LATER POEMS.

LATER POEMS.LATER POEMS.

I.Within our summer hermitageI have an aviary,—’Tis but a little, rustic cage,That holds a golden-winged Canary,—A bird with no companion of his kind.But when the warm south-windBlows, from rathe meadows, overThe honey-scented clover,I hang him in the porch, that he may hearThe voices of the bobolink and thrush,The robin’s joyous gush,The bluebird’s warble, and the tunes of allGlad matin songsters in the fields anear.Then, as the blithe responses vary,And rise anew, and fall,In every hushHe answers them again,With his own wild, reliant strain,As if he breathed the air of sweet Canary.II.Bird, bird of the golden wing,Thou lithe, melodious thing!Where hast thy music found?What fantasies of vale and vine,Of glades where orchids intertwine,Of palm-trees, garlanded and crowned,And forests flooded deep with sound,—What high imaginingHath made this carol thine?By what instinct art thou boundTo all rare harmonies that beIn those green islands of the sea,Where thy radiant, wildwood kinTheir madrigals at morn begin,Above the rainbow and the roarOf the long billow from the Afric shore?Asking other guerdonNone, than Heaven’s light,Holding thy crested head aright,Thy melody’s sweet burdenThou dost proudly utter,With many an ecstatic flutterAnd ruffle of thy tawny throatFor each delicious note.—Art thou a waif from Paradise,In some fine moment wroughtBy an artist of the skies,Thou winged, cherubic Thought?Bird of the amber beak,Bird of the golden wing!Thy dower is thy carolling;Thou hast not far to seekThy bread, nor needest wineTo make thine utterance divine;Thou art canopied and clothedAnd unto Song betrothed!In thy lone aërial cageThou hast thine ancient heritage;There is no task-work on thee laidBut to rehearse the ditties thou hast made;Thou hast a lordly store,And, though thou scatterest them free,Art richer than before,Holding in feeThe glad domain of minstrelsy.III.Brave songster, bold Canary!Thou art not of thy listeners wary,Art not timorous, nor charyOf quaver, trill, and tone,Each perfect and thine own;But renewest, shrill or soft,Thy greeting to the upper skies,Chanting thy latest song aloftWith no tremor or disguise.Thine is a music that defiesThe envious rival near;Thou hast no fearOf the day’s vogue, the scornful critic’s sneer.Would, O wisest bard, that nowI could cheerly sing as thou!Would I might chant the thoughts which on me throngFor the very joy of song!Here, on the written page,I falter, yearning to impartThe vague and wandering murmur of my heart,Haply a little to assuageThis human restlessness and pain,And half forget my chain:Thou, unconscious of thy cage,Showerest music everywhere;Thou hast no careBut to pour out the largesse thou hast wonFrom the south-wind and the sun;There are no prison-barsBetwixt thy tricksy spirit and the stars.When from its delicate clayThy little life shall pass away,Thou wilt not meanly die,Nor voiceless yield to silence and decay;But triumph still in artAnd act thy minstrel-part,Lifting a last, long pæanTo the unventured empyrean.—So bid the world go by,And they who list to thee aright,Seeing thee fold thy wings and fall, shall say:“The Songster perished of his own delight!”

Within our summer hermitage

I have an aviary,—

’Tis but a little, rustic cage,

That holds a golden-winged Canary,—

A bird with no companion of his kind.

But when the warm south-wind

Blows, from rathe meadows, over

The honey-scented clover,

I hang him in the porch, that he may hear

The voices of the bobolink and thrush,

The robin’s joyous gush,

The bluebird’s warble, and the tunes of all

Glad matin songsters in the fields anear.

Then, as the blithe responses vary,

And rise anew, and fall,

In every hush

He answers them again,

With his own wild, reliant strain,

As if he breathed the air of sweet Canary.

II.Bird, bird of the golden wing,Thou lithe, melodious thing!Where hast thy music found?What fantasies of vale and vine,Of glades where orchids intertwine,Of palm-trees, garlanded and crowned,And forests flooded deep with sound,—What high imaginingHath made this carol thine?By what instinct art thou boundTo all rare harmonies that beIn those green islands of the sea,Where thy radiant, wildwood kinTheir madrigals at morn begin,Above the rainbow and the roarOf the long billow from the Afric shore?

Bird, bird of the golden wing,

Thou lithe, melodious thing!

Where hast thy music found?

What fantasies of vale and vine,

Of glades where orchids intertwine,

Of palm-trees, garlanded and crowned,

And forests flooded deep with sound,—

What high imagining

Hath made this carol thine?

By what instinct art thou bound

To all rare harmonies that be

In those green islands of the sea,

Where thy radiant, wildwood kin

Their madrigals at morn begin,

Above the rainbow and the roar

Of the long billow from the Afric shore?

Asking other guerdonNone, than Heaven’s light,Holding thy crested head aright,Thy melody’s sweet burdenThou dost proudly utter,With many an ecstatic flutterAnd ruffle of thy tawny throatFor each delicious note.—Art thou a waif from Paradise,In some fine moment wroughtBy an artist of the skies,Thou winged, cherubic Thought?

Asking other guerdon

None, than Heaven’s light,

Holding thy crested head aright,

Thy melody’s sweet burden

Thou dost proudly utter,

With many an ecstatic flutter

And ruffle of thy tawny throat

For each delicious note.

—Art thou a waif from Paradise,

In some fine moment wrought

By an artist of the skies,

Thou winged, cherubic Thought?

Bird of the amber beak,Bird of the golden wing!Thy dower is thy carolling;Thou hast not far to seekThy bread, nor needest wineTo make thine utterance divine;Thou art canopied and clothedAnd unto Song betrothed!In thy lone aërial cageThou hast thine ancient heritage;There is no task-work on thee laidBut to rehearse the ditties thou hast made;Thou hast a lordly store,And, though thou scatterest them free,Art richer than before,Holding in feeThe glad domain of minstrelsy.

Bird of the amber beak,

Bird of the golden wing!

Thy dower is thy carolling;

Thou hast not far to seek

Thy bread, nor needest wine

To make thine utterance divine;

Thou art canopied and clothed

And unto Song betrothed!

In thy lone aërial cage

Thou hast thine ancient heritage;

There is no task-work on thee laid

But to rehearse the ditties thou hast made;

Thou hast a lordly store,

And, though thou scatterest them free,

Art richer than before,

Holding in fee

The glad domain of minstrelsy.

III.Brave songster, bold Canary!Thou art not of thy listeners wary,Art not timorous, nor charyOf quaver, trill, and tone,Each perfect and thine own;But renewest, shrill or soft,Thy greeting to the upper skies,Chanting thy latest song aloftWith no tremor or disguise.Thine is a music that defiesThe envious rival near;Thou hast no fearOf the day’s vogue, the scornful critic’s sneer.

Brave songster, bold Canary!

Thou art not of thy listeners wary,

Art not timorous, nor chary

Of quaver, trill, and tone,

Each perfect and thine own;

But renewest, shrill or soft,

Thy greeting to the upper skies,

Chanting thy latest song aloft

With no tremor or disguise.

Thine is a music that defies

The envious rival near;

Thou hast no fear

Of the day’s vogue, the scornful critic’s sneer.

Would, O wisest bard, that nowI could cheerly sing as thou!Would I might chant the thoughts which on me throngFor the very joy of song!Here, on the written page,I falter, yearning to impartThe vague and wandering murmur of my heart,Haply a little to assuageThis human restlessness and pain,And half forget my chain:Thou, unconscious of thy cage,Showerest music everywhere;Thou hast no careBut to pour out the largesse thou hast wonFrom the south-wind and the sun;There are no prison-barsBetwixt thy tricksy spirit and the stars.

Would, O wisest bard, that now

I could cheerly sing as thou!

Would I might chant the thoughts which on me throng

For the very joy of song!

Here, on the written page,

I falter, yearning to impart

The vague and wandering murmur of my heart,

Haply a little to assuage

This human restlessness and pain,

And half forget my chain:

Thou, unconscious of thy cage,

Showerest music everywhere;

Thou hast no care

But to pour out the largesse thou hast won

From the south-wind and the sun;

There are no prison-bars

Betwixt thy tricksy spirit and the stars.

When from its delicate clayThy little life shall pass away,Thou wilt not meanly die,Nor voiceless yield to silence and decay;But triumph still in artAnd act thy minstrel-part,Lifting a last, long pæanTo the unventured empyrean.—So bid the world go by,And they who list to thee aright,Seeing thee fold thy wings and fall, shall say:“The Songster perished of his own delight!”

When from its delicate clay

Thy little life shall pass away,

Thou wilt not meanly die,

Nor voiceless yield to silence and decay;

But triumph still in art

And act thy minstrel-part,

Lifting a last, long pæan

To the unventured empyrean.

—So bid the world go by,

And they who list to thee aright,

Seeing thee fold thy wings and fall, shall say:

“The Songster perished of his own delight!”

Out, out, Old Age! aroint ye!I fain would disappoint ye,Nor wrinkled grow and learnedBefore I am inurned.Ruthless the Hours and hoary,That scatter ills before ye!Thy touch is pestilential,Thy lays are penitential;With stealthy steps thou stealestAnd life’s hot tide congealest;Before thee vainly flyingWe are already dying.Why must the blood grow colder,And men and maidens older?Bring not thy maledictions,Thy grewsome, grim afflictions,—Thy bodings bring not hitherTo make us blight and wither.When this thy frost hath bound us,All fairer things around usSeem Youth’s divine extortionIn which we have no portion.“Fie, Senex!” saith a lass now,“What need ye of a glass now?Though flowers of May be springingAnd I my songs am singing,Thy blood no whit the fasterDoth flow, my ancient Master!”Age is by Youth delighted,Youth is by Age affrighted;Blithe sunny May and joysomeStill finds December noisome.Alack! a guest unbidden,Howe’er our feast be hidden,Doth enter with the feasterAnd make a Lent of Easter!I would thou wert not ableTo seat thee at our table;I would that altogetherFrom this thy wintry weather,Since Youth and Love must leave us,Death might at once retrieve us.Old wizard, ill betide ye!I cannot yet abide ye!Ah, Youth, sweet Youth, I love ye!There’s naught on Earth above yeThou purling bird uncagedThat never wilt grow aged,To whom each day is givingIncrease of joyous living!Soft words to thee are spoken,For thee strong vows are broken,All loves and lovers cluster,To bask them in thy lustre.Ah, girlhood, pout and dimple,Half hid beneath the wimple!Ah, boyhood, blithe and cruel,Whose heat doth need no fuel,No help of wine and spicesAnd frigid Eld’s devices!All pleasant things ye find you,And to your sweet selves bind you.For you alone the motionOf brave ships on the ocean;All stars for you are shining,All wreaths your foreheads twining;All joys, your joys decreeing,Are portions of your being,—All fairest sights your features,Ye selfish, soulful creatures!Sing me no more distichesOf glory, wisdom, riches;Tell me no beldame’s storyOf wisdom, wealth, and glory!To Youth these are a wonder,—To Age a corpse-light underThe tomb with rusted portalOf that which seemed immortal.I, too, in Youth’s dear fetter,Will love my foeman better,—Ay, though his ill I study,—So he be young and ruddy,Than comrade true and golden,So he be waxen olden.Ah, winsome Youth, stay by us!I prithee, do not fly us!Ah, Youth, sweet Youth, I love ye!There’s naught on Earth above ye!

Out, out, Old Age! aroint ye!

I fain would disappoint ye,

Nor wrinkled grow and learned

Before I am inurned.

Ruthless the Hours and hoary,

That scatter ills before ye!

Thy touch is pestilential,

Thy lays are penitential;

With stealthy steps thou stealest

And life’s hot tide congealest;

Before thee vainly flying

We are already dying.

Why must the blood grow colder,

And men and maidens older?

Bring not thy maledictions,

Thy grewsome, grim afflictions,—

Thy bodings bring not hither

To make us blight and wither.

When this thy frost hath bound us,

All fairer things around us

Seem Youth’s divine extortion

In which we have no portion.

“Fie, Senex!” saith a lass now,

“What need ye of a glass now?

Though flowers of May be springing

And I my songs am singing,

Thy blood no whit the faster

Doth flow, my ancient Master!”

Age is by Youth delighted,

Youth is by Age affrighted;

Blithe sunny May and joysome

Still finds December noisome.

Alack! a guest unbidden,

Howe’er our feast be hidden,

Doth enter with the feaster

And make a Lent of Easter!

I would thou wert not able

To seat thee at our table;

I would that altogether

From this thy wintry weather,

Since Youth and Love must leave us,

Death might at once retrieve us.

Old wizard, ill betide ye!

I cannot yet abide ye!

Ah, Youth, sweet Youth, I love ye!There’s naught on Earth above yeThou purling bird uncagedThat never wilt grow aged,To whom each day is givingIncrease of joyous living!Soft words to thee are spoken,For thee strong vows are broken,All loves and lovers cluster,To bask them in thy lustre.Ah, girlhood, pout and dimple,Half hid beneath the wimple!Ah, boyhood, blithe and cruel,Whose heat doth need no fuel,No help of wine and spicesAnd frigid Eld’s devices!All pleasant things ye find you,And to your sweet selves bind you.For you alone the motionOf brave ships on the ocean;All stars for you are shining,All wreaths your foreheads twining;All joys, your joys decreeing,Are portions of your being,—All fairest sights your features,Ye selfish, soulful creatures!Sing me no more distichesOf glory, wisdom, riches;Tell me no beldame’s storyOf wisdom, wealth, and glory!To Youth these are a wonder,—To Age a corpse-light underThe tomb with rusted portalOf that which seemed immortal.I, too, in Youth’s dear fetter,Will love my foeman better,—Ay, though his ill I study,—So he be young and ruddy,Than comrade true and golden,So he be waxen olden.Ah, winsome Youth, stay by us!I prithee, do not fly us!Ah, Youth, sweet Youth, I love ye!There’s naught on Earth above ye!

Ah, Youth, sweet Youth, I love ye!

There’s naught on Earth above ye

Thou purling bird uncaged

That never wilt grow aged,

To whom each day is giving

Increase of joyous living!

Soft words to thee are spoken,

For thee strong vows are broken,

All loves and lovers cluster,

To bask them in thy lustre.

Ah, girlhood, pout and dimple,

Half hid beneath the wimple!

Ah, boyhood, blithe and cruel,

Whose heat doth need no fuel,

No help of wine and spices

And frigid Eld’s devices!

All pleasant things ye find you,

And to your sweet selves bind you.

For you alone the motion

Of brave ships on the ocean;

All stars for you are shining,

All wreaths your foreheads twining;

All joys, your joys decreeing,

Are portions of your being,—

All fairest sights your features,

Ye selfish, soulful creatures!

Sing me no more distiches

Of glory, wisdom, riches;

Tell me no beldame’s story

Of wisdom, wealth, and glory!

To Youth these are a wonder,—

To Age a corpse-light under

The tomb with rusted portal

Of that which seemed immortal.

I, too, in Youth’s dear fetter,

Will love my foeman better,—

Ay, though his ill I study,—

So he be young and ruddy,

Than comrade true and golden,

So he be waxen olden.

Ah, winsome Youth, stay by us!

I prithee, do not fly us!

Ah, Youth, sweet Youth, I love ye!

There’s naught on Earth above ye!

Thou art mine, thou hast given thy word;Close, close in my arms thou art clinging;Alone for my ear thou art singingA song which no stranger hath heard:But afar from me yet, like a bird,Thy soul, in some region unstirred,On its mystical circuit is winging.Thou art mine, I have made thee mine own;Henceforth we are mingled forever:But in vain, all in vain, I endeavor—Though round thee my garlands are thrown,And thou yieldest thy lips and thy zone—To master the spell that aloneMy hold on thy being can sever.Thou art mine, thou hast come unto me!But thy soul, when I strive to be near it—The innermost fold of thy spirit—Is as far from my grasp, is as free,As the stars from the mountain-tops be,As the pearl, in the depths of the sea,From the portionless king that would wear it.

Thou art mine, thou hast given thy word;

Close, close in my arms thou art clinging;

Alone for my ear thou art singing

A song which no stranger hath heard:

But afar from me yet, like a bird,

Thy soul, in some region unstirred,

On its mystical circuit is winging.

Thou art mine, I have made thee mine own;Henceforth we are mingled forever:But in vain, all in vain, I endeavor—Though round thee my garlands are thrown,And thou yieldest thy lips and thy zone—To master the spell that aloneMy hold on thy being can sever.

Thou art mine, I have made thee mine own;

Henceforth we are mingled forever:

But in vain, all in vain, I endeavor—

Though round thee my garlands are thrown,

And thou yieldest thy lips and thy zone—

To master the spell that alone

My hold on thy being can sever.

Thou art mine, thou hast come unto me!But thy soul, when I strive to be near it—The innermost fold of thy spirit—Is as far from my grasp, is as free,As the stars from the mountain-tops be,As the pearl, in the depths of the sea,From the portionless king that would wear it.

Thou art mine, thou hast come unto me!

But thy soul, when I strive to be near it—

The innermost fold of thy spirit—

Is as far from my grasp, is as free,

As the stars from the mountain-tops be,

As the pearl, in the depths of the sea,

From the portionless king that would wear it.

Whither away, Robin,Whither away?Is it through envy of the maple-leaf,Whose blushes mock the crimson of thy breast,Thou wilt not stay?The summer days were long, yet all too briefThe happy season thou hast been our guest:Whither away?Whither away, Bluebird,Whither away?The blast is chill, yet in the upper skyThou still canst find the color of thy wing,The hue of May.Warbler, why speed thy southern flight? ah, why,Thou too, whose song first told us of the Spring?Whither away?Whither away, Swallow,Whither away?Canst thou no longer tarry in the North,Here, where our roof so well hath screened thy nestNot one short day?Wilt thou—as if thou human wert—go forthAnd wanton far from them who love thee best?Whither away?

Whither away, Robin,

Whither away?

Is it through envy of the maple-leaf,

Whose blushes mock the crimson of thy breast,

Thou wilt not stay?

The summer days were long, yet all too brief

The happy season thou hast been our guest:

Whither away?

Whither away, Bluebird,Whither away?The blast is chill, yet in the upper skyThou still canst find the color of thy wing,The hue of May.Warbler, why speed thy southern flight? ah, why,Thou too, whose song first told us of the Spring?Whither away?

Whither away, Bluebird,

Whither away?

The blast is chill, yet in the upper sky

Thou still canst find the color of thy wing,

The hue of May.

Warbler, why speed thy southern flight? ah, why,

Thou too, whose song first told us of the Spring?

Whither away?

Whither away, Swallow,Whither away?Canst thou no longer tarry in the North,Here, where our roof so well hath screened thy nestNot one short day?Wilt thou—as if thou human wert—go forthAnd wanton far from them who love thee best?Whither away?

Whither away, Swallow,

Whither away?

Canst thou no longer tarry in the North,

Here, where our roof so well hath screened thy nest

Not one short day?

Wilt thou—as if thou human wert—go forth

And wanton far from them who love thee best?

Whither away?

’Tis fifteen hundred years, you say,Since that fair teacher diedIn learnéd AlexandriaBy the stone altar’s side:—The wild monks slew her, as she layAt the feet of the Crucified.Yet in a prairie-town, one night,I found her lecture-hall,Where bench and dais stood aright,And statues graced the wall,And pendent brazen lamps the lightOf classic days let fall.A throng that watched the speaker’s face,And on her accents hung,Was gathered there: the strength, the graceOf lands where life is youngCeased not, I saw, with that blithe raceFrom old Pelasgia sprung.No civic crown the sibyl wore,Nor academic tire,But shining skirts, that trailed the floorAnd made her stature higher;A written scroll the lecturn bore,And flowers bloomed anigh her.The wealth her honeyed speech had wonAdorned her in our sight;The silkworm for her sake had spunHis cincture, day and night;With broider-work and HonitonHer open sleeves were bright.But still Hypatia’s self I knew,And saw, with dreamy wonder,The form of her whom Cyril slew(See Kingsley’s novel, yonder)Some fifteen centuries since, ’tis true,And half a world asunder.Her hair was coifed Athenian-wise,With one loose tress down-flowing;Apollo’s rapture lit her eyes,His utterance bestowing,—A silver flute’s clear harmoniesOn which a god was blowing.Yet not of Plato’s sounding spheres,And universal Pan,She spoke; but searched historic years,The sisterhood to scanOf women,—girt with ills and fears,—Slaves to the tyrant, Man.Their crosiered banner she unfurled,And onward pushed her questThrough golden ages of a worldBy their deliverance blest:—At all who stay their hands she hurledDefiance from her breast.I saw her burning words infuseA warmth through many a heart,As still, in bright successive views,She drew her sex’s part;Discoursing, like the Lesbian Muse,Of work, and song, and art.Why vaunt, I thought, the past, or sayThe later is the less?Our Sappho sang but yesterday,Of whom two climes confessHeaven’s flame within her wore awayHer earthly loveliness.So let thy wild heart ripple on,Brave girl, through vale and city!Spare, of its listless moments, oneTo this, thy poet’s ditty;Nor long forbear, when all is done,Thine own sweet self to pity.The priestess of the Sestian tower,Whose knight the sea swam over,Among her votaries’ gifts no flowerOf heart’s-ease could discover:She died, but in no evil hour,Who, dying, clasped her lover.The rose-tree has its perfect lifeWhen the full rose is blown;Some height of womanhood the wifeBeyond thy dream has known;Set not thy head and heart at strifeTo keep thee from thine own.Hypatia! thine essence rareThe rarer joy should merit:Possess thee of that common shareWhich lesser souls inherit:All gods to thee their garlands bear,—Take one from Love and wear it!

’Tis fifteen hundred years, you say,Since that fair teacher diedIn learnéd AlexandriaBy the stone altar’s side:—The wild monks slew her, as she layAt the feet of the Crucified.

’Tis fifteen hundred years, you say,

Since that fair teacher died

In learnéd Alexandria

By the stone altar’s side:—

The wild monks slew her, as she lay

At the feet of the Crucified.

Yet in a prairie-town, one night,I found her lecture-hall,Where bench and dais stood aright,And statues graced the wall,And pendent brazen lamps the lightOf classic days let fall.

Yet in a prairie-town, one night,

I found her lecture-hall,

Where bench and dais stood aright,

And statues graced the wall,

And pendent brazen lamps the light

Of classic days let fall.

A throng that watched the speaker’s face,And on her accents hung,Was gathered there: the strength, the graceOf lands where life is youngCeased not, I saw, with that blithe raceFrom old Pelasgia sprung.

A throng that watched the speaker’s face,

And on her accents hung,

Was gathered there: the strength, the grace

Of lands where life is young

Ceased not, I saw, with that blithe race

From old Pelasgia sprung.

No civic crown the sibyl wore,Nor academic tire,But shining skirts, that trailed the floorAnd made her stature higher;A written scroll the lecturn bore,And flowers bloomed anigh her.

No civic crown the sibyl wore,

Nor academic tire,

But shining skirts, that trailed the floor

And made her stature higher;

A written scroll the lecturn bore,

And flowers bloomed anigh her.

The wealth her honeyed speech had wonAdorned her in our sight;The silkworm for her sake had spunHis cincture, day and night;With broider-work and HonitonHer open sleeves were bright.

The wealth her honeyed speech had won

Adorned her in our sight;

The silkworm for her sake had spun

His cincture, day and night;

With broider-work and Honiton

Her open sleeves were bright.

But still Hypatia’s self I knew,And saw, with dreamy wonder,The form of her whom Cyril slew(See Kingsley’s novel, yonder)Some fifteen centuries since, ’tis true,And half a world asunder.

But still Hypatia’s self I knew,

And saw, with dreamy wonder,

The form of her whom Cyril slew

(See Kingsley’s novel, yonder)

Some fifteen centuries since, ’tis true,

And half a world asunder.

Her hair was coifed Athenian-wise,With one loose tress down-flowing;Apollo’s rapture lit her eyes,His utterance bestowing,—A silver flute’s clear harmoniesOn which a god was blowing.

Her hair was coifed Athenian-wise,

With one loose tress down-flowing;

Apollo’s rapture lit her eyes,

His utterance bestowing,—

A silver flute’s clear harmonies

On which a god was blowing.

Yet not of Plato’s sounding spheres,And universal Pan,She spoke; but searched historic years,The sisterhood to scanOf women,—girt with ills and fears,—Slaves to the tyrant, Man.

Yet not of Plato’s sounding spheres,

And universal Pan,

She spoke; but searched historic years,

The sisterhood to scan

Of women,—girt with ills and fears,—

Slaves to the tyrant, Man.

Their crosiered banner she unfurled,And onward pushed her questThrough golden ages of a worldBy their deliverance blest:—At all who stay their hands she hurledDefiance from her breast.

Their crosiered banner she unfurled,

And onward pushed her quest

Through golden ages of a world

By their deliverance blest:—

At all who stay their hands she hurled

Defiance from her breast.

I saw her burning words infuseA warmth through many a heart,As still, in bright successive views,She drew her sex’s part;Discoursing, like the Lesbian Muse,Of work, and song, and art.

I saw her burning words infuse

A warmth through many a heart,

As still, in bright successive views,

She drew her sex’s part;

Discoursing, like the Lesbian Muse,

Of work, and song, and art.

Why vaunt, I thought, the past, or sayThe later is the less?Our Sappho sang but yesterday,Of whom two climes confessHeaven’s flame within her wore awayHer earthly loveliness.

Why vaunt, I thought, the past, or say

The later is the less?

Our Sappho sang but yesterday,

Of whom two climes confess

Heaven’s flame within her wore away

Her earthly loveliness.

So let thy wild heart ripple on,Brave girl, through vale and city!Spare, of its listless moments, oneTo this, thy poet’s ditty;Nor long forbear, when all is done,Thine own sweet self to pity.

So let thy wild heart ripple on,

Brave girl, through vale and city!

Spare, of its listless moments, one

To this, thy poet’s ditty;

Nor long forbear, when all is done,

Thine own sweet self to pity.

The priestess of the Sestian tower,Whose knight the sea swam over,Among her votaries’ gifts no flowerOf heart’s-ease could discover:She died, but in no evil hour,Who, dying, clasped her lover.

The priestess of the Sestian tower,

Whose knight the sea swam over,

Among her votaries’ gifts no flower

Of heart’s-ease could discover:

She died, but in no evil hour,

Who, dying, clasped her lover.

The rose-tree has its perfect lifeWhen the full rose is blown;Some height of womanhood the wifeBeyond thy dream has known;Set not thy head and heart at strifeTo keep thee from thine own.

The rose-tree has its perfect life

When the full rose is blown;

Some height of womanhood the wife

Beyond thy dream has known;

Set not thy head and heart at strife

To keep thee from thine own.

Hypatia! thine essence rareThe rarer joy should merit:Possess thee of that common shareWhich lesser souls inherit:All gods to thee their garlands bear,—Take one from Love and wear it!

Hypatia! thine essence rare

The rarer joy should merit:

Possess thee of that common share

Which lesser souls inherit:

All gods to thee their garlands bear,—

Take one from Love and wear it!

O long are years of waiting, when lovers’ hearts are boundBy words that hold in life and death, and last the half-world round;Long, long for him who wanders far and strives with all his main,But crueller yet for her who bides at home and hides her pain!And lone are the homes of New England.’Twas in the mellow summer I heard her sweet reply;The barefoot lads and lassies a-berrying went by;The locust dinned amid the trees; the fields were high with corn;The white-sailed clouds against the sky like ships were onward borne:And blue are the skies of New England.Her lips were like the raspberries; her cheek was soft and fair,And little breezes stopped to lift the tangle of her hair;A light was in her hazel eyes, and she was nothing lothTo hear the words her lover spoke, and pledged me there her troth;And true is the word of New England.When September brought the golden-rod, and maples burned like fire,And bluer than in August rose the village smoke and higher,And large and red among the stacks the ripened pumpkins shone,—One hour, in which to say farewell, was left to us alone;And sweet are the lanes of New England.We loved each other truly! hard, hard it was to part;But my ring was on her finger, and her hair lay next my heart.“’Tis but a year, my darling,” I said; “in one short year,When our Western home is ready, I shall seek my Katie here”;And brave is the hope of New England.I went to gain a home for her, and in the Golden StateWith head and hand I planned and toiled, and early worked and late;But luck was all against me, and sickness on me lay,And ere I got my strength again ’twas many a weary day;And long are the thoughts of New England.And many a day, and many a month, and thrice the rolling year,I bravely strove, and still the goal seemed never yet more near.My Katie’s letters told me that she kept her promise true,But now, for very hopelessness, my own to her were few;And stern is the pride of New England.But still she trusted in me, though sick with hope deferred;No more among the village choir her voice was sweetest heard;For when the wild northeaster of the fourth long winter blew,So thin her frame with pining, the cold wind pierced her through;And chill are the blasts of New England.At last my fortunes bettered, on the far Pacific shore,And I thought to see old Windham and my patient love once more;When a kinsman’s letter reached me: “Come at once, or come too late!Your Katie’s strength is failing; if you love her, do not wait:Come back to the elms of New England.”O, it wrung my heart with sorrow! I left all else behind,And straight for dear New England I speeded like the wind.The day and night were blended till I reached my boyhood’s home,And the old cliffs seemed to mock me that I had not sooner come;And gray are the rocks of New England.I could not think ’twas Katie, who sat before me thereReading her Bible—’twas my gift—and pillowed in her chair.A ring, with all my letters, lay on a little stand,—She could no longer wear it, so frail her poor, white hand!But strong is the love of New England.Her hair had lost its tangle and was parted off her brow;She used to be a joyous girl,—but seemed an angel now,—Heaven’s darling, mine no longer; yet in her hazel eyesThe same dear love-light glistened, as she soothed my bitter cries:And pure is the faith of New England.A month I watched her dying, pale, pale as any roseThat drops its petals one by one and sweetens as it goes.My life was darkened when at last her large eyes closed in death,And I heard my own name whispered as she drew her parting breath;Still, still was the heart of New England.It was a woful funeral the coming sabbath-day;We bore her to the barren hill on which the graveyard lay,And when the narrow grave was filled, and what we might was done,Of all the stricken group around I was the loneliest one;And drear are the hills of New England.I gazed upon the stunted pines, the bleak November sky,And knew that buried deep with her my heart henceforth would lie;And waking in the solemn nights my thoughts still thither goTo Katie, lying in her grave beneath the winter snow;And cold are the snows of New England.

O long are years of waiting, when lovers’ hearts are bound

By words that hold in life and death, and last the half-world round;

Long, long for him who wanders far and strives with all his main,

But crueller yet for her who bides at home and hides her pain!

And lone are the homes of New England.

’Twas in the mellow summer I heard her sweet reply;The barefoot lads and lassies a-berrying went by;The locust dinned amid the trees; the fields were high with corn;The white-sailed clouds against the sky like ships were onward borne:And blue are the skies of New England.

’Twas in the mellow summer I heard her sweet reply;

The barefoot lads and lassies a-berrying went by;

The locust dinned amid the trees; the fields were high with corn;

The white-sailed clouds against the sky like ships were onward borne:

And blue are the skies of New England.

Her lips were like the raspberries; her cheek was soft and fair,And little breezes stopped to lift the tangle of her hair;A light was in her hazel eyes, and she was nothing lothTo hear the words her lover spoke, and pledged me there her troth;And true is the word of New England.

Her lips were like the raspberries; her cheek was soft and fair,

And little breezes stopped to lift the tangle of her hair;

A light was in her hazel eyes, and she was nothing loth

To hear the words her lover spoke, and pledged me there her troth;

And true is the word of New England.

When September brought the golden-rod, and maples burned like fire,And bluer than in August rose the village smoke and higher,And large and red among the stacks the ripened pumpkins shone,—One hour, in which to say farewell, was left to us alone;And sweet are the lanes of New England.

When September brought the golden-rod, and maples burned like fire,

And bluer than in August rose the village smoke and higher,

And large and red among the stacks the ripened pumpkins shone,—

One hour, in which to say farewell, was left to us alone;

And sweet are the lanes of New England.

We loved each other truly! hard, hard it was to part;But my ring was on her finger, and her hair lay next my heart.“’Tis but a year, my darling,” I said; “in one short year,When our Western home is ready, I shall seek my Katie here”;And brave is the hope of New England.

We loved each other truly! hard, hard it was to part;

But my ring was on her finger, and her hair lay next my heart.

“’Tis but a year, my darling,” I said; “in one short year,

When our Western home is ready, I shall seek my Katie here”;

And brave is the hope of New England.

I went to gain a home for her, and in the Golden StateWith head and hand I planned and toiled, and early worked and late;But luck was all against me, and sickness on me lay,And ere I got my strength again ’twas many a weary day;And long are the thoughts of New England.

I went to gain a home for her, and in the Golden State

With head and hand I planned and toiled, and early worked and late;

But luck was all against me, and sickness on me lay,

And ere I got my strength again ’twas many a weary day;

And long are the thoughts of New England.

And many a day, and many a month, and thrice the rolling year,I bravely strove, and still the goal seemed never yet more near.My Katie’s letters told me that she kept her promise true,But now, for very hopelessness, my own to her were few;And stern is the pride of New England.

And many a day, and many a month, and thrice the rolling year,

I bravely strove, and still the goal seemed never yet more near.

My Katie’s letters told me that she kept her promise true,

But now, for very hopelessness, my own to her were few;

And stern is the pride of New England.

But still she trusted in me, though sick with hope deferred;No more among the village choir her voice was sweetest heard;For when the wild northeaster of the fourth long winter blew,So thin her frame with pining, the cold wind pierced her through;And chill are the blasts of New England.

But still she trusted in me, though sick with hope deferred;

No more among the village choir her voice was sweetest heard;

For when the wild northeaster of the fourth long winter blew,

So thin her frame with pining, the cold wind pierced her through;

And chill are the blasts of New England.

At last my fortunes bettered, on the far Pacific shore,And I thought to see old Windham and my patient love once more;When a kinsman’s letter reached me: “Come at once, or come too late!Your Katie’s strength is failing; if you love her, do not wait:Come back to the elms of New England.”

At last my fortunes bettered, on the far Pacific shore,

And I thought to see old Windham and my patient love once more;

When a kinsman’s letter reached me: “Come at once, or come too late!

Your Katie’s strength is failing; if you love her, do not wait:

Come back to the elms of New England.”

O, it wrung my heart with sorrow! I left all else behind,And straight for dear New England I speeded like the wind.The day and night were blended till I reached my boyhood’s home,And the old cliffs seemed to mock me that I had not sooner come;And gray are the rocks of New England.

O, it wrung my heart with sorrow! I left all else behind,

And straight for dear New England I speeded like the wind.

The day and night were blended till I reached my boyhood’s home,

And the old cliffs seemed to mock me that I had not sooner come;

And gray are the rocks of New England.

I could not think ’twas Katie, who sat before me thereReading her Bible—’twas my gift—and pillowed in her chair.A ring, with all my letters, lay on a little stand,—She could no longer wear it, so frail her poor, white hand!But strong is the love of New England.

I could not think ’twas Katie, who sat before me there

Reading her Bible—’twas my gift—and pillowed in her chair.

A ring, with all my letters, lay on a little stand,—

She could no longer wear it, so frail her poor, white hand!

But strong is the love of New England.

Her hair had lost its tangle and was parted off her brow;She used to be a joyous girl,—but seemed an angel now,—Heaven’s darling, mine no longer; yet in her hazel eyesThe same dear love-light glistened, as she soothed my bitter cries:And pure is the faith of New England.

Her hair had lost its tangle and was parted off her brow;

She used to be a joyous girl,—but seemed an angel now,—

Heaven’s darling, mine no longer; yet in her hazel eyes

The same dear love-light glistened, as she soothed my bitter cries:

And pure is the faith of New England.

A month I watched her dying, pale, pale as any roseThat drops its petals one by one and sweetens as it goes.My life was darkened when at last her large eyes closed in death,And I heard my own name whispered as she drew her parting breath;Still, still was the heart of New England.

A month I watched her dying, pale, pale as any rose

That drops its petals one by one and sweetens as it goes.

My life was darkened when at last her large eyes closed in death,

And I heard my own name whispered as she drew her parting breath;

Still, still was the heart of New England.

It was a woful funeral the coming sabbath-day;We bore her to the barren hill on which the graveyard lay,And when the narrow grave was filled, and what we might was done,Of all the stricken group around I was the loneliest one;And drear are the hills of New England.

It was a woful funeral the coming sabbath-day;

We bore her to the barren hill on which the graveyard lay,

And when the narrow grave was filled, and what we might was done,

Of all the stricken group around I was the loneliest one;

And drear are the hills of New England.

I gazed upon the stunted pines, the bleak November sky,And knew that buried deep with her my heart henceforth would lie;And waking in the solemn nights my thoughts still thither goTo Katie, lying in her grave beneath the winter snow;And cold are the snows of New England.

I gazed upon the stunted pines, the bleak November sky,

And knew that buried deep with her my heart henceforth would lie;

And waking in the solemn nights my thoughts still thither go

To Katie, lying in her grave beneath the winter snow;

And cold are the snows of New England.

THE END

Cambridge: Electrotyped and Printed by Welch, Bigelow, & Co.

Back to Index Next