of life!

Shame upon God’s toiling thinkers, who make profit of their brains,

Getting store of scornful pittance for their slow-decaying pains!

Give me purpose, steadfast purpose, and the grandeur of a soul

Born to lead the van of armies or a people to control.

Let me float away and ever, from this shore of bog and mire,

On the mounting waves of effort, buoyed by the soul’s desire!

Would that it were mine to govern yon large wonder of our time:

Such a life were worth the living! thus to sail through every clime,

From a hundred spicy shorelands bearing treasures manifold;

Foremost to achieve discovery of the peerless lands of gold;

Or to thrid the crashing hummocks for the silent Northern Pole,

And those solemn open waters that beyond the ice-plains roll,—

Cold and shining sea of ages! like a silver fillet set

On the Earth’s eternal forehead, for her bridal coronet.

Or to close with some tall frigate, for my country and the right,

Gunwale grinding into gunwale through the rolling cloud of fight.

When the din of cannonading and the jarring war should cease,

From the lion’s mouth of battle there should flow the sweets of peace.

I should count repose in cities from my seventy years a loss,—

Resting only on the waters, like the dusk-winged albatross.

I should lay the wire-wrought cable—a ghostly depth below—

Along the marly summit of the plummet-found plateau;

To the old Antipodes with the olive branch should roam,

Joining swart Mongolian races to the ranks of Christendom.

Oftentimes our stately presence in a tyrant’s port should save

Captives, rash in freedom-loving, from the dungeon and the grave;

And a hymn should greet our coming, far across the orient sea,

Like the glad apostles’ anthem, when an angel set them free.

Such the nobler life heroic! life which ancient Homer sungOf the sinewy Grecian worthies, when the blithesome Earth was young,And a hundred marvellous legends lay about the misty landWhere the wanton Sirens carolled and the cliffs of Scylla stand.How their lusty strokes made answer, when Ulysses held the helm,And with subtle words of wisdom spake of many a wondrous realm!Neither Circè, nor the languor of enchanted nights and daysSoothed their eager-eyed disquiet,—tamed their venturous, epic ways;And the dread Sicilian monster, in his cavern by the shore,Felt the shadow of their coming, and was blind for evermore.

Such the nobler life heroic! life which ancient Homer sung

Of the sinewy Grecian worthies, when the blithesome Earth was young,

And a hundred marvellous legends lay about the misty land

Where the wanton Sirens carolled and the cliffs of Scylla stand.

How their lusty strokes made answer, when Ulysses held the helm,

And with subtle words of wisdom spake of many a wondrous realm!

Neither Circè, nor the languor of enchanted nights and days

Soothed their eager-eyed disquiet,—tamed their venturous, epic ways;

And the dread Sicilian monster, in his cavern by the shore,

Felt the shadow of their coming, and was blind for evermore.

So lived all those stalwart captains of the loyal Saxon blood,Grasping morsels of adventure as an eagle grasps his food;Fought till death for queen and country, hating Antichrist and Spain;Sacked the rich Castilian cities of the glittering western main;Hacked and hewed the molten idols of each gray cathedral pile,And with Carthaginian silver dowered the virgin English isle.Up and down the proud Antilles still the ringing echoes go:Ho! a Raleigh! Ho! a Drake!—and, forever,Westward Ho!

So lived all those stalwart captains of the loyal Saxon blood,

Grasping morsels of adventure as an eagle grasps his food;

Fought till death for queen and country, hating Antichrist and Spain;

Sacked the rich Castilian cities of the glittering western main;

Hacked and hewed the molten idols of each gray cathedral pile,

And with Carthaginian silver dowered the virgin English isle.

Up and down the proud Antilles still the ringing echoes go:

Ho! a Raleigh! Ho! a Drake!—and, forever,Westward Ho!

Why should not my later pæan catch the swell of that refrain,And, with bursts of fresh endeavor, send it down the age again?But I know, that, while the mariner wafts along the golden year,Broader continents of action open up in every sphere.And I deem those noble also, who, with strong persuasive art,Strike the chords of aspiration in a people’s lyric heart.If in mine—of all republics the Atlantis and supreme—There be little cause for mouthing on the old, undying theme—Yet I falter while I say it:—ours of every crime the worst!For the long revenge of Heaven crying loud and calling first:But if fiery Carolina and all the sensual South,Like the world before the deluge, laugh to scorn the warning mouth,—In the lap of hoary Europe lie her children ill at rest,Reaching hands of supplication to their brethren of the West;Pale about the lifeless fountain of their ancient freedom, waitTill the angel move its waters and avenge their stricken state.Let me then, a new crusader, to the eastward set my face,Wake the fires of old tradition on each sacred altar-place,Till a trodden people rouse them, with a clamor as divineAs the winds of autumn roaring through the clumps of forest-pine.I myself would seize their banner; they should follow where it led,To the triumph of the victors or the pallor of the dead.It were better than to conquer—from the light of life to goWith such words as once were uttered, off the isle of Floreo:Here die I, Sir Richard Grenvile, of a free and joyful mood:Ending earth for God and honor, as a valiant soldier should!But my present life—what is it? mated, housed, like other men;Thoughtful of the cost of feeding, valiant only with the pen;Lying, walled about with custom, on an iron bed of creeds;Peering out through grated windows at the joy my spirit needs.And I hear the sound of chanting,—mailed men are passing by;Crumble, walls, and loosen, fetters! I will join them, ere I die!”

Why should not my later pæan catch the swell of that refrain,

And, with bursts of fresh endeavor, send it down the age again?

But I know, that, while the mariner wafts along the golden year,

Broader continents of action open up in every sphere.

And I deem those noble also, who, with strong persuasive art,

Strike the chords of aspiration in a people’s lyric heart.

If in mine—of all republics the Atlantis and supreme—

There be little cause for mouthing on the old, undying theme—

Yet I falter while I say it:—ours of every crime the worst!

For the long revenge of Heaven crying loud and calling first:

But if fiery Carolina and all the sensual South,

Like the world before the deluge, laugh to scorn the warning mouth,—

In the lap of hoary Europe lie her children ill at rest,

Reaching hands of supplication to their brethren of the West;

Pale about the lifeless fountain of their ancient freedom, wait

Till the angel move its waters and avenge their stricken state.

Let me then, a new crusader, to the eastward set my face,

Wake the fires of old tradition on each sacred altar-place,

Till a trodden people rouse them, with a clamor as divine

As the winds of autumn roaring through the clumps of forest-pine.

I myself would seize their banner; they should follow where it led,

To the triumph of the victors or the pallor of the dead.

It were better than to conquer—from the light of life to go

With such words as once were uttered, off the isle of Floreo:

Here die I, Sir Richard Grenvile, of a free and joyful mood:

Ending earth for God and honor, as a valiant soldier should!

But my present life—what is it? mated, housed, like other men;

Thoughtful of the cost of feeding, valiant only with the pen;

Lying, walled about with custom, on an iron bed of creeds;

Peering out through grated windows at the joy my spirit needs.

And I hear the sound of chanting,—mailed men are passing by;

Crumble, walls, and loosen, fetters! I will join them, ere I die!”

So the sleeping thoughts of boyhood oped their eyes and newly stirred,And my muscles cried for usage, till the man their plainings heard:While the star that lit me ever in the dark and thorny ways,Mine by natal consecration, by the choice of after days,—Seen through all the sorrow thickening round the hopes of younger years,—Rayless grew, and left me groping in the valley of my tears.

So the sleeping thoughts of boyhood oped their eyes and newly stirred,

And my muscles cried for usage, till the man their plainings heard:

While the star that lit me ever in the dark and thorny ways,

Mine by natal consecration, by the choice of after days,—

Seen through all the sorrow thickening round the hopes of younger years,—

Rayless grew, and left me groping in the valley of my tears.

Seaward now the steamer hovered; seaward far her pennons trailed,Where the blueness of the heavens at the clear horizon paled;Where the mingled sky and water faded into fairy-land,Smaller than her tiny model, deftly launched from childhood’s hand.With a statelier swell and longer, up the glacis of the shore,Came the waves that leapt so freshly in their youth, an hour before.So I made an end and, turning, reached a scallop-crested rock,In the stormy spring-tides hurling back the tumult of their shock.There reclining, gazed a moment at the pebbles by my feet,Left behind the billowy armies on their oceanward retreat;Thousands lying close together, where the hosts a passage wore,Many-hued, and tesselated in a quaint mosaic floor.

Seaward now the steamer hovered; seaward far her pennons trailed,

Where the blueness of the heavens at the clear horizon paled;

Where the mingled sky and water faded into fairy-land,

Smaller than her tiny model, deftly launched from childhood’s hand.

With a statelier swell and longer, up the glacis of the shore,

Came the waves that leapt so freshly in their youth, an hour before.

So I made an end and, turning, reached a scallop-crested rock,

In the stormy spring-tides hurling back the tumult of their shock.

There reclining, gazed a moment at the pebbles by my feet,

Left behind the billowy armies on their oceanward retreat;

Thousands lying close together, where the hosts a passage wore,

Many-hued, and tesselated in a quaint mosaic floor.

Thinking then upon their fitness,—each adjusted to its place,Fairly strewn, and smoothed by Nature with her own exceeding grace,—All at once some unseen warder drew the curtains wide apart,That awhile had cast their shadow on the picture of my heart;Told me—“Thou thyself hast said it; in thy calling be of cheer:Broader continents of action open up in every sphere!Hold thy lot as great as any: each shall magnify his own,Each shall find his time to enter, though unheralded and lone,On the inner life’s arena—there to sound his battle-cry,Self with self in secret tourney, underneath the silent sky.Strong of faith in that mute umpire, some have conquered, and withstoodAll the pangs of long endurance, the dear pains of fortitude;Felt a harsh misapprehension gall the wounds of martyrdom;In the present rancor measured even the scorn of days to come;Known that never should the whiteness of their virtue shine revealed,Never should the truer Future rub the tarnish from the shield.That diviner abnegation hath not yet been asked of thee:Art thou able to attain it, if perchance it were to be?O, our feeble tests of greatness! Look for one so calm of soulAs to take the even chalice of his life and drink the whole.Noble deeds are held in honor, but the wide world sorely needsHearts of patience to unravel this,—the worth of common deeds.”

Thinking then upon their fitness,—each adjusted to its place,

Fairly strewn, and smoothed by Nature with her own exceeding grace,—

All at once some unseen warder drew the curtains wide apart,

That awhile had cast their shadow on the picture of my heart;

Told me—“Thou thyself hast said it; in thy calling be of cheer:

Broader continents of action open up in every sphere!

Hold thy lot as great as any: each shall magnify his own,

Each shall find his time to enter, though unheralded and lone,

On the inner life’s arena—there to sound his battle-cry,

Self with self in secret tourney, underneath the silent sky.

Strong of faith in that mute umpire, some have conquered, and withstood

All the pangs of long endurance, the dear pains of fortitude;

Felt a harsh misapprehension gall the wounds of martyrdom;

In the present rancor measured even the scorn of days to come;

Known that never should the whiteness of their virtue shine revealed,

Never should the truer Future rub the tarnish from the shield.

That diviner abnegation hath not yet been asked of thee:

Art thou able to attain it, if perchance it were to be?

O, our feeble tests of greatness! Look for one so calm of soul

As to take the even chalice of his life and drink the whole.

Noble deeds are held in honor, but the wide world sorely needs

Hearts of patience to unravel this,—the worth of common deeds.”

As the darkened earth forever to the morning turns again;As the dreaming soldier, after all the perilous campaign,Struggling long with horse and rider, in his sleep smites fiercely out,And, with sudden pang awaking, through the darkness peers about,—Hearing but the crickets chirrup loud, beneath his chimney-stone,Feeling but the warm heart throbbing, in the form beside his own,—Then to knowledge of his hamlet, dearer for the toil he knows,Comes at last, content to nestle in the sweets of his repose,So fell I, from those high fancies, to the quiet of a heartKnowing well how Duty maketh each one’s share the better part.As again I looked about me—North and South, and East and West—Now of all the wide world over still my haven seemed the best.

As the darkened earth forever to the morning turns again;

As the dreaming soldier, after all the perilous campaign,

Struggling long with horse and rider, in his sleep smites fiercely out,

And, with sudden pang awaking, through the darkness peers about,—

Hearing but the crickets chirrup loud, beneath his chimney-stone,

Feeling but the warm heart throbbing, in the form beside his own,—

Then to knowledge of his hamlet, dearer for the toil he knows,

Comes at last, content to nestle in the sweets of his repose,

So fell I, from those high fancies, to the quiet of a heart

Knowing well how Duty maketh each one’s share the better part.

As again I looked about me—North and South, and East and West—

Now of all the wide world over still my haven seemed the best.

Calm, and slowly lifting upward, rose the eastern glory higher,Gilding sea, and shore, and vessel, and the city-crowning spire.Then the sailors shook their canvas to the dryness of the sun,And along the harbor-channel glided schooners, one by one.At the last I sought my cottage; there, before the garden gate,By the lilac, stood my darling, looking for her truant mate.Stooping at the porch, we entered;—where the morning meal was laid,Turning over holy pages, one as pure and holy played,—Little Paul, who links more firmly our two hearts than clasp of gold;And I caught a blessed sentence, while I took him to my hold:“Peace,” it said, “O restless spirit, eager as the climbing wave!With my peace there flows a largesse such as monarchs never gave.”

Calm, and slowly lifting upward, rose the eastern glory higher,

Gilding sea, and shore, and vessel, and the city-crowning spire.

Then the sailors shook their canvas to the dryness of the sun,

And along the harbor-channel glided schooners, one by one.

At the last I sought my cottage; there, before the garden gate,

By the lilac, stood my darling, looking for her truant mate.

Stooping at the porch, we entered;—where the morning meal was laid,

Turning over holy pages, one as pure and holy played,—

Little Paul, who links more firmly our two hearts than clasp of gold;

And I caught a blessed sentence, while I took him to my hold:

“Peace,” it said, “O restless spirit, eager as the climbing wave!

With my peace there flows a largesse such as monarchs never gave.”

1857.

Vainly, O burning Poets!Ye wait for his inspiration,Even as kings of oldStood by the oracle-gates.Hasten back, he will say, hasten backTo your provinces far away!There, at my own good time,Will I send my answer to you.Are ye not kings of song?At last the god cometh!The air runs over with splendor;The fire leaps high on the altar;Melodious thunders shake the ground.Hark to the Delphic responses!Hark! it is the god!

Vainly, O burning Poets!

Ye wait for his inspiration,

Even as kings of old

Stood by the oracle-gates.

Hasten back, he will say, hasten back

To your provinces far away!

There, at my own good time,

Will I send my answer to you.

Are ye not kings of song?

At last the god cometh!

The air runs over with splendor;

The fire leaps high on the altar;

Melodious thunders shake the ground.

Hark to the Delphic responses!

Hark! it is the god!

To many a one there comes a daySo black with maledictions, theyHide every earthly hope away.In earlier woes the sufferer bore,Consolement entered at his door,And raised him gently from the floor.To this great anguish, newly come,All former sorrows, in their sum,Were but a faint exordium.His days and nights are full of groans;Sorely, and with a thousand moans,For many wanderings he atones.Old errors, vanquished for a space,Rise up to smite him in the faceAnd threaten him with new disgrace.And others, shadows of the first,From slanderous charnel-houses burst,Pursuing, cry,Thou art accurst!Dear, feeble voices ask for bread;The dross, for which he bowed his headSo long, has taken wings and fled.The strong resources of his healthHave softly slipt away by stealth:No future toil may bring him wealth.Dreading the shadow of his shame,False friends, who with the sunshine came,Forego the mention of his name.Thus on a fiery altar tost,The harvests of his life are lostIn one consuming holocaust.What can he, but to beat the air,And, from the depth of his despair,Cry “Is there respite anywhere?“Is Life but Death? Is God unjust?Shall all the castle of my trustDissolve, and crumble into dust?”There are, who, with a wild desireFor slumber, blinded by the fire,Sink in its ashes and expire.God pity them! too harsh a testHas made them falter; sore distrest,They barter everything for rest.But many, of a sterner mould,Themselves within themselves infold,Even make Death unloose his hold,Although it were a grateful thingTo drain the cup his heralds bring,And yield them to his ransoming;To quaff the calm, Lethean wave,—In passionless tenure of the graveForgetting all they could not save.What angels hold them up, amongThe ruins of their lives, so long?What visions make their spirits strong?In sackcloth, at the outer gate,They chant the burden of their fate,Yet are not wholly desolate.A blessed ray from darkness wonIt may be, even, to know the sunHath distant lands he shines upon;It may be that they deem it vileFor one to mount his funeral pile,Because the heavens cease to smile;That scorn of cowardice holds fast,Lighting the forehead to the last,Though all of bravery’s hopes are past.Perchance the sequence of an artLeads to a refuge for the heart,—A sanctuary far apart.It may be that, in dearest eyes,They see the light of azure skies,And keep their faith in Paradise.Thou, who dost feel Life’s vessel strandFull-length upon the shifting sand,And hearest breakers close at hand,Be strong and wait! nor let the strife,With which the winds and waves are rife,Disturb that sacred inner life.Anon thou shalt regain the shore,And walk—though naked, maimed, and sore—A nobler being than before!No lesser griefs shall work thee ill;No malice shall have power to kill:Of woe thy soul has drunk its fill.Tempests, that beat us to the clay,Drive many a lowering cloud away,And bring a clearer, holier day.The fire, that every hope consumes,Either the inmost soul entombsOr evermore the face illumes!Robes of asbestos do we wear;Before the memories we bear,The flames leap backward everywhere.

To many a one there comes a daySo black with maledictions, theyHide every earthly hope away.

To many a one there comes a day

So black with maledictions, they

Hide every earthly hope away.

In earlier woes the sufferer bore,Consolement entered at his door,And raised him gently from the floor.

In earlier woes the sufferer bore,

Consolement entered at his door,

And raised him gently from the floor.

To this great anguish, newly come,All former sorrows, in their sum,Were but a faint exordium.

To this great anguish, newly come,

All former sorrows, in their sum,

Were but a faint exordium.

His days and nights are full of groans;Sorely, and with a thousand moans,For many wanderings he atones.

His days and nights are full of groans;

Sorely, and with a thousand moans,

For many wanderings he atones.

Old errors, vanquished for a space,Rise up to smite him in the faceAnd threaten him with new disgrace.

Old errors, vanquished for a space,

Rise up to smite him in the face

And threaten him with new disgrace.

And others, shadows of the first,From slanderous charnel-houses burst,Pursuing, cry,Thou art accurst!

And others, shadows of the first,

From slanderous charnel-houses burst,

Pursuing, cry,Thou art accurst!

Dear, feeble voices ask for bread;The dross, for which he bowed his headSo long, has taken wings and fled.

Dear, feeble voices ask for bread;

The dross, for which he bowed his head

So long, has taken wings and fled.

The strong resources of his healthHave softly slipt away by stealth:No future toil may bring him wealth.

The strong resources of his health

Have softly slipt away by stealth:

No future toil may bring him wealth.

Dreading the shadow of his shame,False friends, who with the sunshine came,Forego the mention of his name.

Dreading the shadow of his shame,

False friends, who with the sunshine came,

Forego the mention of his name.

Thus on a fiery altar tost,The harvests of his life are lostIn one consuming holocaust.

Thus on a fiery altar tost,

The harvests of his life are lost

In one consuming holocaust.

What can he, but to beat the air,And, from the depth of his despair,Cry “Is there respite anywhere?

What can he, but to beat the air,

And, from the depth of his despair,

Cry “Is there respite anywhere?

“Is Life but Death? Is God unjust?Shall all the castle of my trustDissolve, and crumble into dust?”

“Is Life but Death? Is God unjust?

Shall all the castle of my trust

Dissolve, and crumble into dust?”

There are, who, with a wild desireFor slumber, blinded by the fire,Sink in its ashes and expire.

There are, who, with a wild desire

For slumber, blinded by the fire,

Sink in its ashes and expire.

God pity them! too harsh a testHas made them falter; sore distrest,They barter everything for rest.

God pity them! too harsh a test

Has made them falter; sore distrest,

They barter everything for rest.

But many, of a sterner mould,Themselves within themselves infold,Even make Death unloose his hold,

But many, of a sterner mould,

Themselves within themselves infold,

Even make Death unloose his hold,

Although it were a grateful thingTo drain the cup his heralds bring,And yield them to his ransoming;

Although it were a grateful thing

To drain the cup his heralds bring,

And yield them to his ransoming;

To quaff the calm, Lethean wave,—In passionless tenure of the graveForgetting all they could not save.

To quaff the calm, Lethean wave,—

In passionless tenure of the grave

Forgetting all they could not save.

What angels hold them up, amongThe ruins of their lives, so long?What visions make their spirits strong?

What angels hold them up, among

The ruins of their lives, so long?

What visions make their spirits strong?

In sackcloth, at the outer gate,They chant the burden of their fate,Yet are not wholly desolate.

In sackcloth, at the outer gate,

They chant the burden of their fate,

Yet are not wholly desolate.

A blessed ray from darkness wonIt may be, even, to know the sunHath distant lands he shines upon;

A blessed ray from darkness won

It may be, even, to know the sun

Hath distant lands he shines upon;

It may be that they deem it vileFor one to mount his funeral pile,Because the heavens cease to smile;

It may be that they deem it vile

For one to mount his funeral pile,

Because the heavens cease to smile;

That scorn of cowardice holds fast,Lighting the forehead to the last,Though all of bravery’s hopes are past.

That scorn of cowardice holds fast,

Lighting the forehead to the last,

Though all of bravery’s hopes are past.

Perchance the sequence of an artLeads to a refuge for the heart,—A sanctuary far apart.

Perchance the sequence of an art

Leads to a refuge for the heart,—

A sanctuary far apart.

It may be that, in dearest eyes,They see the light of azure skies,And keep their faith in Paradise.

It may be that, in dearest eyes,

They see the light of azure skies,

And keep their faith in Paradise.

Thou, who dost feel Life’s vessel strandFull-length upon the shifting sand,And hearest breakers close at hand,

Thou, who dost feel Life’s vessel strand

Full-length upon the shifting sand,

And hearest breakers close at hand,

Be strong and wait! nor let the strife,With which the winds and waves are rife,Disturb that sacred inner life.

Be strong and wait! nor let the strife,

With which the winds and waves are rife,

Disturb that sacred inner life.

Anon thou shalt regain the shore,And walk—though naked, maimed, and sore—A nobler being than before!

Anon thou shalt regain the shore,

And walk—though naked, maimed, and sore—

A nobler being than before!

No lesser griefs shall work thee ill;No malice shall have power to kill:Of woe thy soul has drunk its fill.

No lesser griefs shall work thee ill;

No malice shall have power to kill:

Of woe thy soul has drunk its fill.

Tempests, that beat us to the clay,Drive many a lowering cloud away,And bring a clearer, holier day.

Tempests, that beat us to the clay,

Drive many a lowering cloud away,

And bring a clearer, holier day.

The fire, that every hope consumes,Either the inmost soul entombsOr evermore the face illumes!

The fire, that every hope consumes,

Either the inmost soul entombs

Or evermore the face illumes!

Robes of asbestos do we wear;Before the memories we bear,The flames leap backward everywhere.

Robes of asbestos do we wear;

Before the memories we bear,

The flames leap backward everywhere.

Dear Friend and Teacher,—not by word alone,But by the plenteous virtues shining outAlong the zodiac of a good man’s life;Dear gentle friend! from one so loved as you,—Because so loving, and so finely aptIn tender ministry to a little flock,With whom you joy and suffer ... and, withal,So constant to the spirit of our timeThat I must hold you of a different sortFrom those dry lichens on the altar steps,Those mutes in surplices, school-trained to sinkThe ashes of their own experienceSo low, in doctrinal catacombs, that noneFind token they can love and mourn like us,—From such an one as you, I cannot brookWhat from these mummies were a pleasant draughtOf bitter hyssop—pleasant unto me,Drunk from a chalice worthier men have heldAnd emptied to the lees.I cannot brookThe shake o’ the head and earnest, sorrowing glance,Which often seem to say:—“Be wise in time!Give up the iron key that locks your heart.I grant you charity, and patient zeal,And something of a young, romantic loveFor what is good, as children love the fieldsAnd birds and babbling brooks, they know not why.You have your moral virtues, but you err:To err is fatal. O, my heart is faintLest that sweet prize I win should not be yours!”In some such wise I read your half-dropped thoughts;Yet wondrous compensation falls to all,And every soul has strongholds of its own,Invisible, yet answering to its needs.And even I may have a secret towerUp storm-cleft Pisgah, whence I see beyondJordan, and far across the happy plains,Where gleams the Holy City, like a queen,The crown of all our hopes and perfect faith.I may have gone somewhat within the veil,Though few repose serenely in the lightOf that divinest splendor, till they shine,With countenance aglow, like him of old,—Prophet and priest and warrior, all in one.But every human path leads on to God;He holds a myriad finer threads than gold,And strong as holy wishes, drawing usWith delicate tension upward to Himself.You see the strand that reaches down to you;Haply I see mine own, and make essayTo trace its glimmerings—up the shadowy hillsForever narrowing to that unknown sky.There grows a hedge about you pulpit-folk:You reasonex cathedra. Little gainHave we to clash in tourney on the leastOf points, wherewith you trammel down the Faith,It being, at outset, understood right wellBy lay knights-errant, that their Reverend foes,Fore-pledged to hold their own, will sound their trumps,Though spearless and unhorsed! Why take the field,When, at the best, both sides go bowing offWith mutual courtesy, and fair white flagsAfloat at camp, and every fight is drawn?As soon encounter statues, balanced wellUpon their granite, fashioned not to move,And drawing all mankind to hold in aweTheir grim persistence.If, indeed, I sinIn counting somewhat freely on that LoveFrom which, through rolling ages, worlds have sprung,And—last and best of all—the lords of worlds,Through type on type uplifted from the clay;If I have been exultant in the thoughtThat such humanity came so near to God,He held us as His children, and would findImperial progress through the halls of TimeFor every soul,—why, then, my crescent faithClings round the promise; if it spread beyond,You think, too far, I say that Peter sprangUpon the waves of surging Galilee,While all the eleven hugged the ship in fear:The waters were as stone unto his feetUntil he doubted, even then the ChristPut forth a blesséd hand, and drew him onTo closer knowledge!So, if it be mineFirst of us twain to pass the sable gates,That guard so well their mysteries, and thou,With some dear friend, may’st stand beside my grave,Speak no such words as these:—“Not long agoHis voice rang out as cheerly as mine own;And we were friends, and, far into the nights,Would analyze the wisdom of old daysBy all the tests of Science in her prime;Anon would tramp afield, to fruits and flowers,And the long prototypes of trees and beastsGraven in sandstone; so, at last, would come,Through lanes of talk, to that perennial tree,—The Tree of Life, on which redemption hangs.But there fell out of tune; we parted there,He bolstering up a creed too broad for me!I held him kindly for an ardent soul,Who lacked not skill to make his argumentSeem fair and specious. But he groped in doubt:His head and heart were young; he wandered off,And fell afoul of all those theoristsWho soften down our dear New England faithWith German talk of ‘Nature,’ ‘inner lightsAnd harmonies’: so, taken with the windOf those high-sounding terms, he spoke at large,And held discussion bravely till he died.Here sleep his ashes; where his soul may be,Myself, who loved him, do not care to think.”The ecstasy of Faith has no such fearsAs those you nurse for me! The marvellous love,Which folds the systems in a flood of light,Makes no crude works to shatter out of jointThrough all the future. O, believe, with me,For every instinct in these hearts of oursA full fruition hastens! O, believeThat promise greater than our greatest trustAnd loftiest aspiration! Tell thy friend,Beside my grave: “He did the best he could,With earnest spirit polishing the lensBy which he took the heavens in his ken,And through the empyrean sought for God;He caught, or thought he caught, from time to time,Bright glimpses of the Infinite, on whichHe fed in rapturous and quiet joy,That helped him keep a host of troubles down.He went his way,—a different path from mine,But took his place among the ranks of menWho toil and suffer. If, in sooth, it beReligion keeps us up, this man had that.God grant his yearnings were a living faith!Heaven lies above us: may we find him thereBeside the waters still, and crowned with palms!”

Dear Friend and Teacher,—not by word alone,

But by the plenteous virtues shining out

Along the zodiac of a good man’s life;

Dear gentle friend! from one so loved as you,—

Because so loving, and so finely apt

In tender ministry to a little flock,

With whom you joy and suffer ... and, withal,

So constant to the spirit of our time

That I must hold you of a different sort

From those dry lichens on the altar steps,

Those mutes in surplices, school-trained to sink

The ashes of their own experience

So low, in doctrinal catacombs, that none

Find token they can love and mourn like us,—

From such an one as you, I cannot brook

What from these mummies were a pleasant draught

Of bitter hyssop—pleasant unto me,

Drunk from a chalice worthier men have held

And emptied to the lees.

I cannot brookThe shake o’ the head and earnest, sorrowing glance,Which often seem to say:—“Be wise in time!Give up the iron key that locks your heart.I grant you charity, and patient zeal,And something of a young, romantic loveFor what is good, as children love the fieldsAnd birds and babbling brooks, they know not why.You have your moral virtues, but you err:To err is fatal. O, my heart is faintLest that sweet prize I win should not be yours!”

I cannot brook

The shake o’ the head and earnest, sorrowing glance,

Which often seem to say:—“Be wise in time!

Give up the iron key that locks your heart.

I grant you charity, and patient zeal,

And something of a young, romantic love

For what is good, as children love the fields

And birds and babbling brooks, they know not why.

You have your moral virtues, but you err:

To err is fatal. O, my heart is faint

Lest that sweet prize I win should not be yours!”

In some such wise I read your half-dropped thoughts;Yet wondrous compensation falls to all,And every soul has strongholds of its own,Invisible, yet answering to its needs.And even I may have a secret towerUp storm-cleft Pisgah, whence I see beyondJordan, and far across the happy plains,Where gleams the Holy City, like a queen,The crown of all our hopes and perfect faith.I may have gone somewhat within the veil,Though few repose serenely in the lightOf that divinest splendor, till they shine,With countenance aglow, like him of old,—Prophet and priest and warrior, all in one.But every human path leads on to God;He holds a myriad finer threads than gold,And strong as holy wishes, drawing usWith delicate tension upward to Himself.You see the strand that reaches down to you;Haply I see mine own, and make essayTo trace its glimmerings—up the shadowy hillsForever narrowing to that unknown sky.

In some such wise I read your half-dropped thoughts;

Yet wondrous compensation falls to all,

And every soul has strongholds of its own,

Invisible, yet answering to its needs.

And even I may have a secret tower

Up storm-cleft Pisgah, whence I see beyond

Jordan, and far across the happy plains,

Where gleams the Holy City, like a queen,

The crown of all our hopes and perfect faith.

I may have gone somewhat within the veil,

Though few repose serenely in the light

Of that divinest splendor, till they shine,

With countenance aglow, like him of old,—

Prophet and priest and warrior, all in one.

But every human path leads on to God;

He holds a myriad finer threads than gold,

And strong as holy wishes, drawing us

With delicate tension upward to Himself.

You see the strand that reaches down to you;

Haply I see mine own, and make essay

To trace its glimmerings—up the shadowy hills

Forever narrowing to that unknown sky.

There grows a hedge about you pulpit-folk:You reasonex cathedra. Little gainHave we to clash in tourney on the leastOf points, wherewith you trammel down the Faith,It being, at outset, understood right wellBy lay knights-errant, that their Reverend foes,Fore-pledged to hold their own, will sound their trumps,Though spearless and unhorsed! Why take the field,When, at the best, both sides go bowing offWith mutual courtesy, and fair white flagsAfloat at camp, and every fight is drawn?As soon encounter statues, balanced wellUpon their granite, fashioned not to move,And drawing all mankind to hold in aweTheir grim persistence.

There grows a hedge about you pulpit-folk:

You reasonex cathedra. Little gain

Have we to clash in tourney on the least

Of points, wherewith you trammel down the Faith,

It being, at outset, understood right well

By lay knights-errant, that their Reverend foes,

Fore-pledged to hold their own, will sound their trumps,

Though spearless and unhorsed! Why take the field,

When, at the best, both sides go bowing off

With mutual courtesy, and fair white flags

Afloat at camp, and every fight is drawn?

As soon encounter statues, balanced well

Upon their granite, fashioned not to move,

And drawing all mankind to hold in awe

Their grim persistence.

If, indeed, I sinIn counting somewhat freely on that LoveFrom which, through rolling ages, worlds have sprung,And—last and best of all—the lords of worlds,Through type on type uplifted from the clay;If I have been exultant in the thoughtThat such humanity came so near to God,He held us as His children, and would findImperial progress through the halls of TimeFor every soul,—why, then, my crescent faithClings round the promise; if it spread beyond,You think, too far, I say that Peter sprangUpon the waves of surging Galilee,While all the eleven hugged the ship in fear:The waters were as stone unto his feetUntil he doubted, even then the ChristPut forth a blesséd hand, and drew him onTo closer knowledge!

If, indeed, I sin

In counting somewhat freely on that Love

From which, through rolling ages, worlds have sprung,

And—last and best of all—the lords of worlds,

Through type on type uplifted from the clay;

If I have been exultant in the thought

That such humanity came so near to God,

He held us as His children, and would find

Imperial progress through the halls of Time

For every soul,—why, then, my crescent faith

Clings round the promise; if it spread beyond,

You think, too far, I say that Peter sprang

Upon the waves of surging Galilee,

While all the eleven hugged the ship in fear:

The waters were as stone unto his feet

Until he doubted, even then the Christ

Put forth a blesséd hand, and drew him on

To closer knowledge!

So, if it be mineFirst of us twain to pass the sable gates,That guard so well their mysteries, and thou,With some dear friend, may’st stand beside my grave,Speak no such words as these:—“Not long agoHis voice rang out as cheerly as mine own;And we were friends, and, far into the nights,Would analyze the wisdom of old daysBy all the tests of Science in her prime;Anon would tramp afield, to fruits and flowers,And the long prototypes of trees and beastsGraven in sandstone; so, at last, would come,Through lanes of talk, to that perennial tree,—The Tree of Life, on which redemption hangs.But there fell out of tune; we parted there,He bolstering up a creed too broad for me!I held him kindly for an ardent soul,Who lacked not skill to make his argumentSeem fair and specious. But he groped in doubt:His head and heart were young; he wandered off,And fell afoul of all those theoristsWho soften down our dear New England faithWith German talk of ‘Nature,’ ‘inner lightsAnd harmonies’: so, taken with the windOf those high-sounding terms, he spoke at large,And held discussion bravely till he died.Here sleep his ashes; where his soul may be,Myself, who loved him, do not care to think.”

So, if it be mine

First of us twain to pass the sable gates,

That guard so well their mysteries, and thou,

With some dear friend, may’st stand beside my grave,

Speak no such words as these:—“Not long ago

His voice rang out as cheerly as mine own;

And we were friends, and, far into the nights,

Would analyze the wisdom of old days

By all the tests of Science in her prime;

Anon would tramp afield, to fruits and flowers,

And the long prototypes of trees and beasts

Graven in sandstone; so, at last, would come,

Through lanes of talk, to that perennial tree,—

The Tree of Life, on which redemption hangs.

But there fell out of tune; we parted there,

He bolstering up a creed too broad for me!

I held him kindly for an ardent soul,

Who lacked not skill to make his argument

Seem fair and specious. But he groped in doubt:

His head and heart were young; he wandered off,

And fell afoul of all those theorists

Who soften down our dear New England faith

With German talk of ‘Nature,’ ‘inner lights

And harmonies’: so, taken with the wind

Of those high-sounding terms, he spoke at large,

And held discussion bravely till he died.

Here sleep his ashes; where his soul may be,

Myself, who loved him, do not care to think.”

The ecstasy of Faith has no such fearsAs those you nurse for me! The marvellous love,Which folds the systems in a flood of light,Makes no crude works to shatter out of jointThrough all the future. O, believe, with me,For every instinct in these hearts of oursA full fruition hastens! O, believeThat promise greater than our greatest trustAnd loftiest aspiration! Tell thy friend,Beside my grave: “He did the best he could,With earnest spirit polishing the lensBy which he took the heavens in his ken,And through the empyrean sought for God;He caught, or thought he caught, from time to time,Bright glimpses of the Infinite, on whichHe fed in rapturous and quiet joy,That helped him keep a host of troubles down.He went his way,—a different path from mine,But took his place among the ranks of menWho toil and suffer. If, in sooth, it beReligion keeps us up, this man had that.God grant his yearnings were a living faith!Heaven lies above us: may we find him thereBeside the waters still, and crowned with palms!”

The ecstasy of Faith has no such fears

As those you nurse for me! The marvellous love,

Which folds the systems in a flood of light,

Makes no crude works to shatter out of joint

Through all the future. O, believe, with me,

For every instinct in these hearts of ours

A full fruition hastens! O, believe

That promise greater than our greatest trust

And loftiest aspiration! Tell thy friend,

Beside my grave: “He did the best he could,

With earnest spirit polishing the lens

By which he took the heavens in his ken,

And through the empyrean sought for God;

He caught, or thought he caught, from time to time,

Bright glimpses of the Infinite, on which

He fed in rapturous and quiet joy,

That helped him keep a host of troubles down.

He went his way,—a different path from mine,

But took his place among the ranks of men

Who toil and suffer. If, in sooth, it be

Religion keeps us up, this man had that.

God grant his yearnings were a living faith!

Heaven lies above us: may we find him there

Beside the waters still, and crowned with palms!”

Last August, of a three weeks’ country tour,Five dreamy days were passed amid old elmsAnd older mansions, and in leafy dales,That knew us till our elders pushed us forthTo larger life,—as eagles push their young,New-fledged and wondering, from the eyrie’s edge,To cater for themselves.I fell in, there,With Gilbert Ripley, once my chum at Yale.Poor Gilbert groaned along a double year,—Read, spoke, boxed, fenced, rowed, trod the foot-ball ground,—Loving the college library more than Greek,His meerschaum most of all. But when we cameTogether, gathered from the breathing-timeThey give the fellows while the dog-days last,He found the harness chafe; then grew morose,And kicked above the traces, going homeHardly a Junior, but a sounder man,In mind and body, than a host who winYour baccalaureate honors. There he stayed,Half tired of bookmen, on his father’s farm,And gladly felt the plough-helve. In a yearThe old man gave his blessing to the son,And left his life, as ’twere his harvest-field,When work was over. Gilbert hugged the farm,Now made his own, besides a pretty sumIn good State Sixes; partly worked the land,With separate theories for every field,And partly led the student-life of old,Mouthing his Shakespeare’s ballads to himselfAmong the meadow-mows; or, when he readIn the evening, found a picture of his bull,Just brought from Devon, sleek as silk, loom inBefore his vision. Thus he weighed his tastes,Each against each, in happiest equipoise.The neighbor farmers seeing he had thriftThat would not run to waste, and pardoning allBeyond their understanding, wished him well.But when I saw him stride among his stock,—Straight-shouldered cattle, breathing of the field,—Saw him how blowze and hearty; then, at eve,Close sitting by his mother in the porch,Heard him discuss the methods of the times,The need our country has of stalwart men,Who scorn the counter and will till the land,Strong-handed, free of thought,—I somehow feltThe man was noble, and his simple lifeMore like the pattern given in the MountThan mine, hedged close about with city lifeAnd grim, conventional manners.So much, then,For Gilbert Ripley. Not to dwell too longUpon his doings, let me tell the taleI got from him, one hazy afternoon,When he and I had wandered to the bridge,New-built across our favorite of the streamsThat skirt the village,—here three miles apart,Twin currents, joining in a third below.There memory’s shallop bore us dreamily,Through changeful windings, to the long, long daysOf June vacations. How we boys would thridThe alder thickets at the water’s edge,Conjecturing forward, though the Present layLike Eden round us; for the Future shone—The sun to which each young heart turned for light!What wild conceits of great, oracular lives,Ourselves would equal! but let that go by:Each has gone by, in turn, to humbler fates.Sometimes we angled, and our trolling hooksSwung the gray pickerel from his reedy shoals.Beyond a horseshoe bend, the current’s forceWore out a deeper channel, where the shoreFell off, precipitous, on the western side.There dived the bathers; there I learned to swim,—Flung far into the middle stream by oneWho watched my gaspings, laughing, till my limbs,Half of themselves, struck out, and held me up.Far down, a timbered dam, from bank to bank,Shut back the waters in a shadowy lake,About a mimic island. LanguidlyThe chestnuts still infoliate its space,And still the whispering flags are intertwinedWith whitest water-lilies near the marge.Close by, the paper-mill, with murmurous wheel,Still glistens through the branches, while its scoreOf laughing maidens throng the copse at noon.But we, with careless arms upon the rail,Peered through and through the water; almost sawIts silvery Naiads, from their wavering depths,Gleam with strange faces upward; almost heardSweet voices carol: “Ah, you all come back!We charm your childhood; then you roam away,To float on alien waters, like the winds;But, ah, you all come back,—come dreaming back!”At last I broke the silence: “See,” I saidTo Gilbert, “see how fair our dear old stream!How calm, beneath the shadow of these piers,It eddies in and out, and cools itselfIn slumberous ripples whispering repose.”But he made answer: “Yes, this August dayThe wave is summer-charmed, the fields are hazed;But in the callow Spring, when Easter windsAre on us, laden with rain, these fickle streams—More gentle now than in his cradled sleepSome Alexander—take up arms, spread wide,Leap high and cruel in a fierce campaignAlong their valleys. See this trellised bridge,New-built, and firmer than the one from whichWe fellows dropped the line:—thatwent awayTwo years ago, like straw before a gale,In the great April flood, of which you heard,When George and Lucy Dorrance lost their lives.I saw them perish. You remember her,—She that was Lucy Hall,—a charming girl,The fairest of our schoolmates, with a heartLight as her smile and fastened all uponThe boy that won her; yet her glances fellAmong us, right and left, like shooting starsIn clear October nights when winds are still.“That year our Equinoctial came alongEre the snow left us. Under mountain pinesWhite drifts lay frozen like the dead, and downThrough many a gorge the bristling hemlocks crossedTheir spears above the ice-enfettered brooks;But the pent river wailed, through prison walls,For freedom and the time to rend its chains.At last it came: five days a drenching rainFlooded the country; snow-drifts fell away;The brooks grew rivers, and the river here—A ravenous, angry torrent—tore up banks,And overflowed the meadows, league on league.Great cakes of ice, four-square, with mounds of hay,Fence-rails, and scattered drift-wood, and huge beamsFrom broken dams above us, mill-wheel ties,Smooth lumber, and the torn-up trunks of trees,Swept downward, strewing all the land about.Sometimes the flood surrounded, unawares,Stray cattle, or a flock of timorous sheep,And bore them with it, struggling, till the iceBeat shape and being from them. You know howThese freshets scour our valleys. So it ragedA night and day; but when the day grew nightThe storm fell off; lastly, the sun went downQuite clear of clouds, and ere he came againThe flood began to lower.“Through the riseWe men had been at work, like water-sprites,Lending a helping hand to cottagersAlong the lowlands. Now, at early morn,The banks were sentry-lined with thrifty swains,Who hauled great stores of drift-wood up the slope.But toward the bridge our village maidens soonCame flocking, thick as swallows after storms,When, with light wing, they skim the happy fieldsAnd greet the sunshine. Danger mostly gone,They watched the thunderous passage of the floodBetween the abutments, while the upper stream,Far as they saw, lay like a seething strait,From hill to hill. Below, with gradual fallThrough narrower channels, all was clash and clangAnd inarticulate tumult. Through the groveYonder, our picnic-ground, the driving tideStruck a new channel, and the craggy iceScored down its saplings. Following with the restCame George and Lucy, not three honeymoonsMade man and wife, and happier than a pairOf cooing ring-doves in the early June.“Two piers, you know, bore up the former bridge,Cleaving the current, wedge-like, on the north;Between them stood our couple, intergroupedWith many others. On a sudden loomedAn immolating terror from above,—A floating field of ice, where fifty cakesHad clung together, mingled with a massOfdébrisfrom the upper conflict, logsWoven in with planks and fence-rails; and in frontOne huge, old, fallen trunk rose like a wallAcross the channel. Then arose a cryFrom all who saw it, clamoring,Flee the bridge!Run shoreward for your lives!and all made haste,Eastward and westward, till they felt the groundStand firm beneath them; but, with close-locked arms,Lucy and George still looked, from the lower rail,Toward the promontory where we stood,Nor saw the death, nor seemed to hear the cry.Run George! run Lucy!shouted all at once;Too late, too late! for, with resistless crash,Against both piers that mighty ruin layA space that seemed an hour, yet far too shortFor rescue. Swaying slowly back and forth,With ponderous tumult, all the bridge went off;Piers, beams, planks, railings snapped their groaning tiesAnd fell asunder!“But the middle part,Wrought with great bolts of iron, like a raftHeld out awhile, whirled onward in the wreckThis way and that, and washed with freezing spray.Faster than I can tell you, it came downBeyond our point, and in a flash we sawGeorge, on his knees, close-clinging for dear life,One arm around the remnant of the rail,One clasping Lucy. We were pale as they,Powerless to save; but even as they sweptAcross the bend, and twenty stalwart menRan to and fro with clamor forA rope!A boat!—their cries together reached the shore:Save her! Save him!—so true Love conquers all.Furlongs below they still more closely heldEach other, ’mid a thousand shocks of iceAnd seething horrors; till, at last, the endCame, where the river, scornful of its bed,Struck a new channel, roaring through the grove.There, dashed against a naked beech that stoodGrimly in front, their shattered raft gave upIts precious charge; and then a mist of tearsBlinded all eyes, through which we seemed to seeTwo forms in death-clasp whirled along the flood,And all was over.“Then from out the crowdCertain went up the lane, and broke the newsTo Lucy’s widowed mother; she spoke not,Nor wept, nor murmured, but with stony glareTook in her loss, like Niobe, and to bedMoved stolidly and never rose again.Old Farmer Dorrance gave a single groan,And hurried down among us—all the man,Though white with anguish—as we took our courseAround the meadows, searching for the dead.“An eddying gulf ran up the hither bank,Close by the paper-mill, and there the floodGave back its booty; there we found them laid,Covered with floating leaves and twigs of trees,Not many feet apart: so Love’s last claspHeld lingeringly, until the cruel iceBattered its fastenings. On a rustic bier,Made of loose boughs and strewn with winter ferns,We placed them, side by side, and bore them home.The old man walked behind them, by himself,And wrung his hands and bowed his head in tears.”So Gilbert told his story; I, meanwhile,Followed his finger’s pointing, as it markedEach spot he mentioned, like a teacher’s wand.But now the sun hung low; from many a fieldThe loitering kine went home with tinkling bells.Slow-turning, toward the farm we made our way,And met a host of maidens, merry-eyed,Whom I knew not, yet caught a frequent glanceI seemed to know, that half-way brought to mindSweet eyes I loved to watch in school-boy days,—Sweet sister-eyes to those that glistened now.

Last August, of a three weeks’ country tour,

Five dreamy days were passed amid old elms

And older mansions, and in leafy dales,

That knew us till our elders pushed us forth

To larger life,—as eagles push their young,

New-fledged and wondering, from the eyrie’s edge,

To cater for themselves.

I fell in, there,With Gilbert Ripley, once my chum at Yale.Poor Gilbert groaned along a double year,—Read, spoke, boxed, fenced, rowed, trod the foot-ball ground,—Loving the college library more than Greek,His meerschaum most of all. But when we cameTogether, gathered from the breathing-timeThey give the fellows while the dog-days last,He found the harness chafe; then grew morose,And kicked above the traces, going homeHardly a Junior, but a sounder man,In mind and body, than a host who winYour baccalaureate honors. There he stayed,Half tired of bookmen, on his father’s farm,And gladly felt the plough-helve. In a yearThe old man gave his blessing to the son,And left his life, as ’twere his harvest-field,When work was over. Gilbert hugged the farm,Now made his own, besides a pretty sumIn good State Sixes; partly worked the land,With separate theories for every field,And partly led the student-life of old,Mouthing his Shakespeare’s ballads to himselfAmong the meadow-mows; or, when he readIn the evening, found a picture of his bull,Just brought from Devon, sleek as silk, loom inBefore his vision. Thus he weighed his tastes,Each against each, in happiest equipoise.The neighbor farmers seeing he had thriftThat would not run to waste, and pardoning allBeyond their understanding, wished him well.

I fell in, there,

With Gilbert Ripley, once my chum at Yale.

Poor Gilbert groaned along a double year,—

Read, spoke, boxed, fenced, rowed, trod the foot-ball ground,—

Loving the college library more than Greek,

His meerschaum most of all. But when we came

Together, gathered from the breathing-time

They give the fellows while the dog-days last,

He found the harness chafe; then grew morose,

And kicked above the traces, going home

Hardly a Junior, but a sounder man,

In mind and body, than a host who win

Your baccalaureate honors. There he stayed,

Half tired of bookmen, on his father’s farm,

And gladly felt the plough-helve. In a year

The old man gave his blessing to the son,

And left his life, as ’twere his harvest-field,

When work was over. Gilbert hugged the farm,

Now made his own, besides a pretty sum

In good State Sixes; partly worked the land,

With separate theories for every field,

And partly led the student-life of old,

Mouthing his Shakespeare’s ballads to himself

Among the meadow-mows; or, when he read

In the evening, found a picture of his bull,

Just brought from Devon, sleek as silk, loom in

Before his vision. Thus he weighed his tastes,

Each against each, in happiest equipoise.

The neighbor farmers seeing he had thrift

That would not run to waste, and pardoning all

Beyond their understanding, wished him well.

But when I saw him stride among his stock,—Straight-shouldered cattle, breathing of the field,—Saw him how blowze and hearty; then, at eve,Close sitting by his mother in the porch,Heard him discuss the methods of the times,The need our country has of stalwart men,Who scorn the counter and will till the land,Strong-handed, free of thought,—I somehow feltThe man was noble, and his simple lifeMore like the pattern given in the MountThan mine, hedged close about with city lifeAnd grim, conventional manners.

But when I saw him stride among his stock,—

Straight-shouldered cattle, breathing of the field,—

Saw him how blowze and hearty; then, at eve,

Close sitting by his mother in the porch,

Heard him discuss the methods of the times,

The need our country has of stalwart men,

Who scorn the counter and will till the land,

Strong-handed, free of thought,—I somehow felt

The man was noble, and his simple life

More like the pattern given in the Mount

Than mine, hedged close about with city life

And grim, conventional manners.

So much, then,For Gilbert Ripley. Not to dwell too longUpon his doings, let me tell the taleI got from him, one hazy afternoon,When he and I had wandered to the bridge,New-built across our favorite of the streamsThat skirt the village,—here three miles apart,Twin currents, joining in a third below.

So much, then,

For Gilbert Ripley. Not to dwell too long

Upon his doings, let me tell the tale

I got from him, one hazy afternoon,

When he and I had wandered to the bridge,

New-built across our favorite of the streams

That skirt the village,—here three miles apart,

Twin currents, joining in a third below.

There memory’s shallop bore us dreamily,Through changeful windings, to the long, long daysOf June vacations. How we boys would thridThe alder thickets at the water’s edge,Conjecturing forward, though the Present layLike Eden round us; for the Future shone—The sun to which each young heart turned for light!What wild conceits of great, oracular lives,Ourselves would equal! but let that go by:Each has gone by, in turn, to humbler fates.Sometimes we angled, and our trolling hooksSwung the gray pickerel from his reedy shoals.Beyond a horseshoe bend, the current’s forceWore out a deeper channel, where the shoreFell off, precipitous, on the western side.There dived the bathers; there I learned to swim,—Flung far into the middle stream by oneWho watched my gaspings, laughing, till my limbs,Half of themselves, struck out, and held me up.Far down, a timbered dam, from bank to bank,Shut back the waters in a shadowy lake,About a mimic island. LanguidlyThe chestnuts still infoliate its space,And still the whispering flags are intertwinedWith whitest water-lilies near the marge.Close by, the paper-mill, with murmurous wheel,Still glistens through the branches, while its scoreOf laughing maidens throng the copse at noon.

There memory’s shallop bore us dreamily,

Through changeful windings, to the long, long days

Of June vacations. How we boys would thrid

The alder thickets at the water’s edge,

Conjecturing forward, though the Present lay

Like Eden round us; for the Future shone—

The sun to which each young heart turned for light!

What wild conceits of great, oracular lives,

Ourselves would equal! but let that go by:

Each has gone by, in turn, to humbler fates.

Sometimes we angled, and our trolling hooks

Swung the gray pickerel from his reedy shoals.

Beyond a horseshoe bend, the current’s force

Wore out a deeper channel, where the shore

Fell off, precipitous, on the western side.

There dived the bathers; there I learned to swim,—

Flung far into the middle stream by one

Who watched my gaspings, laughing, till my limbs,

Half of themselves, struck out, and held me up.

Far down, a timbered dam, from bank to bank,

Shut back the waters in a shadowy lake,

About a mimic island. Languidly

The chestnuts still infoliate its space,

And still the whispering flags are intertwined

With whitest water-lilies near the marge.

Close by, the paper-mill, with murmurous wheel,

Still glistens through the branches, while its score

Of laughing maidens throng the copse at noon.

But we, with careless arms upon the rail,Peered through and through the water; almost sawIts silvery Naiads, from their wavering depths,Gleam with strange faces upward; almost heardSweet voices carol: “Ah, you all come back!We charm your childhood; then you roam away,To float on alien waters, like the winds;But, ah, you all come back,—come dreaming back!”

But we, with careless arms upon the rail,

Peered through and through the water; almost saw

Its silvery Naiads, from their wavering depths,

Gleam with strange faces upward; almost heard

Sweet voices carol: “Ah, you all come back!

We charm your childhood; then you roam away,

To float on alien waters, like the winds;

But, ah, you all come back,—come dreaming back!”

At last I broke the silence: “See,” I saidTo Gilbert, “see how fair our dear old stream!How calm, beneath the shadow of these piers,It eddies in and out, and cools itselfIn slumberous ripples whispering repose.”

At last I broke the silence: “See,” I said

To Gilbert, “see how fair our dear old stream!

How calm, beneath the shadow of these piers,

It eddies in and out, and cools itself

In slumberous ripples whispering repose.”

But he made answer: “Yes, this August dayThe wave is summer-charmed, the fields are hazed;But in the callow Spring, when Easter windsAre on us, laden with rain, these fickle streams—More gentle now than in his cradled sleepSome Alexander—take up arms, spread wide,Leap high and cruel in a fierce campaignAlong their valleys. See this trellised bridge,New-built, and firmer than the one from whichWe fellows dropped the line:—thatwent awayTwo years ago, like straw before a gale,In the great April flood, of which you heard,When George and Lucy Dorrance lost their lives.I saw them perish. You remember her,—She that was Lucy Hall,—a charming girl,The fairest of our schoolmates, with a heartLight as her smile and fastened all uponThe boy that won her; yet her glances fellAmong us, right and left, like shooting starsIn clear October nights when winds are still.

But he made answer: “Yes, this August day

The wave is summer-charmed, the fields are hazed;

But in the callow Spring, when Easter winds

Are on us, laden with rain, these fickle streams—

More gentle now than in his cradled sleep

Some Alexander—take up arms, spread wide,

Leap high and cruel in a fierce campaign

Along their valleys. See this trellised bridge,

New-built, and firmer than the one from which

We fellows dropped the line:—thatwent away

Two years ago, like straw before a gale,

In the great April flood, of which you heard,

When George and Lucy Dorrance lost their lives.

I saw them perish. You remember her,—

She that was Lucy Hall,—a charming girl,

The fairest of our schoolmates, with a heart

Light as her smile and fastened all upon

The boy that won her; yet her glances fell

Among us, right and left, like shooting stars

In clear October nights when winds are still.

“That year our Equinoctial came alongEre the snow left us. Under mountain pinesWhite drifts lay frozen like the dead, and downThrough many a gorge the bristling hemlocks crossedTheir spears above the ice-enfettered brooks;But the pent river wailed, through prison walls,For freedom and the time to rend its chains.At last it came: five days a drenching rainFlooded the country; snow-drifts fell away;The brooks grew rivers, and the river here—A ravenous, angry torrent—tore up banks,And overflowed the meadows, league on league.Great cakes of ice, four-square, with mounds of hay,Fence-rails, and scattered drift-wood, and huge beamsFrom broken dams above us, mill-wheel ties,Smooth lumber, and the torn-up trunks of trees,Swept downward, strewing all the land about.Sometimes the flood surrounded, unawares,Stray cattle, or a flock of timorous sheep,And bore them with it, struggling, till the iceBeat shape and being from them. You know howThese freshets scour our valleys. So it ragedA night and day; but when the day grew nightThe storm fell off; lastly, the sun went downQuite clear of clouds, and ere he came againThe flood began to lower.

“That year our Equinoctial came along

Ere the snow left us. Under mountain pines

White drifts lay frozen like the dead, and down

Through many a gorge the bristling hemlocks crossed

Their spears above the ice-enfettered brooks;

But the pent river wailed, through prison walls,

For freedom and the time to rend its chains.

At last it came: five days a drenching rain

Flooded the country; snow-drifts fell away;

The brooks grew rivers, and the river here—

A ravenous, angry torrent—tore up banks,

And overflowed the meadows, league on league.

Great cakes of ice, four-square, with mounds of hay,

Fence-rails, and scattered drift-wood, and huge beams

From broken dams above us, mill-wheel ties,

Smooth lumber, and the torn-up trunks of trees,

Swept downward, strewing all the land about.

Sometimes the flood surrounded, unawares,

Stray cattle, or a flock of timorous sheep,

And bore them with it, struggling, till the ice

Beat shape and being from them. You know how

These freshets scour our valleys. So it raged

A night and day; but when the day grew night

The storm fell off; lastly, the sun went down

Quite clear of clouds, and ere he came again

The flood began to lower.

“Through the riseWe men had been at work, like water-sprites,Lending a helping hand to cottagersAlong the lowlands. Now, at early morn,The banks were sentry-lined with thrifty swains,Who hauled great stores of drift-wood up the slope.But toward the bridge our village maidens soonCame flocking, thick as swallows after storms,When, with light wing, they skim the happy fieldsAnd greet the sunshine. Danger mostly gone,They watched the thunderous passage of the floodBetween the abutments, while the upper stream,Far as they saw, lay like a seething strait,From hill to hill. Below, with gradual fallThrough narrower channels, all was clash and clangAnd inarticulate tumult. Through the groveYonder, our picnic-ground, the driving tideStruck a new channel, and the craggy iceScored down its saplings. Following with the restCame George and Lucy, not three honeymoonsMade man and wife, and happier than a pairOf cooing ring-doves in the early June.

“Through the rise

We men had been at work, like water-sprites,

Lending a helping hand to cottagers

Along the lowlands. Now, at early morn,

The banks were sentry-lined with thrifty swains,

Who hauled great stores of drift-wood up the slope.

But toward the bridge our village maidens soon

Came flocking, thick as swallows after storms,

When, with light wing, they skim the happy fields

And greet the sunshine. Danger mostly gone,

They watched the thunderous passage of the flood

Between the abutments, while the upper stream,

Far as they saw, lay like a seething strait,

From hill to hill. Below, with gradual fall

Through narrower channels, all was clash and clang

And inarticulate tumult. Through the grove

Yonder, our picnic-ground, the driving tide

Struck a new channel, and the craggy ice

Scored down its saplings. Following with the rest

Came George and Lucy, not three honeymoons

Made man and wife, and happier than a pair

Of cooing ring-doves in the early June.

“Two piers, you know, bore up the former bridge,Cleaving the current, wedge-like, on the north;Between them stood our couple, intergroupedWith many others. On a sudden loomedAn immolating terror from above,—A floating field of ice, where fifty cakesHad clung together, mingled with a massOfdébrisfrom the upper conflict, logsWoven in with planks and fence-rails; and in frontOne huge, old, fallen trunk rose like a wallAcross the channel. Then arose a cryFrom all who saw it, clamoring,Flee the bridge!Run shoreward for your lives!and all made haste,Eastward and westward, till they felt the groundStand firm beneath them; but, with close-locked arms,Lucy and George still looked, from the lower rail,Toward the promontory where we stood,Nor saw the death, nor seemed to hear the cry.Run George! run Lucy!shouted all at once;Too late, too late! for, with resistless crash,Against both piers that mighty ruin layA space that seemed an hour, yet far too shortFor rescue. Swaying slowly back and forth,With ponderous tumult, all the bridge went off;Piers, beams, planks, railings snapped their groaning tiesAnd fell asunder!

“Two piers, you know, bore up the former bridge,

Cleaving the current, wedge-like, on the north;

Between them stood our couple, intergrouped

With many others. On a sudden loomed

An immolating terror from above,—

A floating field of ice, where fifty cakes

Had clung together, mingled with a mass

Ofdébrisfrom the upper conflict, logs

Woven in with planks and fence-rails; and in front

One huge, old, fallen trunk rose like a wall

Across the channel. Then arose a cry

From all who saw it, clamoring,Flee the bridge!

Run shoreward for your lives!and all made haste,

Eastward and westward, till they felt the ground

Stand firm beneath them; but, with close-locked arms,

Lucy and George still looked, from the lower rail,

Toward the promontory where we stood,

Nor saw the death, nor seemed to hear the cry.

Run George! run Lucy!shouted all at once;

Too late, too late! for, with resistless crash,

Against both piers that mighty ruin lay

A space that seemed an hour, yet far too short

For rescue. Swaying slowly back and forth,

With ponderous tumult, all the bridge went off;

Piers, beams, planks, railings snapped their groaning ties

And fell asunder!

“But the middle part,Wrought with great bolts of iron, like a raftHeld out awhile, whirled onward in the wreckThis way and that, and washed with freezing spray.Faster than I can tell you, it came downBeyond our point, and in a flash we sawGeorge, on his knees, close-clinging for dear life,One arm around the remnant of the rail,One clasping Lucy. We were pale as they,Powerless to save; but even as they sweptAcross the bend, and twenty stalwart menRan to and fro with clamor forA rope!A boat!—their cries together reached the shore:Save her! Save him!—so true Love conquers all.Furlongs below they still more closely heldEach other, ’mid a thousand shocks of iceAnd seething horrors; till, at last, the endCame, where the river, scornful of its bed,Struck a new channel, roaring through the grove.There, dashed against a naked beech that stoodGrimly in front, their shattered raft gave upIts precious charge; and then a mist of tearsBlinded all eyes, through which we seemed to seeTwo forms in death-clasp whirled along the flood,And all was over.

“But the middle part,

Wrought with great bolts of iron, like a raft

Held out awhile, whirled onward in the wreck

This way and that, and washed with freezing spray.

Faster than I can tell you, it came down

Beyond our point, and in a flash we saw

George, on his knees, close-clinging for dear life,

One arm around the remnant of the rail,

One clasping Lucy. We were pale as they,

Powerless to save; but even as they swept

Across the bend, and twenty stalwart men

Ran to and fro with clamor forA rope!

A boat!—their cries together reached the shore:

Save her! Save him!—so true Love conquers all.

Furlongs below they still more closely held

Each other, ’mid a thousand shocks of ice

And seething horrors; till, at last, the end

Came, where the river, scornful of its bed,

Struck a new channel, roaring through the grove.

There, dashed against a naked beech that stood

Grimly in front, their shattered raft gave up

Its precious charge; and then a mist of tears

Blinded all eyes, through which we seemed to see

Two forms in death-clasp whirled along the flood,

And all was over.

“Then from out the crowdCertain went up the lane, and broke the newsTo Lucy’s widowed mother; she spoke not,Nor wept, nor murmured, but with stony glareTook in her loss, like Niobe, and to bedMoved stolidly and never rose again.Old Farmer Dorrance gave a single groan,And hurried down among us—all the man,Though white with anguish—as we took our courseAround the meadows, searching for the dead.

“Then from out the crowd

Certain went up the lane, and broke the news

To Lucy’s widowed mother; she spoke not,

Nor wept, nor murmured, but with stony glare

Took in her loss, like Niobe, and to bed

Moved stolidly and never rose again.

Old Farmer Dorrance gave a single groan,

And hurried down among us—all the man,

Though white with anguish—as we took our course

Around the meadows, searching for the dead.

“An eddying gulf ran up the hither bank,Close by the paper-mill, and there the floodGave back its booty; there we found them laid,Covered with floating leaves and twigs of trees,Not many feet apart: so Love’s last claspHeld lingeringly, until the cruel iceBattered its fastenings. On a rustic bier,Made of loose boughs and strewn with winter ferns,We placed them, side by side, and bore them home.The old man walked behind them, by himself,And wrung his hands and bowed his head in tears.”

“An eddying gulf ran up the hither bank,

Close by the paper-mill, and there the flood

Gave back its booty; there we found them laid,

Covered with floating leaves and twigs of trees,

Not many feet apart: so Love’s last clasp

Held lingeringly, until the cruel ice

Battered its fastenings. On a rustic bier,

Made of loose boughs and strewn with winter ferns,

We placed them, side by side, and bore them home.

The old man walked behind them, by himself,

And wrung his hands and bowed his head in tears.”

So Gilbert told his story; I, meanwhile,Followed his finger’s pointing, as it markedEach spot he mentioned, like a teacher’s wand.But now the sun hung low; from many a fieldThe loitering kine went home with tinkling bells.Slow-turning, toward the farm we made our way,And met a host of maidens, merry-eyed,Whom I knew not, yet caught a frequent glanceI seemed to know, that half-way brought to mindSweet eyes I loved to watch in school-boy days,—Sweet sister-eyes to those that glistened now.

So Gilbert told his story; I, meanwhile,

Followed his finger’s pointing, as it marked

Each spot he mentioned, like a teacher’s wand.

But now the sun hung low; from many a field

The loitering kine went home with tinkling bells.

Slow-turning, toward the farm we made our way,

And met a host of maidens, merry-eyed,

Whom I knew not, yet caught a frequent glance

I seemed to know, that half-way brought to mind

Sweet eyes I loved to watch in school-boy days,—

Sweet sister-eyes to those that glistened now.

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