Book X-^ GopghtN^ COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. >, JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. THE EARLY POEMS OF J James Russell Lowell INCLUDING THE BIGLOW papers WITH BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH By henry KETCHAM NEW YORK A. L. BURT, PUBLISHER U. Library of C»no»re»s I Tw© CeriES R€i€«"€§ | JUN 27 1900 I JUN 2Q l.qno 64443 Copyright, 1900, by A. L. Burt. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. BY HENRY KETCHAM. LowelVs Poems. CONTENTS. , PAGE Biographical Sketch vii THE BIGLOW PAPERS. No. I. — A letter from Mr. Ezekiel Biglow of Jaalam to the Hon Joseph T. Buckingham, Editor of the Boston Courier, inclosing a Poem of his Son, Mr. Hosea Biglow 37 No. n. — A letter from Mr. Hosea Biglow to the Hon. J. T. Buckingham, Editor of the Boston Courier, covering a Letter from Mr. B. Sawin, Private in the Massachusetts Regiment 46 No. HI.— What Mr. Robinson thinks 60 No. IV. — Remarks of Increase D. O'Phace, Esquire, at an Extrumpery Caucus in State Street, reported by- Mr. H. Biglow 73 No. 5. — The Debate in the Sennit. Sot to a Nusry Rhyme 87 No. VI.— The Pious Editor's Creed 96 No. VII. — A Letter from a Candidate for the Presidency in Answer to suttin Questions proposed by Mr. Hosea Biglow, inclosed in a Note from Mr. Biglow to S. H. Gay, Esq., Editor of the National Anti- slavery Standard 106 No. VIII.— A Second Letter from B. Sawin, Esq 118 No. IX.— A Third Letter from B. Sawin, Esq 136 A Fable for Critics 153 The Vision of Sir Launfal 227 Appledore , 240 To the Dandelion 242 Para 245 To J. F. H 247 iii iv CONTENTS. PAGS Prometheus 249 Rosaline 260 Sonnet 265 A Glance behind the Curtain 265 A Song ! 274 The Moon 275 The Fatherland 276 A Parable 277 On the Death of a Friend's Child 279 An Incident in a Railroad Car 282 A.n Incident of the Fire at Hamburgh 284 Sonnets 287 The Unhappy Lot of Mr. Knott 290 Hakon's Lay 318 To the Future 320 Out of Doors 323 A Reverie 325 In Sadness 327 Farewell 329 A Dirge 333 Fancies about a Rosebud 339 New Year's Eve, 1844 341 A Mystical Ballad 346 Opening Poem to " A Year's Life " 350 Dedication to " A Year's Life " 350 Threnodia 351 The Serenade 355 Song 357 The Departed 358 The Bobolink 362 Forgetfulness 366 Song 366 The Poet 367 Flowers 369 The Lover 374 ToE. W. G 375 Isabel 378 Musjc. ....,, , , , , 379 CONTENTS. V PAaE Song 384 lanthe 386 Love's Altar 392 My Love 393 With a Pressed Flower 396 Impartiality 397 Bellerophon 398 Something Natural 403 The Sirens 403 A Feeling 407 The Beggar 408 Serenade 409 Irene 410 The Lost Child 413 The Church 414 The Unlovely 416 Love-Song 418 Song 419 A Love-Dream 421 Fourth of July Ode 423 Sphinx 424 " Goe, Little Booke " 426 Sonnets : I. Disappointment 429 II. Great Human Nature 429 HI. To a Friend 430 IV. So may it be 430 V. O Child of Nature 431 VI. " For this true nobleness " 431 VII. To 432 VIII. Might I but be beloved 432 IX. Why should we ever weary ? 433 X. Green Mountains 433 XL My Friend, adovvn Life's Valley 434 XII. Verse cannot say 434 XIII. The soul would fain 435 XIV. I saw a gate 435 vi CONTENTS. PAGE Sonnets : XV. I would not have this perfect love 436 XVI. To the dark, narrow house 436 XVII. I fain would give to thee 437 XVIII. Much I had mused of Love 437 XIX. Sayest thou, most beautiful 438 XX. Poet, who sittest in thy pleasant room 438 XXI. " No more but so ? " 439 XXII. To a Voice heard in Mount Auburn 439 ^XIII. On Reading Spenser again 440 XXIV. Light of mine eyes ! 440 XXV. Silent as one who treads 441 XXVI. A gentleness that grows , 441 XXVII. When the glad soul 442 XXVIIL To the Evening-Star 442 XXIX. Reading 443 XXX. To , after a Snow-Storm 443 Sonnets on Names : L Edith 445 II. Rose 445 m. Mary 446 IV. Caroline 446 V. Anne 447 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. The genius of James Russell Lowell places him in the front rank of American poets. He is one of the few who are read and appreciated on both sides of the At- lantic. He made his mark in his earliest published volume, when he was but twenty-two years of age. From that time to the end of a long career he grew steadily in fame. Nor did his power wane, while his literary form showed an increasing perfection of polish. He was born in Cambridge, Mass., Feb. 22, 1819. His father was the Eev. Charles Lowell, D.D., minister of the West Church (Unitarian) of Boston, a scholar of high standing and author of several devotional books. He was descended from Percival Lowell, who came from England in 1639 and settled in Kewbury, Mass. The subject of this sketch showed throughout life a fine example of the Puritan conscience, joined with a rare tenderness of nature and winsomeness of character. While he never lacked the moral courage which dared to stand " in the right with two or three," his nature and method were gentle and persuasive rather than severe or antagonizing. He was more than a poet. He was symmetrically developed as a man of letters. To his admirers he was the ideal man of letters. As such his life was vii Viii BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. quiet, and his biography will record the growth and products of his mind rather than external events which were never romantic. He was graduated from Harvard College in 1838. At that time he was class poet, but the reading of the poems was omitted from the exercises of Class Day owing to the unavoidable absence of the poet. This absence was caused by the fact that at just that time he happened to be under suspension from the college. His offence, however, was playful and in no wise seri- ous, and his Alma Mater never ceased to do him honor in after years. On leaving college Lowell entered a law office and after the usual preliminary studies was, in 1840, ad- mitted to the bar. He was, however, by nature a man of letters and was unsuited to the peculiar exactions of the legal profession. One is therefore not surprised that there is no record of his practice of the law, but there was a tolerably steady stream of poems, essays and reviews flowing from his facile pen. The first year of his nominal law practice records a volume of poems (1841) entitled ^^ A Year's Life." In this were evidences that he was a true seer, a genuine poet. His friends recognized the promise of a brilliant career, and they were not mistaken. Two years later he became editor of a magazine of which, however, only three numbers were issued. A year after that he issued another volume of poems. In this year, 1844, he married Miss Maria White, of "Watertown, Mass. She was a charming and accom- plished woman, possessing literary talent of no mean order. To her translations from the German she added original poems of more than ordinary merit. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. {^ She died in 1853, and it was her death which elicited from Longfellow one of the sweetest and most beautiful of all poems on death. It is that entitled Two Angels. 'T was at thy door, O friend, and not at mine, The angel with the amaranthine wreath, Pausing, descended, and, with voice divine. Whispered a word that had a sound Hke death. Then fell upon the house a sudden gloom, A shadoV on those features fair and thin. And softly, from that hushed and darkened room, Two angels issued where but one went in. In 1845 he published a volume of essays, " Conver- sations on Some of the Poets/' and thus we see that he was permanently out of the current of the law and in that of literature. In 1848 he published a volume that contained what have proved to be two of his most popular poems : namely, The Vision of Sir Launfal and The Biglow Papers. In 1851-2 he made his first trip to Europe. Most of the time he spent in Italy, especially in Eome with his friend AV. W. Story, the famous sculptor. In 1854-5 he delivered the Lowell Institute lectures on '* British Poets." The most important event occurred that year when he was appointed professor of Belles Lettres at Harvard to succeed his distinguished friend H. W. Longfellow. Before assuming the duties of the professorhip he spent another year in Europe, chiefly in Dresden. In 1857 he married Miss Frances Dunlaji of Portland, Maine. When the Atlantic Monthly was established he was X BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. its first regular editor, and continued in that work for about five years, or from 1857 to 1862. Kelinquishing this he edited the North American Keview, then a quar- terly, for a period, of about ten years. In addition to his editorial work he contributed a large number of articles to this magazine, — thirty-four in all, not count- ing editorial notes, etc. During these fifteen years of editorship, while he had also the duties of professor, his general literary work did not lag, and he issued vol- umes both of poetry and of prose. In 1872-4 he again travelled in Europe, receiving the unusual honors of the degrees of D. C. L. from the University of Oxford, and LL.D. from that of Cam- bridge, England. In 1877 he was appointed Minister to Spain, and took up the duties of a post made illustrious by Irving. The lustre of the literary tradition suffered no diminution in his incumbency. He was later (1880-5) minister to England, and it is not too much to say that in that difficult and exacting position he stands second to none of all who have ever served. His honest, sturdy, and outspoken democracy, his fineness of culture, his breadth of spirit, and his genial persuasiveness have had incalculable influence in promoting the friendliness between Americans and their British cousins. At this time he was honored by being appointed Lord Eector of St. Andrews Uni- versity at St. Andrews, Scotland. But he soon resigned this position as being incompatible with his obliga- tions as minister of the United States. In his later years he published several volumes of essays and addresses, the latter being largely on pa- triotic or democratic subjects. The excellonce of their BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. xi substance and the finish of their form entitle them to a permanent place in literature. They are, however, outside the scope of this sketch, which concerns Lowell as a poet. Lowell was one of a remarkable circle of literary friends, such as has hardly existed before in all his- tory, and certainly never in tiie United States. His friendships included Longfellow, Emerson, E. H. Dana, W. AY. Story, Fields, Holmes, Whittier, Agas- siz, E. E. Hale, and others of nearly equal prominence. Such friendship greatly enriched his life, but it in no wise quenched his originality nor weakened his vigor. In looking over his poetical works for a critical esti- mate, we find no one poem which towers up above the rest, like Milton's Paradise Lost, Byron^s Childe Harold, or Wordsworth's Excursion. But there are many shorter ones, each of which is sufficient to justify the high reputation which he holds on both sides of the Atlantic. In his first published volume, there is one, entitled " Ode,^' which must have been written when he was little more than a boy, which gave abun- dant evidence of his high aspiration and of the earnest- ness of his spirit. His admirers were justified in predicting from this poem a brilliant future for the author, and the result was not disappointing. The Biglow Papers are a political satire upon the Invasion by the United States of Mexico, the State of the Slavery Question, etc. They are written in the Yankee dialect verse by one Hosea Biglow, Birdofre- dum Sawin, edited with an introduction, notes, glos- sary, and copious index, by Homer Wilbur, A. M., pastor of the First Church in Jaalam, and (prospec- tive) member of many literary, learned, and scientific Xii BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. societies. These placed Lowell in the front rank of humorists. They were the first attempt to use the quaint New England dialect in verse, and they are probably the best imitations to be found either in poetry or in prose. They were received with favor, and their keen satire, their quaint drollery, their irresistible good humor, have held them in popularity for a half century. Po- litical opponents enjoyed them hardly less than polit- ical friends. The experiences of the Bay State recruit, with sly wit, set forth political questions and practices in a way to fill one with laughter. There is an under- tone of seriousness, especially a hot hatred of slavery and all its concomitants, and indeed of all injustice. But the form is humorous, and they have been called an attempt to laugh down slavery. In the larger sense of the word, they are intensely patriotic. They are classic in their way, and are the only production in the English language worthy to stand by the side of Hudi- bras. It is this combination of fun that bubbles over and sturdy morality which places them on so high a plane both intellectual and ethical. They have held their place for fifty years and doubtless will hold it for many years to come. A second series of these charming papers was called out by the Civil War of 1861-5. These had not the advantage of newness enjoyed by the first series, never- theless they are Avorthy of their name and do not de- tract from the quality of the whole. If there is less rollicking fun in the second series, there is also more poetry. The Civil War was nearer to the poet than the Mexican War, and this fact could not other than influ- ence his writing even of wit, humor, and satire. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. xiii Another masterly piece of humor is the Fable for Critics, which is no fable at all, but a rhymed review, or at least criticism, of some of the more prominent American writers. One after another they pass under his scrutiny and receive his criticism or characteriza- tion. It is not to be expected that this poem should have the balance of the regular review, but on the whole its criticisms are just, while his wit is as keen as a Damascus blade. It is to be noted that the poet does not spare himself, but raps his own knuckles quite as hard as any. There is Lowell, who's striving Parnassus to climb, With a whole bale of isms tied together with rhyme. The top of the hill he will ne'er come nigh reaching Till he learns the distinction 'twixt singing and preaching. The purpose and character of the Fable preclude the usual finish of form, so that it has been called clever doggerel. But along with its trenchant humor may be discovered a manly vigor, with occasional touches of the pathos which is rarely lacking in any of Lowell's poetry, either humorous or serious, and all joined by a good sense that bears the light of day. In 1865 Harvard College had a memorial service for those of her sons who fell in the Civil War, 'and for this was written the Commemoration Ode, whose stately measures rise sometimes to sublime heights. Patriotism tinges much of his poetry, for love of country and of freedom was a passion with him, but in this poem it has a freer course than elsewhere. He touches the ideal manhood, — God's plan Axi^ jneasure of a stalwart man. xiv BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. The concrete example of this manhood is Lincoln *^our Martyr-Chief." Then follows a characterization of him unequalled certainly in poetry, leading up to the climax, — The kindly-earnest, brave, foreseeing man, Sagacious, patient, dreading praise, not blame, New birth of our new soil, the first American. The Present Crisis is probably the most quoted of his poems. It was written in December, 1844, and refers to one of the many crises of slavery. It displays the author's noble loyalty to Truth and his withering scorn of evasion or temporizing expedients. Later he treated similar subjects with humorous form in the Biglow papers ; but here he is serious in form as well as earnest in thought. Lord Bacon raised the ques- tion of *^ jesting Pilate." What is Truth? Lowell answers with a clarion ring : Truth forever on the scaffold, Wrong forever on the throne, — Yet that scaffold sways the future, and, behind the dim un- known, Standeth God within the shadow, keeping watch above His own. History is to Lowell a divine revelation, and the crisis of which he writes has the solemnity of the Judgment Day. Once to every man and nation comes the moment to decide In the strife of Truth with Falsehood, for the good or evil side. This leads us to speak of the religious characteristic of the author^s poetry. His poems are not religious in the same sense as those of Cowper, Possibly they are BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. XV not evangelical. But they are religious in the finest sense of the word, holding to an unshaken belief in God's everlasting righteousness, with sweet confidence in His overruling providence, with a profound belief in the practical piety of considering the poor and un- fortunate, and especially with broad sympathy for '' seekers after God.'' His ^^ Vision of Sir Launf al " is a universal favorite. It tells of the quest of the Holy Grail, or the cup which Our Lord blessed in the Last Supper. The way the knight treats the beggar on his issuing from the castle and the way he treats him upon his return from his wanderings present a striking contrast. Other poems which may be classed as distinctly religious are Parable (two by this name) Ambrose, Extreme Unction, and The Cathedral. The Death of a Friend's Child may be studied profit- ably by every preacher, and After the Burial should be mastered by every pastor for the purpose of enter- ing into the experiences of others where one so easily misunderstands. The Cathedral was originally entitled ^^A Day at Chartres." The reader can spend with profit and de- light not merely one, but many, days in that poem. It opens with a discussion of first impressions, then describes the poet's overwhelming impression of the cathedral. Within he observes a solitary beldam list- lessly counting her beads and has at first a scornful feeling towards her, which quickly gives place to sym- pathy. This leads to the discussion of the various Faiths that grope after God, and the teaching is that God is nearer than men realize. The ancient forms, bare to the refined descendant of the Puritans, have their uses. xvi BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. Be He nowhere else, God is in all that liberates and lifts, In all that humbles, sweetens, and consoles. The cathedral was built with a sense of piety and consecration. Each person came bringing his ''vote for God/' for such were the stones built into that stately structure. From that work of conscience and devotion the '' Western Goth '* may learn that nothing pays but God, Served whether on the smoke-shut battle-field, In work obscure done honestly, or vote For truth unpopular, or faith maintained To ruinous convictions, or good deeds Wrought for good's sake, mindless of heaven or hell. The poem closes with witnessing to the universal presence of God, and leaves the reader in that frame of solemn awe as if he had shared the poet's own vision and experience in the aisles of that impressive cathe- dral. One further poem ought to be mentioned for its del- icacy of thought and perfectness of finish, and that is Auf Wiedersehen. Sweet piece of bashful maiden art ! The English words had seemed to fain, But these— they drew us heart to heart, ' Yet held us tenderly apart ; She said, '* Auf Wiedersehen!'' Gathering together the impressions of this poet, we find him fearless in moral courage, with unconquerable devotion to truth and scorn of temporizing expedients, with passionate love of freedom and hatred of slavery' with broad philanthropy and pervading piety. His satire js clever, his imagination vivid, his range of BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. xvii thought wide, his intellectual grasp firm, and his ex- pression vigorous. The introductions to the two parts of The Vision of Sir Launfal are models of graceful and delicate fancy clothed in absolute beauty of ex- pression. Lowell's duties as minister to England came to an end in 1885. The later years of his life, however, were well filled with work. His residence was at Elmwood, Cambridge, where for many years he had been near neighbor to Longfellow. Li 1885 he had buried in England his wife. The solitude of his latest years was broken by frequent visits to England where he had many friends, while his time was also occupied by lec- tures and addresses. He prepared his complete works for the press, so that the public now have them in the form which the author would wish. His friend, Prof. Charles Eliot Norton, has since published his life and letters, to which the reader is referred for a fuller knowledge of this rare man. He died at Cambridge, August 12, 1891. He left an added dignity to American letters. He not only received the highest honors which his alma mater, Harvard, could give, but he was decorated by the uni- versities of Glasgow, Edinburgh, and Bologna, in addi- tion to Oxford and Cambridge above mentioned. To him may be applied the words which he wrote to a friend, — ' The birds are hushed, the poets gone Where no harsh critic's lash can reach, And still your winged brood sing on To all who love our English speech. HENRY KETCHAM, MELIBCEVS-HIPPONAX. THE BiaLOW PAPEES EDITED WITH AN INTKODUCTION AND NOTES BY HOMER WILBUR, A. M. PASTOR OF THE FIRST CHURCH IN JAALAM, AND (PROSPECTIVE) MEMBER OF MANY LITERARY, LEARNED AND SCIENTIFIC SOCIETIES (Jor which see page v) The ploughman's whistle, or the trivial flute, Finds more respect than great Apollo's lute. Quarles's Emblems, b. ii. e. 8. Margaritas, munde porcine, calcasti : en, siliquas accipe. Jac. Car, Fil. ad Pub. Leg. § 1. I NOTE TO TITLE-PAGE. It will not have escaped the attentive eye, that I have, on the title-page, omitted those honorary ap- pendages to the editorial name which not only add greatly to the value of every book, but whet and ex- acerbate the appetite of the reader. For not only does he surmise that an honorary membership of literary and scientific societies implies a certain amount of neces- sary distinction on the part of the recipient of such decorations, but he is willing to trust himself more entirely to an author who writes under the fearful re- sponsibility of involving the reputation of such bodies as the S. Archceol Bahom., or the Acad. Lit. et Scient. Kamtschat. I cannot but think that the early editions of Shakspeare and Milton would have met with more rapid and general acceptance, but for the barrenness of their respective title-pages ; and I believe, that, even now, a publisher of the works of either of those justly distinguished men would find his account in procuring their admission to the membership of learned bodies on the Continent, — a proceeding no whit more incongruous than the reversal of the judgment against Socrates, when he was already more than twenty centuries beyond the reach of antidotes, and when his memory had acquired a deserved respectability. I conceive that it was a feel- ing of the importance of this precaution which induced Mr. Locke to style himself *' Gent.^' on the title-page of his Essay, as who should say to his readers that they a 4 NOTE TO TITLE-PAGE. could receive his metaphysics on the honor of a gentle- man. Nevertheless, finding, that, without descending to a smaller size of type than would have been compatible with the dignity of the several societies to be named, I could not compress my intended list within the limits of a single page, and thinking, moreover, that the act would carry with it an air of decorous modesty, I have chosen to take the reader aside, as it were, into my private closet, and there not only exhibit to him the diplomas which I already possess, but also to furnish him with a prophetic vision of those which I may, with- out undue presumption, hope for, as not beyond the reach of human ambition and attainment. And I am the rather induced to this from the fact, that my name has been unaccountably dropped from the last triennial catalogue of our beloved Alma Mater. Whether this is to be attributed to the difficulty of Latinizing any of those honorary adjuncts (with a complete list of which I took care to furnish the proper persons nearly a year beforehand), or whether it had its origin in any more culpable motives, I forbear to consider in this place, the matter being in course of painful investigation. But, however this may be, I felt the omission the more keenly, as I had, in expectation of the new catalogue, enriched the library of the Jaalam Atlienseum with the old one then in my possession, by which means it has come about that my children will be deprived of a never-wearying winter-evening's amusement in looking out the name of their parent in that distinguished roll. Those harmless innocents had at least committed no but I forbear, having intrusted my reflections and animadversions on this painful topic to the safe-keeping NOTE TO TITLE-PAGE. 5 of my private diary, intended for posthumous publica- tion. I state this fact here, in order that certain nameless individuals, who are, perhaps, overmuch con- gratulating themselves upon my silence, may know that a rod is in pickle which the vigorous hand of a justly incensed posterity will apply to their memories. The careful reader will note, that, in the list which I have prepared, I have included the names of several Cisatlantic societies to which a place is not commonly assigned in processions of this nature. I have ventured to do this, not only to encourage native ambition and genius, but also because I have never been able to per- ceive in what way distance (unless we suppose them at the end of a lever) could increase the weight of learned bodies. As far as I have been able to extend my re- searches among such stuffed specimens as occasionally reach America, I have discovered no generic difference between the antipodal Fogrnm Japonicum and the F. Americmium sufficiently common in our own immediate neighborhood. Yet, with a becoming deference to the popular belief, that distinctions of this sort are enhanced in value by every additional mile they travel, I have in- termixed the names of some tolerably distant literary and other associations with the rest. I add here, also, an advertisement, which, that it may be the more readily understood by those persons especially interested therein, I have written in that curtailed and otherwise maltreated canine Latin, to the writing and reading of which they are accustomed. Omn^ib. per tot. Orb. Terrar. Catalog. Academ. Edd. Minim, gent, diplom. ab inclytiss. acad. vest, orans, 6 NOTE to TITLE-PAGE. vir. honorand. operosiss., at sol. ut sciat. quant, glor. nom. meum (dipl. fort, concess.) catal. vest. temp, futur. affer., ill. subjec, addit. omnib. titul. honorar. qu. adh. non tant. opt. quam probab. put. *^* Litt. Uncial, distinx, nt Prces. S. Hist. Nat. Jaal, HOMER US WILBUR, Mr., Episc. Jaalam. S. T. D. 1850, et Yal. 1849, et Neo-Caes. et Brun. et Gulielm. 1852, et Gnl. et Mar. et Bowd. et Georgiop. et Viridi- mont. et Columb. Nov. Ebor. 1853, et Amherst, et "Watervill. et S. Jarlatb. Hib. et S. Mar. et S. Joseph, et S. And. Scot. 1854, et Nashvill. et Dart. et. Dickins. et Concord, et Wash, et Columbian, et Chariest, et Jeff, et Dubl. et Oxon. et Cantab, et caet. 1855, P. U. N. C. H. et J. U. D. Gott. et Osnab. et Heidelb. 1860, et Acad. Bore us. Berolin. Soc. et SS. ER. Lugd. Bat. et Patav. et Lond. et Edinb. et Ins. Feejee. et Null. Terr, et Pekin. Soc. Hon. et S. H. S. et S. P. A. et A. A. S. et S. Humb. Univ. et S. Omn. Rer. Quarund. q. Aliar. Promov. Passamaquod. et H. P. C. et I. 0. H. et A. A. ^. et II. K. P. et B. K. et Peucin, et Erosoph. et Philadelph. et Frat. in Unit, et I. T. et S. Archaeo- log. Athen. et Acad. Scient. et Lit. Panorm, et SS. R. H. Matrit. et Beeloochist. et Caffrar. et Caribb. et M. S. Reg. Paris, et S. Am. Antiserv. Soc. Hon. et P. D. Gott. et LL. D. 1852, et D. C. L. et Mus. Doc. Oxon. 1860, et M. M. S. S. et M. D. 1854, et Med. Fac. Univ. Harv. Soc. et S. pro Convers. PoUywog. Soc. Hon. et Higgl. Piggl. et LL. B. 1853, et S. pro Christianiz. Moschet. Soc, et SS. Ante-Diluv. ubiq. Gent. .Soc. Hon. et Civit. Cleric. Jaalam. et S. pro Diffus. Gen- eral. Tenebr. Secret. Corr. NOTICES OF AN INDEPENDENT PRESS. [I HAVE observed, reader, (bene- or male-volent, as it may happen,) that it is customary to append to the second editions of books, and to the second works of authors, short sentences commendatory of the first, under the title of Notices of the Press. These, I have been given to understand, are procurable at certain estab- lished rates, payment being made either in money or ad- vertising patronage by the publisher, or by an adequate outlay of servility on the part of the author. Con- sidering these things with myself, and also that such notices are neither intended, nor generally believed, to convey any real opinions, being a purely ceremonial ac- companiment of literature, and resembling certificates to the virtues of various morbiferal panaceas, I con- ceived that it would be not only more economical to prepare a sufficient number of such myself, but also more immediately subservient to the end in view to prefix them to this our primary edition rather than await the contingency of a second, when they would seem to be of small utility. To delay attaching the hols until the second attempt at fiying the kite would indicate but a slender experience in that useful art. Neither has it escaped my notice, nor failed to afford me matter of reflection, that, when a circus or a cara- van is about to visit Jaalam, the initial step is to send forward large and highly ornamented bills of perform- 7 8 NOTICES OF AN INDEPENDENT PHESS. ance to be hung in the bar-room and the post-office. These having been sufficiently gazed at, and beginning to lose their attractiveness except for the flies, and, truly, the boys also, (in whom I find it impossible to repress, even during school hours, certain oral and telegraphic correspondences concerning the expected show,) upon some fine morning the band enters in a gaily-painted wagon, or triumphal chariot, and with noisy advertisement, by means of brass, wood, and sheepskin, makes the circuit of our startled village streets. Then, as the exciting sounds draw nearer and nearer, do I desiderate those eyes of Aristarchus, ^' whose looks were as a breeching to a boy." Then do I perceive, with vain regret of wasted opportunities, the advantage of a pancratic or pantechnic education, since he is most reverenced by my little subjects who can throw the cleanest summerset or walk most securely upon the re- volving cask. The story of the Pied Piper becomes for the first time credible to me, (albeit confirmed by the Hameliners dating their legal instruments from the period of his exit,) as I behold how those strains, with- out pretence of magical potency, bewitch the pupillary legs, nor leave to the pedagogic an entire self-control. For these reasons, lest my kingly prerogative should suffer diminution, I prorogue my restless commons, whom I also follow into the street, chiefly lest some mischief may chance befall them. After the manner of such a band, I send forward the following notices of domestic manufacture, to make brazen proclamation, not unconscious of the advantage which will accrue, if our little craft, cymlula stitih's, shall seem to leave port with a clipping breeze, and to carry, in nautical phrase, a bone in her mouth. Nevertheless, I have chosen, as NOTICES OF AN INDEPENDENT PRESS. 9 being more equitable, to prepare some also sufficiently objurgatory, that readers of every taste may find a dish to their palate. I have modelled them upon actually existing specimens, preserved in my own cabinet of natural curiosities. One, in particular, I had copied with tolerable exactness from a notice of one of my own discourses, which, from its superior tone and appear- ance of vast experience, I concluded to have been written by a man at least three hundred years of age, though I recollected no existing instance of such ante- diluvian longevity. Nevertheless, I afterward discov- ered the author to be a young gentleman preparing for the ministry under the direction of one of my brethren in a neighboring town, and whom I had once instinc- tively corrected in a Latin quantity. But this I have been forced to omit, from its too great length. — H. W.] From the Universal Littery Universe. Full of passages which rivet the attention of the reader. . . . Under a rustic garb, sentiments are conveyed which should be committed to the memory and engraven on the heart of every moral and social being . . . We consider this a unique performance . . . We hope to see it soon introduced into our common schools . . . Mr. Wilbur has performed his duties as editor with excellent taste and judgment . . . This is a vein which we hope to see successfully prosecuted . . . We hail the appearance of this work as a long stride toward the formation of a purely aboriginal, indigenous, nati e and American literature. We rejoice to meet with an author national enough to break away from the slavish deference, too common among us, to English grammar and orthography . . . Where all is so good, we are at a loss how to make ex- tracts, . . . On the whole, we may call it a volume which no library, pretending to entire completeness, should fail to place upon its shelves. 10 NOTICES OF AN INDEPENDENT PRESS. From the Higginhottomopolis Snapping-turtle. A collection of the merest balderdash and doggerel that it was ever our bad fortune to lay eyes on. The author is a vul- gar buffoon, and the editor a talkative, tedious old fool. We use strong language, but should any of our readers peruse the book, (from which calamity Heaven preserve them !) they will find reasons for it thick as the leaves of Vallumbrozer, or, to use a still more expressive comparison, as the combined heads of author and editor. The work is wretchedly got up . . . We should like to know how much British gold was pocketed by this libeller of our country and her purest patriots. From the Oldfogrumville Mentor. We have not had time to do more than glance through this handsomel)" printed volume, but the name of its respectable editor, the Rev. Mr. Wilbur, of Jaalam, will afford a suffi- cient guaranty for the worth of its contents . . . The paper is white, the type clear, and the volume of a convenient and attractive size ... In reading this elegantly executed work, it has seemed to us tliat a passage or two might have been re- trenched with advantage, and that the general style of diction was susceptible of a higher polish . . . On the whole, we may safely leave the ungrateful task of criticism to the reader. We will barely suggest, that in volumes intended, as this is, for the illustration of a provincial dialect and turns of expres- sion, a dash of humor or satire might be thrown in with ad- vantage . . . The work is admirably got up . . . This work will form an appropriate ornament to the centre-table. It is beautifully printed, on paper of an excellent quality. From the Dekay Bulwark, We should be wanting in our duty as the conductor of that tremendous engine, a public press, as an American, and as a man, did we allow such an opportunity as is presented to us by "The Biglow Papers" to pass by without entering our NOTICES OF AN INDEPENDENT PRESS. n earnest protest against such attempts (now, alas ! too com- mon) at demoralizing the piibHc sentiment. Under a wretched mask of stupid drollery, slavery, war, the social glass, and, in short, all the valuable and time-honored insti- tutions justly dear to our common humanity and especially to republicans, are made the butt of coarse and senseless ribaldry by this low-minded scribbler. It is time that the respectable and religious portion of our community should be aroused to the alarming inroads of foreign Jacobinism, sanscu- lottism, and infidelity. It is a fearful proof of the widespread nature of this contagion, that these secret stabs at religion and virtue are given from under the cloak (credite, posteri!) of a clergyman. It is a mournful spectacle indeed to the pa- triot and the Christian to see liberality and new ideas (falsely so called, — they are as old as Eden) invading the sacred pre- cincts of the pulpit . . . On the whole, we consider this vol- ume as one of the first shocking results which we predicted would spring out of the late French " Revolution " (!) From the Bungtown Cojyper and Comprehensive Tocsin (a try- weakly family journal) . Altogether an admirable work . . . Full of humor, boister- ous, but delicate, — of wit withering and scorching, yet com- bined with a pathos cool as morning dew, — of satire ponder- ous as the mace of Richard, yet keen as the scymitar of Sala- din . . . A work full of "mountain mirth," mischievous as Puck and lightsome as Ariel . . . We know not whether to admire most the genial, fresh, and discursive concinnity of the author, or his playful fancy, weird imagination, and com- pass of style, at once both objective and subjective . . . We might indulge in some criticisms, but, were the author other than he is, he would be a different being. As it is, he has a wonderful pose, which flits from flower to flower, and bears the reader irresistibly along on its eagle pinions (like Gany- mede) to the " highest heaven of invention." . . . We love a book so purely objective . . . Many of his pictures of natural scenery have an extraordinary subjective clearness and fidel- 12 NOTICES OF AN INDEPENDENT PRESS. ' ity ... In fine, we consider this as one of the most extraor- dinary volumes of this or any age. We know of no English author who could have written it. It is a work to which the proud genius of our country, standing with one foot on the Aroostook and the other on the Rio Grande, and holding up the star-spangled banner amid the wreck of matter and the crush of worlds, may point with bewildering scorn of the punier efforts of enslaved Europe . . . We hope soon to en- counter our author among those higher walks of literature in which he is evidently capable of achieving enduring fame. Already we should be inclined to assign him a high position in the bright galaxy of our American bards. From the Saltriver Pilot and Flag of Freedom. A volunie of bad grammar and worse taste . . . While the pieces here collected were confined to their appropriate sphere in the corners of obscure newspapers, we considered them wholly beneath contempt, but, as the author has chosen to come forward in this public manner, he must expect the lash he so richly merits . . . Contemptible slanders . . . Vilest Billingsgate . . . Has raked all the gutters of our lan- guage . . . The most pure, upright, and consistent politicians not safe from his malignant venom . . . General Gushing comes in for a share of his vile calumnies . . . the Reverend Homer Wilbur is a disgrace to his cloth . . . From the World-Harmonic- ^olian- Attachment. Speech is silver : silence is golden. No utterance more Orphic than this. While, therefore, as highest author, we reverence him whose works continue heroically unwritten, we have also our hopeful word for those who with pen (from wing of goose loud-cackling, or seraph God-commissioned) record the thing that is revealed . . . Under mask of quaintest irony, we detect here the deep, storm-tost (nigh shipwrecked) soul, thunder-scarred, semiarticulate, but ever climbing hopefully toward the peaceful sumipits of ^n In^ NOTICES OF AN INDEPENDENT PRESS. 13 finite Sorrow . . . Yes, thou poor, forlorn Hosea, with He- brew fire-flaming soul in thee, for thee also this life of ours has not been without its aspects of heavenliest pity and laugh- ingest mirth. Conceivable enougli ! Through coarse Ther- sites-cloak, we have revelation of the heart, wild-glowing, world-clasping, that is in him. Bravely he grapples with the life-problem as it presents itself to him, uncombed, shaggy, careless of the " nicer proprieties," inexpert of " elegant dic- tion," yet with voice audible enough to whoso hath ears, up there on the gravelly side-hills, or down on the splashy, India- rubber-like salt-marshes «of native Jaalam. To this soul also the Necessity of Creating somewliat has unveiled its aw- ful front. If not CEdipuses and Electras and Alcestises, then in God's name Birdofredum Sawins ! These also shall get born into the world, and filch (if so need) a Zingali subsist- ence therein, these lank, omnivorous Yankees of his. He shall paint the Seen, since the Unseen will not sit to him. Yet in him also are Nibelungen-lays, and Iliads, and Ulysses- wanderings, and Divine Comedies, — if only once he could come at them ! Therein lies much, nay all ; for what truly is this which we name All, but that which we do not possess ? . . . Glimpses also are given us of an old father Ezekiel, not without paternal pride, as is the wont of such, A brown, parchment-hided old man of the geoponic or bucolic species, gray-eyed, we fancy, queued perhaps, with much weather- cunning and plentiful September-gale memories, bidding fair in good time to become the Oldest Inhabitant. After such hasty apparition, he vanishes and is seen no more ... Of "Rev. Homer Wilbur, A. M., Pastor of the First Church in Jaalam," we have small care to speak here. Spare touch in him of his Melesigenes namesake, save haply, the — blindness ! A tolerably caliginose, nephelegeretous elderly gentleman, with infinite faculty of sermonizing, muscularized by long practice, and excellent digestive apparatus, and, for the rest, well-meaning enough, and with small private illuminations (somewhat tallowy, it is to be feared) of his own. To him, there, " Pastor of the First Church in Jaalam," our Hosea presents himself as a quiet inexplicable Sphinx-riddle. A rich poverty of Latin and Greek, — so far is clear enough, even 14 NOTICES OF AN INDEPENDENT PRESS. to eyes peering myopic through horn-lensed editorial specta- cles,— but naught farther? O pur-blind, well-meaning, alto- gether fuscous Melesigenes-Wilbur, there are things in him incommunicable by stroke of birch ! Did it ever enter that old bewildered head of thine that there was the Possibility of the Infinite in him ? To thee, quite wingless (and even feath- erless) biped, has not so much even as a dream of wings ever come? "Talented young parishioner ' ? Among the Arts whereof thou art Magister, does that of seeing happen to be one ? Unhappy Artium Magister ! Somehow a Nemean lion, fulvous, torrid-eyed, dry-nursed in broad-howling sand-wil- dernesses of a sufficiently rare spirit-Libya (it may be supposed) has got whelped among the sheep. Already he stands wild- glaring, with feet clutching the ground as with oak-roots, gathering for a Remus-spring over the walls of thy little fold. In Heaven's name, go not near him with that fly-bite crook of thine ! In good time, thou painful preacher, thou wilt go to the appointed place of departed Artillery -Election Sermons, Right-Hands of Fellowship, and Results of Councils, gathered to thy spiritual fathers with much Latin of the Epitaphial sort ; thou, too, Shalt have thy reward ; but on him the Eumenides have looked, not Xantippes of the pit, snake-tressed, finger- threatening, but radiantly calm as on antique gems ; for him paws impatient the winged courser of the gods, champing un- w^elcome bit ; him the starry deeps, the empyrean glooms, and far-flashing splendors await. From the Onion Grove Phoenix. A talented young townsman of ours, recently returned from a Continental tour, and who is already favorably known to our readers by his sprightly letters from abroad which have graced our columns, called at our office yesterday. We learn from him, that, having enjoyed the distinguished privi- lege, w^hile in Germany, of an introduction to the celebrated Von Humbug, he took the opportunity to present that emi- nent man with a copy of the " Biglow Papers."" The next morning he received the following note, which he has kindly NOTICES OF AN INDEPENDENT PRESS. 15 furnished us for publication. We prefer to print verbatim^ knowing that our readers will readily forgive the few errors into which the illustrious writer has fallen, through ignorance of our language. " High- Worthy Mister ! " I shall also now especially happy starve, because I have more or less a work of one of those aboriginal Red-Men seen in which have I so deaf an interest ever taken fuUworthy on the self shelf with our Gootsched to be upset. " Pardon my in the English-speech unpractice ! "Von Humbug." He also sent with the above note a copy of his famous work on " Cosmetics," to be presented to Mr. Biglow ; but this was taken from our friend by the English customhouse officers, probably through a petty national spite. No doubt, it has by this time found its way into the British Museum. We trust this outrage will be exposed in all our American papers. We shall do our best to bring it to the notice of the State Depart- ment. Our numerous readers will share in the pleasure we experience at seeing our young and vigorous national litera- ture thus encouragingly patted on the head by this venerable and world-renowned German. We love to see these reciproca- tions of good-feeling between the different branches of the great Anglo-Saxon race. [The following genuine "notice'' having met my eye, I gladly insert a portion of it here, the more espe- cially as it contains a portion of one of Mr. Biglow's poems not elsewhere printed. — H. W.] From the Jaalam Independent Blunderbuss. . . . But, while we lament to see our young townsman thus mingling in the heated contests of party politics, we think we detect in him the presence of talents which, if properly directed, might give an innocent pleasure to many. As a 16 NOTICES OF AN INDEPENDENT PRESS. proof that he is competent to the production of other kinds of poetry, we copy for our readers a short fragment of a pastoral by him, the manuscript of which was loaned us by a friend. The title of it is " The Courtin'." Zekle crep' up, quite unbeknown, An' peeked in thru the winder, An' there sot Huldy all alone, 'ith no one nigh to hender. Agin' the chimbly crooknecks hung. An' in amongst 'em rusted The old queen's arm thet gran'ther Young Fetched back frum Concord busted. The wannut logs shot sparkles out Toward the pootiest, bless her ! An' leetle fires danced all about The chiny pn the dresser. The very room, coz she wuz in, Looked warm frum floor to ceilin', An' she looked full ez rosy agin Ez th' apples she wuz peelin'. She heerd a foot an' knowed it, tu, Araspin" on the scraper, — All ways to once her feelins flew Like sparks in burnt-up paper. He kin' o' I'itered on the mat, Some doubtfle o' the seekle ; His heart kep' goin' pitypat, But hern went pity Zekle. Satis mnltis sese emptores futnros libri professis, Georgius Nichols, Cantabrigiensis, opus emittet de parte gravi sed adhuc neglecta historiae naturalis, cum titulo sequent!, videlicet : Conatus ad Delineationem naturalem nonniMl per- fectiorem Scarabcei Bomhilatoris, vulgo dicti Humbug, ab HoMERO Wilbur, Artium Magistro, Societatis his- torico-naturalis Jaalamensis Preside, (Secretario, So- cioque (eheu !) singulo,) multarumque aliarum Societa- tum eruditarum (sive ineruditarum) tarn domesticarum quam transmarinarum Socio — forsitan futuro. PROEMIUM. Lectori Benevolo S. Toga scliolastica nondum deposita, quum systemata varia entomologica, a yiris ejus scientiae cultoribus stu- diosissimis summa diligentia aedificata, penitus inda- gassem, non fuit quin luctuose omnibus in iis, quamvis aliter laude dignissimis, hiatum magni momenti per- ciperem. Tunc, nescio quo motu superiore impulsus, aut qua captus dulcedine operis, ad eum implendum (Curtius alter) me solemniter devovi. Nee ab isto labore, daqiovtw^ imposito, abstinui antequam tractatu- lum sufficienter inconcinnum lingua vernacula per- feceram. Inde, juveniliter tumefactus, et barathro ineptiae twv I^c^XcotzioXwv (necnon '^ Publici Legentis ") nusquam explorato, me composuisse quod quasi pla- centas praef ervidas (ut sic dicam) homines ingurgitarent 2 17 18 PROEMIUM. credidi. Sed, qunm huic et alii bibliopolae MSS. mea submisissem et nihil solidius responsione valde negativa in Musseum meum retnlissem, horror ingens atque misericordia, ob crassitudinem Lambertianam in cere- bris homunculorum istius muneris coelesti quadam ira infixam, me invasere. Extemplo mei solius impensis librnm edere decrevi, nihil omnino dubitans quin ^'Mundiis Scientificus " (ut aiunt) crumenam meam ampliter repleret. Nullam, attamen, ex agro illo meo parvulo segetem demessui, prseter gandium vacuum bene de Republica merendi. Iste panis mens pretiosus super aquas literarias fseculentas praefidenter jactus, quasi Harpy iarumquarundam (scilicet bibliopolarum istorum facinorosorum supradictorum) tactu rancidus, intra perpaucos dies mihi domum rediit. Et, quum ipse tali victu ali non tolerarem, primum in mentem venit pistori (typographo nempe) nihilominus solvendum esse. Animum non idcirco demisi, imo geque ac pueri naviculas suas penes se lino retinent (eo ut e recto cursu delapsas ad ripam retrahant), sic ego Argo meam char- taceam fluctibus laborantem a quaesitu velleris aurei, ipse potius tonsus pelleque exutus, mente solida revo- cavi. Metaphoram ut mutem, hoomarangam meam a scopo aberrantem retraxi, dum majore vi, occasione ministrante, adversus Fortunam intorquerem. Ast mihi, [talia volventi, et, sicut Saturnus ille naido/Sopo?, liberos intellectus mei depascere fidenti, casus mise- randus, nee antea inauditus, supervenit. Xam, ut ferunt Scythas pietatis causa et parsimonise, parentes suos mortuos devorasse, sic filius hie mens primogenitus, Scythis ipsis minus mansuetus, patrem vivum totum et calcitrantem exsorbere enixus est. Nee tamen hac de causa sobolem meam esurientem exheredavi. Sed PROEMIUM. 19 famem istam pro valido testimonio virilitatis roborisque potius habui, cibumque ad earn satiandam, salvapaterna mea carne, petii. Et quia bilem illam scaturientem ad ses etiam concoquendum idoneam esse estimabam, unde aes alienum, ut minoris pretii, haberem, circumspexi. Kebus ita se habentibiis, ab avunculo meo Johanne Doo- little, Armigero, impetravi ut pecunias necessarias suppeditaret, ne opus esset mihi universitatem relin- quendi antequam ad gradum primum in artibus per- venissem. Tunc ego, salvum facere patronum meum munificum maxime cupiens, omnes libros primag edi- tionis operis mei non venditos una cum privilegio in omne aevum ejusdem imprimendi et edendi avunculo meo dicto pigneravi. Ex illo die, atro lapide notando, curae vociferantes familiae singulis annis crescentis eo usque insultabant ut nunquam tarn carum pignus e vinculis istis aheneis solvere possem. Avunculo vero nuper mortuo, quum inter alios con- sanguineos testamenti ejus lectionem audiendi causa advenissem, erectisauribus verba taliasequentia accepi : — '' Quoniam persuasum habeo meum dilectum nepo- tem Homerum, longa et intima rerum angustarum domi experientia, aptissimum esse qui divitias tueatur, bene- ficenterque ac prudenter iis divinis creditis utatur, — ergo, motus hisce cogitationibus, exque amore meo in ilium magno, do, legoque nepoti caro meo supranomi- nato omnes singularesque istas possessiones nee ponder- abiles nee computabiles meas qua3 sequuntur, scilicet : quingentos libros quos mihi pigneravi t dictus Homerus, anno lucis 1792, cum privilegio edendi et repetendi opus istud ^scientiflcum' (quod dicunt) suum, si sic elegerit. Tamen D. 0. M. precor oculos Homeri nepo- tis mei ita aperiat eumque moveat, ut libros istos in 20 PROEMIUM. bibliotheca unius e plurimis castellis suis Hispaniensibus tuto abscondat." His verbis (vix credibilibus) auditis, cor meum in pectore exsultavit. Deiiide, quoniam tractatus Anglice scriptus spem auctoris fefellerat, quippe quum studium Historiae Naturalis in Republica nostra inter factionis strepitum languescat, Latine versum edere statai, et eo potius quia nescio quomodo disciplina academica et duo diplomata proficiant, nisi quod peritos linguarum om- nino mortuarum (et damnandarum, ut dicebat iste Tzavoopyofs Gulielmus Cobbett) nos faciant. Et mihi adhuc superstes est tota ilia editio prima, quam quasi crepitaculum per quod dentes caninos den- tibam retineo. OPERIS SPECIMEN. {Ad exemplum Johannis Physiophili speciminis Monachologice. 12. S. B. Militaris, Wilbur. Carnifex, Jablonsk. Profanusy Despont. [Male hancce speciem C?/cZopemFabricius vocat, ut qui sin- gulo oculo ad quod sui interest distinguitur. Melius vero Isaacus Outis nullum inter S. milit. S. que Belzebul (Fabric. 152) discrimen esse defendit.] Habitat civitat. Americ. austral. Aureis lineis splendidus ; plerumque tamen sordidus, utpote lanienas valde frequentans, foetore sanguinis allectus. Amat quoque insuper septa apricari, neque inde, nisi maxima co- natione, detruditur. Candidatus ergo populariter vocatus. Caput cristam quasi pennarum ostendit. Pro cibo vaccam publicam callide mulget ; abdomen enorme ; facultas suctus baud facile estimanda. Otiosus, fatuus ; ferox nibilominus, semperque dimicare paratus. Tortuose repit. Capite saepe maxima cum cura dissecto, ne illud rudimeu- PROEMIUM. 21 turn etiam cerebri commune omnibus prope insectis detegere poteram. Unam de hoc S. milit. rem singularem notavi ; nam S. Guineens. (Fabric. 143) servos facit, et idcirco a multis summa in reverentia habitus, quasi scintillas rationis paene humanae demonstrans. 24 S. B. Criticus, Wilbur. Zoilus, Fabric. Pygmoeus, Carlsen. [Stultissime Johannes Stryx cum S. punctate (Fabric. 64- 109) confundit. Specimina quamplurima scrutationi micro- scopicae subjeci, nunquam tamen unum uUa indicia puncti cujusvis prorsus ostendentem inveni.] Praecipue formidolosus, insectatusque, in proxima rima anonyma sese abscondit, we, we, creberrime stridens. Inep- tus, segnipes. Habitat ubique gentium ; in sicco ; nidum suum terebra- tione indefessa aedificans. Cibus. Libros depascit ; siccos praecipue seligens, et forte succidum. INTRODUCTION. When, more than three years ago, my talented young parishioner, Mr. Biglow, came to me and sub- mitted to my animadversions the first of his poems which he intended to commit to the more hazardous trial of a city newspaper, it never so much as entered my imagination to conceive that his productions would ever be gathered into a fair volume, and ushered into the august presence of the reading public by myself. So little are we short-sighted mortals able to predict the event ! I confess that there is to me a quite new satisfaction in being associated (though only as sleep- ing partner) in a book which can stand by itself in an independent unity on the shelves of libraries. For there is always this drawback from the pleasure of printing a sermon, that, whereas the queasy stomach of this generation will not bear a discourse long enough to make a separate volume, those religious and godly- minded children (those Samuels, if I may call them so) of the brain must at first lie buried in an undis- tinguished heap, and then get such resurrection as is vouchsafed to them, mummy-wrapt with a score of others in a cheap binding, with no other mark of dis- tinction than the word '^ Miscellafieous " printed upon the back. Far be it from me to claim any credit for the quite unexpected popularity which I am pleased to find these bucolic strains have attained unto. If I know myself, I am measurably free from the itch of 23 M INTRODUCTION. . vanity ; yet I may be allowed to say that I was not backward to recognize in them a certain wild, puckery, acidulous (sometimes even verging toward that point which, in our rustic phrase, is termed shut-eye) flavor, not wholly unpleasing, nor unwholesome, to palates cloyed with the sugariness of tamed and cultivated fruit. It may be, also, that some touches of my own, here and there, may have led to their wider acceptance, albeit solely from my larger experience of literature and authorship.* I was, at first, inclined to discourage Mr. Biglow's attempts, as knowing that the desire to poetize is one of the diseases naturally incident to adolescence, which, if the fitting remedies be not at once and with a bold hand applied, may become chronic, and render one, who might else have become in due time an ornament of the social circle, a painful object even to nearest friends and relatives. But thinking, on a further ex- perience, that there was a germ of promise in him which required only culture and the pulling up of weeds from around it, I thought it best to set before him the acknowledged examples of English compositions in verse, and leave the rest to natural emulation. With this view, I accordingly lent him some volumes of Pope and Goldsmith, to the assiduous study of which he promised to devote his evenings. Not long afterward, he brought me some verses written upon that model, * The reader curious in such matters may refer (if he can find them) to *' A Sermon Preached on the Anniversary of the Dark Day," "An Artillery Election Sermon," " A Dis- course on the Late Eclipse," *' Dorcas, a Funeral Sermon on the Death of Madam Submit Tidd, Relict of the late Experi- ence Tidd, Esq.," &c., &c. INTRODUCTION. 25 a specimen of which I subjoin, having changed some phrases of less elegancy, and a few rhymes objection- able to the cultivated ear. The poem consisted of childish reminiscences, and the sketches which follow will not seem destitute of truth to those whose fortu- nate education began in a country village. And, first, let us hang up his charcoal portrait of the school- dame. *' Propt on the marsh, a dweUing now, I see The humble schoolhouse of my A, B, C, Where well-drilled urchins, each behind his tire, Waited in ranks the wished command to fire, Then all together, when the signal came, Discharged their a-b ahs against the dame, Who, 'mid the volleyed learning, firm and calm, Patted the furloughed ferule on her palm, And, to our wonder, could detect at once Who flashed the pan, and who was downright dunce. There young Devotion learned to climb with ease The gnarly limbs of Scripture family-trees, And he was most commended and admired Who soonest to the topmost twig perspired ; Each name was called as many various ways As pleased the reader's ear on different days. So that the weather, or the ferule's stings. Colds in the head, or fifty other things, Transformed the helpless Hebrew thrice a week To guttural Pequot or resounding Greek, The vibrant accent skipping here and there, Just as it pleased invention or despair ; No controversial Hebraist was the Dame ; With or without the points pleased her the same ; If any tyro found a name too tough, And looked at her, pride furnished skill enough ; She nerved her larynx for the desperate thing, And cleared the five-barred syllables at a spring. 26 INTRODUCTION. Ah, dear old times 1 there once it was my hap, Perched on a stool, to wear the long-eared cap ; From books degraded, there I sat at ease, A drone, the envy of compulsory bees." I add only one further extract, which will possess a melancholy interest to all such as have endeavored to gleam the materials of Revolutionary history from the lips of aged persons, who took a part in the actual making of it, and, finding the manufacture profitable, continued the supply in an adequate proportion to the demand. " Old Joe is gone, who saw" hot Percy goad His slow artillery up the Concord road, A tale which grew in wonder, year by year, As, every time he told it, Joe drew near To the main fight, till, faded and grown gray, The original scene to bolder tints gave way ; Then Joe had heard the foe's scared double-quick Beat on stove drum with one uncaptured stick. And, ere death came the lengthening tale to lop, Himself had fired, and seen a red-coat drop ; Had Joe lived long enough, that scrambling fight Had squared more nearly to his sense of right, And vanquished Percy, to complete the tale. Had hammered stone for life in Concord jail." I do not know that the foregoing extracts ought not to be called my own rather than Mr. Biglow's, as indeed, he maintained stoutly that my file had left nothing of his in them. I should not, perhaps, have felt entitled to take so great liberties with them, had I not more than suspected an hereditary vein of poetry in myself, a very near ancestor having written a Latin poem in the Har- vard Gratulatio on the accession of George the Third. INTRODUCTION. 27 Suffice it to say, that, whether not satisfied with such limited approbation as I could conscientiously bestow, or from a sense of natural inaptitude, I know not, cer- tain it is that my young friend could never be induced to any further essays in this kind. He affirmed that it was to him like writing in a foreign tongue, — that Mr. Pope's versification was like the regular ticking of one of Willard's clocks, in which one could fancy, after long listening, a certain kind of rhythm or tune, but which yet was only a poverty-stricken tick, tick, after all, — and that he had never seen a sweet-water on a trellis growing so fairly, or in forms so pleasing to his eye, as a fox-grape over a scrub-oak in a swamp. He added I know not what, to the effect that the sweet- water would only be the more disfigured by having its leaves starched and ironed out, and that Pegasus (so he called him) hardly looked right with his mane and tail in curl-papers. These and other such opinions I did not long strive to eradicate, attributing them rather to a defective education and senses untuned by too long familiarity with purely natural objects, than to a per- verted moral sense. I was the more inclined to this leniency since sufficient evidence was not to seek, that his verses, as wanting as they certainly were in classic polish and point, had somehow taken hold of the public ear in a surprising manner. So, only setting him right as to the quantity of the proper name Pegasus, I left him to follow the bent of his natural genius. There are two things upon which it would seem fit- ting to dilate somewhat more largely in this place, — the Yankee character and the Yankee dialect. And, first, of the Yankee character, which has wanted neither open maligners, nor even more dangerous enemies in 28 INTRODUCTION. the persons of those unskilful painters who have given to it that hardness, angularity, and want of proper per- spective, which, in truth, belonged, not to their sub- ject, but to their own niggard and unskilful pencil. New England was not so much the colony of a mother country, as a Hagar driven forth into the wilderness. The little self-exiled band which came hither in 1620 came, not to seek gold, but to found a democracy. They came that they might have the privilege to work and pray, to sit upon hard benches and listen to pain- ful preachers as long as they would, yea, even unto thirty- seventhly, if the spirit so willed it. And surely, it the Greek might boast his Thermopylae, where three hundred men fell in resisting the Persian, we may well be proud of our Plymouth Rock, where a handful of men, women, and children not merely faced, but van- quished, winter, famine, the wilderness, and the yet more invincible storge that drew them back to the green island far away. These found no lotus growing upon the surly shore, the taste of which could make them forget their little native Ithaca ; nor were they so wanting to themselves in faith as to burn their ship, but could see the fair west wind belly the homeward sail, and then turn unrepining to grapple with the terrible Unknown. As Want was the prime foe these hardy exodists had to fortress themselves against, so it is little wonder if that traditional feud is long in wearing out of the stock. The wounds of the old warfare were long ahealing, and an east wind of hard times puts a new ache in every one of them. Thrift was the first lesson in their horn-book, pointed out, letter after letter, by the lean finger of the hard schoolmaster, Necessity. Neither were those INTRODUCTION. 29 plump, rosy-gilled Englishmen that came hither, but a hard-faced, atrabilious, earnest-eyed race, stiff from long wrestling with the Lord in prayer, and who had taught Satan to dread the new Puritan hug. Add two hundred years^ influence of soil, climate, and exposure, with its necessary result of idiosyncrasies, and we have the present Yankee, full of expedients, half master of all trades, inventive in all but the beautiful, full of shifts, not yet capable of comfort, armed at all points against the old enemy Hunger, longanimous, good at patching, not so careful for what is best as for what will do, with a clasp to his purse and a button to his pocket, not skilled to build against Time, as in old countries, but against sore-pressing Need, accustomed to move the world with no ttoD (Trraro?ed. And formerly we, as through grave-yards we past, Thought the world went from bad to worse fearfully fast; Let us glance for a moment, 't is well worth the pains, And note what an average grave-yard contains ; There lie levellers levelled, duns done up themselves. There are booksellers finally laid on their shelves. Horizontally there lie upright politicians, Dose-a-dose with their patients sleep faultless phy- sicians. There are slave-drivers quietly whipt under-ground. There book-binders, done up in boards, are fast bound. There card-players wait till the last trump be played. There all the choice spirits get finally laid. There the babe that ^s unborn is supplied with a berth. There men without legs get their six feet of earth. There lawyers repose, each wrapt up in his case. There seekers of office are sure of a place. There defendant and plaintiff get equally cast. There shoemakers quietly stick to the last. There brokers at length become silent as stocks. There stage-drivers sleep without quitting their box. And so forth and so forth and so forth and so on. 222 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. With this kind of stuff one might endlessly go on ; To come to the point, I may safely assert you Will find in each yard every cardinal virtue ; ' Each has six truest patriots : four discoverers of ether. Who never had thought on ^t nor mentioned it either : Ten poets, the greatest who ever wrote rhyme : Two hundred and forty first men of their time : One person whose portrait just gave the least hint Its original had a most horrible squint : One critic, most (what do they call it ?) reflective. Who never had used the phrase ob- or subjective : Forty fathers of Freedom, of whom twenty bred Their sons for the rice-swamps, at so much a head. And their daughters for — faugh ! thirty mothers of Gracchi : Non-resistants who gave many a spiritual black-eye : Eight true friends of their kind, one of whom was a jailor : Four captains almost as astounding as Taylor : Two dozen of Italy's exiles who shoot us his Kaisership daily, stern pen-and-ink Brutuses, Who, in Yankee back-parlors, with crucified smile,' Mount serenely their country's funereal pile : Ninety-nine Irish heroes, ferocious rebellers 'Gainst the Saxon in cis-marine garrets and cellars. Who shake their dread fists o'er the sea and all that, — 1 (And at this just conchision will surely arrive, That the goodness of earth is more dead than alive.) 2 Not forgetting their tea and their toast, though, the while, A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 223 As long as a copper drops into the hat : Nine hundred Teutonic republicans stark From Vaterland^s battles just won — in the Park, Who the happy profession of martyrdom take Whenever it gives them a chance at a steak : Sixty-two second Washingtons : two or three Jacksons : And so many everythings else that it racks one's Poor memory too much to continue the list. Especially now they no longer exist ; — I would merely observe that you '\e taken to giving The puffs that belong to the dead to the living. And that somehow your trump-of-contemporary-doom's tones Is tuned after old dedications and tombstones/' Here the critic came in and a thistle presented ' — From a frown to a smile the god's features relented, As he stared at his envoy, who, swelling with pride. To the god's asking look, nothing daunted, replied, ''You ''re surprised, I suppose, I was absent so long, But your godship respecting the lilies was wrong ; I hunted the garden from one end to t' other. And got no reward but vexation and bother. Till, tossed out with weeds in a corner to wither. This one lily I found and made haste to bring hither." '^ Did he think I had given him a book to review ? I ought to have known what the fellow would do," Muttered Phoebus aside, ^' for a thistle will pass Beyond doubt for the queen of all flowers with an ass ; He has chosen in just the same way as he 'd choose 1 Turn back now to page — goodness only knows what, And take a fresh hold on the thread of my plot. 224 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. His specimens out of the books he reviews ; And now, as this offers an excellent text, I '11 give 'em some brief hints on criticism next." So, musing a moment, he turned to the crowd. And, clearing his voice, spoke as follows aloud, — ^' My friends, in the happier days of the muse. We were luckily free from such things as reviews ; Then naught came between with its fog to make clearer The heart of the poet to that of his hearer ; Then the poet brought heaven to the people, and they Felt that they, too, were poets in hearing his lay ; Then the poet was prophet, the past in his soul Pre-created the future, both parts of one whole ; Then for him there was nothing too great or too small, For one natural deity sanctified all \^ Then the bard owned no clipper and meter of moods Save the spirit of silence that hovers and broods O'er the seas and the mountains, the rivers and woods ; He asked not earth's verdict, forgetting the clods, His soul soared and sang to an audience of gods ; 'T was for them that he measured the thought and the line. And shaped for their vision the perfect design, "With as glorious a foresight, a balance as true. As swung out the worlds in the infinite blue ; Then a glory and greatness invested man's heart. The universal, which now stands estranged and apart. In the free individual moulded, was Art ; Then the forms of the Artist seemed thrilled with de- sire For something, as yet unattained, fuller, higher. As once with her lips, lifted hands, and eyes listening. A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 225 And her whole upward soul in her countenance glisten- ing, Eurydice stood — like a beacon unfired, Which, once touched with flame, will leap heav'nward inspired — And waited with answering kindle to mark The first gleam of Orpheus that pained the red Dark ; Then painting, song, sculpture, did more than relieve The need that men feel to create and believe. And as, in all beauty, who listens with love, Hears these words oft repeated — ' beyond and above,' So these seemed to be but the visible sign Of the grasp of the soul after things more divine ; They were ladders the Artist erected to climb O^er the narrow horizon of space and of time, And we see there^the footsteps by which men had gained f To the one rapturous glimpse of the never-attained. As shepherds could erst sometimes trace in the sod The last spurning print of a sky-cleaving god. '^ But now, on the poet's dis-privacied moods "With do this and do that the pert critic intrudes ; While he thinks he 's been barely fulfilling his duty To interpret 'twixt men and their own sense of beauty, And has striven, while others sought honor or pelf, To make his kind happy as he was himself. He finds he 's been guilty of horrid offences In all kinds of moods, numbers, genders, and tenses ; He 's been oh and 5?^^jective, what Kettle calls Pot. Precisely, at all events, what he ought not. You have done this, says one judge ; done that, says another ; IS 226 ^ FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. Yolc should have done this, grumbles one ; that, says t' other ; Never mind what he touches, one shrieks out Tahoo ! And while he is wondering what he shall do. Since each suggests opposite topics for song. They all shout together youWe right ! or youWe wrong ! " Nature fits all her children with something to do. He who would write and can^t write, can surely review, Can set up a small booth as critic and sell us his Petty conceit and his pettier jealousies ; Thus a lawyer's apprentice, just out of his teens. Will do for the Jeffrey of six magazines ; Having read Johnson's lives of the poets half through. There 's nothing on earth he 's not competent to ; He reviews with as much nonchalance as he whistles, — He goes through a book and just picks out the thistles', It matters not whether he blame or commend. If he 's bad as a foe, he 's far worse as a friend ; Let an author but write what's above his poor scope. And he '11 go to work gravely and twist up a rope. And, inviting the world to see punishment done. Hang himself up to bleach in the wind and the sun ; 'T is delightful to see, when a man comes along Who has any thing in him peculiar and strong, Every cockboat that swims clear its fierce (pop-) gun- deck at him And make as he passes its ludicrous Peck at him," — Here Miranda came up and began, ^* As to that," — Apollo at once seized his gloves, cane, and hat. And seeing the place getting rapidly cleared, I, too, snatched my notes and forthwith disappeared. THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL. PRELUDE TO PART FIRST. Over his keys the musing organist, Beginning doubtfully and far away. First lets his fingers wander as they list. And builds a bridge from Dreamland for his lay ; Then, as the touch of his loved instrument Gives hope and fervor, nearer draws his theme, First guessed by faint auroral flushes sent Along the wavering vista of his dream. Not only around our infancy Doth heaven with all its splendors lie ; Daily, with souls that cringe and blot. We Sinais climb and know it not ; Over our manhood bend the skies ; Against our fallen and traitor lives The great winds utter prophecies ; With our faint hearts the mountain strives ; Its arms outstretched, the druid wood Waits with its benedicite ; And to our age^s drowsy blood Still shouts the inspiring sea. Earth gets its price for what Earth gives us ; The beggar is taxed for a corner to die in, 227 ^28 T^HE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL. The priest hath his fee who comes and shrives us, We bargain for the graves we lie in ; At the Devil's booth are all things sold, Each ounce of dross costs its ounce of gold ; For a cap and bells our lives we pay. Bubbles we earn with a whole soul's tasking ; 'T is heaven alone that is given away, 'T is only God may be had for the asking ; There is no price set on the lavish summer ; And June may be had by the poorest comer. And what is so rare as a day in June ? Then, if ever, come perfect days ; Then Heaven tries the earth if it be in tune. And over it softly her warm ear lays : Whether we look, or whether we listen. We hear life murmur, or see it glisten ; Every clod feels a stir of might. An instinct within it that reaches and towers. And, grasping blindly above it for light. Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers ; The flush of life may well be seen Thrilling back over hills and valleys ; The cowslip startles in meadows green. The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice, And there 's never a leaf or a blade too mean To be some happy creature's palace ; The little bird sits at his door in the sun, Atilt like a blossom among the leaves, And lets his illumined being o'errun With the deluge of summer it receives ; His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings. And the heart in her dumb breast flutters -and sings ; THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL. 229 He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest, — In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best ? , Now is the high-tide of the year, -U. ivji-vx_ And whatever of life hath ebbed away Comes flooding back, with a ripply cheer. Into every bare inlet and creek and bay ; Now the heart is so full that a drop overfills it, We are happy now because God so wills it ; No matter how barren the past may have been, 'T is enough for us now that the leaves are green ; We sit in the warm shade and feel right well How the sap creeps up and the blossoms swell ; We may shut our eyes, but we cannot help knowing That skies are clear and grass is growing ; The breeze comes whispering in our ear, That dandelions are blossoming near. That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing. That the river is bluer than the sky, That the robin is plastering his house hard by ; And if the breeze kept the good news back. For other couriers we should not lack ; We could guess it all by yon heifer's lowing, — And hark ! how clear bold chanticleer. Warmed with the new wine of the year, Tells all in his lusty crowing ! Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how ; . Everything is happy now. Everything is upward striving ; 'T is easy now for the heart to be trne As for grass to be green or skies to be blue, — 'T is the natural way of living : 230 THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL. Who knows whither the clonds have fled ? In the unscarred heaven they leave no wake ; And the eyes forget the tears they have shed, The heart forgets its sorrow and ache ; The soul partakes the season's youth, And the sulphurous rifts of passion and woe Lie deep 'neath a silence pure and smooth, Like burnt-out craters healed with snow. What wonder if Sir Launfal now Remembered the keeping of his vow ? PART FIRST. I. " My golden spurs now bring to me. And bring to me my richest mail. For to-morrow I go over land and sea In search of the Holy Grail ; Shall never a bed for me be spread. Nor shall a pillow be under my head. Till I begin my vow to keep ; Here on the rushes will I sleep. And perchance there may come a vision true Ere day create the world anew." Slowly Sir LaunfaFs eyes grew dim. Slumber fell like a cloud on him. And into his soul the vision flew. 11. The crows flapped over by twos and threes. In the pool drowsed the cattle up to their knees. The little birds sang as if it were The one day of summer in all the year, THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL. 231 • And the very leaves seemed to sing on the trees : The castle alone in the landscape lay Like an outpost of winter, dull and gray ; 'T was the proudest hall in the North Countree, And never its gates might opened be, Save to lord or lady of high degree ; Summer besieged it on every side. But the churlish stone her assaults defied ; She could not scale the chilly wall. Though around it for leagues her pavilions tall Stretched left and right. Over the hills and out of sight ; Green and broad was every tent. And out of each a murmur went Till the breeze fell off at night. III. The drawbridge dropped with a surly clang. And through the dark arch a charger sprang, Bearing Sir Launfal, the maiden knight. In his gilded mail, that flamed so bright It seemed the dark castle had gathered all Those shafts the fierce sun had shot over its wall In his siege of three hundred summers long. And, binding them all in one blazing sheaf. Had cast them forth : so, young and strong. And lightsome as a locust-leaf. Sir Launfal flashed forth in his unscarred mail. To seek in all climes for the Holy Grail. IV. It was morning on hill and stream and tree, And morning in the young knight's heart ; 232 THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL. « Only the castle moodily Rebuffed the gifts of the sunshine free. And gloomed by itself apart ; The season brimmed all other things up Full as the rain fills the pitcher-plant's cup. V. As Sir Launfal made morn through the darksome gate. He was ware of a leper, crouched by the same. Who begged with his hand and moaned as he sate ; And a loathing over Sir Launfal came ; The sunshine went out of his soul with a thrill. The flesh 'neath his armor did shrink and crawl, And midway its leap his heart stood still Like a frozen waterfall ; For this man, so foul and bent of stature. Rasped harshly against his dainty nature. And seemed the one blot on the summer morn, — So he tossed him a piece of gold in scorn. VI. The leper raised not the gold from the dust : ^' Better to me the poor man's crust. Better the blessing of the poor. Though I turn me empty from his door ; That is no true alms which the hand can hold ; He gives nothing but worthless gold Who gives from a sense of duty ; But he who gives but a slender mite, And gives to that which is out of sight, That thread of the all-sustaining Beauty Which runs through all and doth all unite, — The vision o^ sir latjnfal. 233 The hand cannot clasp the whole of his alms. The heart outstretches its eager palms, For a god goes with it and makes it store To the soul that was starving in darkness before." PRELUDE TO PART SECOND. , y^W- Down swept the chill wind from the mountain peak. From the snow five thousand summers old ; On open wold and hill-top bleak It had gathered all the cold. And whirled it like sleet on the wanderer's cheek It carried a shiver everywhere From the unleafed boughs and pastures bare ; The little brook heard it and built a roof 'Neath which he could house him, winter-proof ; All night by the white stars' frosty gleams He groined his arches and matched his beams ; Slender and clear were his crystal spars As the lashes of light that trim the stars : He sculptured every summer delight In his halls and chambers out of sight ; Sometimes his tinkling waters slipt Down through a frost-leaved forest-crypt. Long, sparkling aisles of steel-stemmed trees Bending to counterfeit a breeze ; Sometimes the roof no fretwork knew But silvery mosses that downward grew ; Sometimes it was carved in sharp relief With quaint arabesques of ice-fern leaf ; Sometimes it was simply smooth and clear For the gladness of heaven to shine through, and here He had caught the nodding bulrush-tops And liung them thickly with diamond drops. 234 THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL. That crystalled the beams of moon and sun, And made a star of every one : No mortal builder's most rare device Could match this winter-palace of ice ; 'T was as if every image that mirrored lay In his depths serene through the summer day. Each fleeting shadow of earth and sky, Lest the happy model should be lost. Had been mimicked in fairy masonry By the elfin builders of the frost. , p ^jj Within the hall are song and laughter. The cheeks of Christmas grow red and jolly, And sprouting is every corbel and rafter With lightsome green of ivy and holly ; Through the deep gulf of the chimney wide Wallows the Yule-log's roaring tide ; The broad flame-pennons droop and flap And belly and tug as a flag in the wind ; Like a locust shrills the imprisoned sap. Hunted to death in its galleries blind ; And swift little troops of silent sparks, Now pausing, now scattering away as in fear. Go threading the soot-forest's tangled darks Like herds of startled deer. But the wind without was eager and sharp. Of Sir Launfal's gray hair it makes a harp, And rattles and wrings The icy strings, Singing, in dreary monotone, A Christmas carol of its own, Whose burden still, as he might guess, THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL. 235 W'as — '' Shelterless, shelterless, shelterless !" The voice of the seneschal flared like a torch As he shouted the wanderer away from the porch, And he sat in the gateway and saw all night The great hall-fire, so cheery and bold, Through the window-slits of the castle old, Build out its piers of ruddy light Against the drift of the cold. PART SECOND. I. There was never a leaf on a bush or tree, The bare boughs rattled shudderingly ; The river was dumb and could not speak. For the frost's swift shuttles its shroud had spun : A single crow on the tree-top bleak From his shining feathers shed off the cold sun ; Again it was morning, but shrunk and cold, As if her veins were sapless and old. And she rose up decrepitly For a last dim look at earth and sea. II. Sir Launfal turned from his own hard gate. For another heir in his earldom sate ; An old, bent man, worn out and frail. He came back from seeking the Holy Grail ; Little he recked of his earldom's loss, No more on his surcoat was blazoned the cross. But deep in his soul the sign he wore. The badge of the suffering and the poor. 236 THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL. III. Sir LaunfaFs raiment thin and spare Was idle mail Against the barbed air. For it was just at the Christmas time ; So he mused, as he sat, of a sunnier clime. And sought for a shelter from cold and snow In the light and warmth of long ago ; He sees the snake-like caravan crawl O'er the edge of the desert, black and small, Then nearer and nearer, till, one by one, He can count the camels in the sun. As over the red-hot sands they pass To where, in its slender necklace of grass, The little spring laughed and leapt in the shade. And with its own self like an infant played. And waved its signal of palms. IV. '' For Christ's sweet sake, I beg an alms ; " — The happy camels may reach the spring, But Sir Launfal sees naught save the grewsome thing, The leper, lank as the rain-blanched bone. That cowers beside him, a thing as lone And white as the ice-isles of Northern seas In the desolate horror of his disease. V. And Sir Launfal said, — ''■ I behold in thee An image of Him who died on the tree ; Thou also hast had thy crown of thorns, — Thou also hast had the world's buffets and scorns, — And to thy life were not denied THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL. 237 The wounds iu the hands and feet and side : Mild Mary's Son, acknowledge me ; Behold, through him, I give to thee ! " VI. Then the soul of the leper stood up in his eyes And looked at Sir Launfal, and straightway he Remembered in what a haughtier guise He had flung an alms to leprosie, When he caged his young life up in gilded mail And set forth in search of the Holy Grail. The heart within him was ashes and dust ; He parted in twain his single crust. He broke the ice on the streamlet's brink. And gave the leper to eat and drink, 'T was a mouldy crust of coarse brown bread, 'T was water out of a w^ooden bowl, — Yet with fine wheaten bread was the leper fed. And 't was red wine he drank with his thirsty soul. VII. As Sir Launfal mused with a downcast face, A light shone round about the place ; The leper no longer crouched at his side. But stood before him glorified, Shining and tall and fair and straight As the pillar that stood by the Beautiful Gate, — Himself the Gate whereby men can Enter the temple of God in Man. VIII. His Avords were shed softer than leaves from the pine. And they fell on Sir Launfal as snows on the brine. 238 THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL. That miDgle their softness and quiet in one With the shaggy unrest they float down upon ; And the voice that was calmer than silence said, " Lo it is I, be not afraid ! In many climes, without avail, Thou hast spent thy life for the Holy Grail ; Behold, it is here, — this cup which thou Didst fill at the streamlet for me but now ; This crust is my body broken for thee. This water His blood that died on the tree ; The Holy Supper is kept, indeed. In whatso we share with another's need ; Not what we give, but what we share, — For the gift without the giver is bare ; Who gives himself with his alms feeds three, — ^ jS^ Himself, his hungering neighbor, and me." <> IX. Sir Launfal awoke as from a swound : — ** The Grail in r!iy castle here is found ! Hang my idle armor up on the wall. Let it be the spider's banquet-hall ; He must be fenced with stronger mail Who would seek and find the Holy Grail.'' X. The castle gate stands open now. And the wanderer is welcome to the hall As the hangbird is to the elm-tree bough ; No longer scowl the turrets tall. The Summer's long siege at last is o'er ; When the first poor outcast went in at the door. She entered with him in disguise. THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL. 239 And mastered the fortress by surprise ; There is no spot she loves so well on ground, She lingers and smiles there the whole year round ; The meanest serf on Sir Launfal's land Has hall and bower at his command ; And there 's no poor man in the North Countree But is lord of the earldom as much as he. Note. — According to the mythology of the Romancers, the San Greal, or Holy Grail, was the cup out of which Jesus par- took of the last supper with his disciples. It was brought into England by Joseph of Arimathea, and remained there, an object of pilgrimage and adoration, for many years in the keeping of his lineal descendants. It was incumbent upon those who had charge of it to be chaste in thought, word and deed ; but one of the keepers having broken this condition, the Holy Grail disappeared. From that time it was a favorite enterprise of the knights of Arthur's court to go in search of it. Sir Galahad was at last successful in finding it, as may be read in the seventeenth book of the Romance of King Arthur. Tennyson has made Sir Galahad the subject of one of the most exquisite of his poems. The plot (if I may give that name to anything so slight) of the foregoing poem is my own, and, to serve its purposes, I have enlarged the circle of competition in search of the mirac- ulous cup in such a manner as to include, not only other persons than the heroes of the Round Table, but also a period of time subsequent to the date of King Arthur's reign. APPLEDOEE. How looks Appledore in a storm ? I have seen it when its crags seemed frantic, Butting against the maddened Atlantic, When surge after surge would heap enorme, Cliffs of Emerald topped with snow, That lifted and lifted and then let go A great white avalanche of thunder, A grinding, blinding, deafening ire Monadnock might have trembled under ; And the island, whose rock-roots pierce below To where they are warmed with the central fire, You could feel its granite fibres racked. As it seemed to plunge with a shudder and thrill Eight at the breast of the swooping hill. And to rise again, snorting a cataract Of rage-froth from every cranny and ledge, While the sea drew its breath in hoarse and deep, And the next vast breaker curled its edge. Gathering itself for a mighty leap. North, east, and south there are reefs and breakers. You would never dream of in smooth weather, That toss and gore the sea for acres. Bellowing and gnashing and snarling together; Look northward where Duck Island lies. And over its crown you will see arise, Against a background of slaty skies, 240 APPLEDORE. 241 A row of pillars still and white That glimmer and then are out of sight, As if the moon should suddenly kiss, While you crossed the dusty desert by night, The long colonnades of Persepolis, And then as sudden a darkness should follow To gulp the whole scene at a single swallow, The city's ghost, the drear brown waste. And the string of camels, clumsy-paced : — Look southward for White Island light, The lantern stands ninety feet o'er the tide ; There is first a half-mile of tumult and fight, Of dash and roar and tumble and fright. And surging bewilderment wild and wide. Where the breakers struggle left and right, Then a mile or more of rushing sea. And then the light-house slim and lone ; And whenever the whole weight of ocean is thrown Full and fair on White Island head, A great mist-jotun you will see Lifting himself up silently High and huge o'er the light-house top. With hands of wavering spray outspread. Groping after the little tower. That seems to shrink, and shorten and cower. Till the monster's arms of a sudden drop. And silently and fruitlessly He sinks again into the sea. You, meanwhile, where drenched you stand. Awaken once more to the rush and roar And on the rock-point tighten your hand, As you turij ancl see a valley deep, J 6 ' 242 TO THE DANDELION. That was not there a moment before, Suck rattling down between you and a heap Of toppling billow, whose instant fall Must sink the whole island once for all — Or watch the silenter, stealthier seas Feeling their way to you more and more ; If they once should clutch you high as the knees They would whirl you down like a sprig of kelp, Beyond all reach of hope or help ; — And such in a storm is Appledore. TO THE DANDELION. Dear common flower, that grow'st beside the way. Fringing the dusty road with harmless gold. First pledge of blithesome May, Which children pluck, and, full of pride, uphold. High-hearted buccaneers, o'erjoyed that they An Eldorado in the grass have found, Which not the rich earth's ample round May match in wealth — thou art more dear to me Than all the prouder Summer-blooms may be. Gold such as thine ne'er drew the Spanish prow Through the primeval hush of Indian seas, Nor wrinkled the lean brow Of age, to rob the lover's heart of ease ; 'Tis the Spring's largess, which she scatters now To rich and poor alike, with lavish hand, Though most hearts never understand To take it at God's value, but pass by The offered wealth with unrewarded eye. TO THE DANDELION. 243 Thou art my tropics and mine Italy ; To look at thee unlocks a warmer clime ; The eyes thou givest me Are in the heart and heed not space or time : Not in mid June the golden-cuirassed bee Feels a more Summer-like, warm ravishment In the white lily's breezy tent, His fragrant Sybaris, than I, when first From the dark green thy yellow circles burst. Then think I of deep shadows in the grass, — Of meadows where in sun the cattle graze. Where, as the breezes pass. The gleaming rushes lean a thousand ways, — Of leaves that slumber in a cloudy mass, Or whiten in the wind, — of waters blue That from the distance sparkle through Some woodland gap, — and of a sky above Where one white cloud like a stray lamb doth move. My childhood's earliest thoughts are linked with thee ; The sight of thee calls back the robin's song. Who from the dark old tree Beside the door, sang clearly all day long. And I, secure in childish piety, Listened as if I heard an angel sing With news from Heaven, which he could bring Fresh every day to my untainted ears, When birds and flowers and I were happy peers. Thou art the type of those meek charities Which make up half the nobleness of life, Those cheap delights the wise Pluck from the dusty wayside of earth's strife •, 244 TO THE DANDELION. Words of frank cheer^ glances of friendly eyes, Love's smallest coin, which yet to some may give The morsel that may keep alive A starving heart, and teach it to behold Some glimpse of God where all before was cold. Thy winged seeds, whereof the winds take care, Are like the words of poet and of sage Which through the free heaven fare, And, now unheeded, in another age Take root, and to the gladdened future bear That witness which the present would not heed, Bringing forth many a thought and deed, And, planted safely in the eternal sky. Bloom into stars which earth is guided by. Full of deep love thou art, yet not more full Than all thy common brethren of the ground. Wherein, were we not dull, Some words of highest wisdom might be found ; Yet earnest faith from day to day may cull Some syllables, which, rightly joined, can make A spell to soothe life's bitterest ache, And ope Heaven's portals, which are near us still. Yea, nearer ever than the gates of 111. How like a prodigal doth nature seem, When thou, for all thy gold, so common art ! Thou teachest me to deem More sacredly of every human heart. Since each reflects in joy its scanty gleam Of Heaven, and could some wondrous secret show, Did we but pay the love we owe, DARA. 245 And with a child's undoubting wisdom look On all these living pages of God's book. But let me read thy lesson right or no, Of one good gift from thee my heart is sure ; Old I shall never grow While thou each year dost come to keep me pure With legends of my childhood ; ah, we owe Well more than half life's holiness to these Nature's first lowly influences, At thought of which the heart's glad doors burst ope, In dreariest days, to welcome peace and hope. DARA. Whei^" Persia's sceptre trembled in a hand Wilted by harem-heats, and all the land Was hovered over by those vulture ills That snuff decaying empire from afar. Then, with a nature balanced as a star, Dara arose, a shepherd of the hills. He, who had governed fleecy subjects well. Made his own village, by the self-same spell, Secure and peaceful as a guarded fold. Till, gathering strength by slow and wise degrees, Under his sway, to neighbor villages Order returned, and faith and justice old. Now, when it fortuned that a king more wise Endued the realm with brain and hands and eyes, 246 DARA. He sought on every side men brave and just, And having heard the mountain-shepherd's praise, How he rendered the mould of elder days, To Dara gave a satrapy in trust. So Dara shepherded a province wide, Nor in his viceroy's sceptre took more pride Than in his crook before ; but Envy finds More soil in cities than on mountains bare. And the frank sun of spirits clear and rare Breeds poisonous fogs in low and marish minds. Soon it was whispered at the royal ear That, though wise Dara's province, year by year, Like a great sponge, drew wealth and plenty up. Yet, when he squeezed it at the king's behest. Some golden drops, more rich than all the rest. Went to the filling of his private cup. For proof, they said that wheresoe'er he went A chest, beneath whose weight the camel bent, AVent guarded, and no other eye had seen What was therein, save only Dara's own, Yet, when 't was opened all his tent was known To glow and lighten with heapt jewels' sheen. The king set forth for Dara's province straight, Where, as was fit, outside his city's gate The viceroy met him with a stately train ; And there, with archers circled, close at hand, A camel with the chest was seen to stand, The king grew red, for thus the guilt was plain. *' Open me now," he cried, ^^yon treasure-chest !" 'T was done, and only a worn shepherd's vest TO J. F. H. 247 Was found within ; some blushed and hung the head, Not Dara ; open as the sky's blue roof He stood, and '^ 0, my lord, behold the proof That I was worthy of my trust ! " he said. *' For ruling men, lo ! all the charm I had ; My soul, in those coarse vestments ever clad. Still to the unstained past kept true and leal, Still on these plains could breathe her mountain air. And Fortune's heaviest gifts serenely bear. Which bend men from the truth, and make them reel. ** To govern wisely I had shown small skill Were I not lord of simple Dara still ; That sceptre kept, I cannot lose my way ! " Strange dew in royal eyes grew round and bright And thrilled the trembling lids ; before 't was night Two added provinces blessed Dara's sway. TO J. F. H. Nine years have slipped like hour-glass sand From life's fast-emptying globe away. Since last, dear friend, I clasped your hand, And lingered on the impoverished land. Watching the steamer down the bay. I held the keepsake which you gave, Until the dim smoke-pennon curled O'er the vague rim 'tween sky and wave, And closed the distance like a grave. Leaving me to the outer world ; 248 TO J. F. H. The old worn world of hurry and heat, The young, fresh world of thought and scope ; While you, where silent surges fleet Toward far sky beaches still and sweet, Sunk wavering down the ocean-slope. Come back our ancient walks to tread. Old haunts of lost or scattered friends, Amid the Muses' factories red, "Where song, and smoke, and laughter sped The nights to proctor-hunted ends. Our old familiars are not laid, Though snapped our wands and sunk our books, They beckon, not to be gainsaid. Where, round broad meads which mowers wade, Smooth Charles his steel-blue sickle crooks ; Where, as the cloudbergs eastward blow. From glow to gloom the hillside shifts Its lakes of rye that surge and flow. Its plumps of orchard-trees arow. Its snowy white-weed's summer drifts. Or let us to Nantasket, there To wander idly as we list. Whether, on rocky hillocks bare. Sharp cedar-points, like breakers, tear The trailing fringes of gray mist. Or whether, under skies clear-blown, The heightening surfs with foamy din. Their breeze-caught forelocks backward blown Against old Neptune's yellow zone. Curl slow, and plunge forever in. PROMETHEUS. 249 For years thrice three, wise Horace said, A poem rare let silence bind ; And love may ripen in the shade, Like ours, for nine long seasons laid In crypts and arches of the mind. That right Falernian friendship old Will we, to grace our feast, call up. And freely pour the juice of gold, That keeps lifers pulses warm and bold. Till Death shall break the empty cup. PROMETHEUS. One after one the stars have risen and set, Sparkling upon the hoarfrost on my chain : The Bear that prowled all night about the fold Of the ]^orth-Star, hath shrunk into his den. Scared by the blithesome footsteps of the Dawn, Whose blushing smile floods all the Orient ; And now bright Lucifer grows less and less. Into the heaven's blue quiet deep withdrawn. Sunless and starless all, the desert sky Arches above me, empty as this heart For ages hath been empty of all joy Except to brood upon its silent hope. As o'er its hope of day the sky doth now. All night have I heard voices : deeper yet The deep, low breathing of the silence grew. While all about, muffled in awe, there stood Shadows, or forms, or both, clear-felt at heart ; But, when I turned to front them, far along Only a shudder through the midnight ran, 250 PROMETHEUS. And the dense stillness walled me closer round ; But still I heard them wander up and down That solitude, and flappings of dusk wings Did mingle with them, whether of those hags Let slip upon me once from Hades deep. Or of yet direr torments, if such be, 1 could but guess ; and then toward me came A shape as of a woman : very pale It was, and calm ; its cold eyes did not move, And mine moved not, but only stared on them. Their moveless awe went through my brain like ice ; A skeleton hand seemed clutching at my heart. And a sharp chill, as if a dank night fog Suddenly closed me in, was all I felt : And then, methought, I heard a freezing sigh, A long, deep, shivering sigh, as from blue lips Stiffening in death, close to mine ear. I thought Some doom was close upon me, and I looked And saw the red moon through the heavy mist. Just setting, and it seemed as it were falling. Or reeling to its fall, so dim and dead And palsy-struck it looked. Then all sounds merged Into the rising surges of the pines. Which, leagues below me, clothing the gaunt loins Of ancient Caucasus with hairy strength. Sent up a murmur in the morning-wind, Sad as the wail that from the populous earth All day and night to high Olympus soars. Fit incense to thy wicked throne, Jove. Thy hated name is tossed once more in scorn From off my lips, for I will tell thy doom. And are these tears ? Nay, do not triumph, Jove ! PROMETHEUS. 251 They are wrung from me but by the agonies Of prophecy, like those sparse drops which fall From clouds in travail of the lightning, when The great wave of the storm, high-curled and black, Rolls steadily onward to its thunderous break. Why art thou made a god of, thou poor type Of anger, and revenge, and cunning force ? True Power was never born of brutish Strength, Nor sweet Truth suckled at the shaggy dugs Of that old she-wolf. Are thy thunderbolts, That scare the darkness for a space, so strong As the prevailing patience of meek Light, Who, with the invincible tenderness of peace. Wins it to be a portion of herself ? Why art thou made a god of, thou, who hast The never-sleeping terror at thy heart. That birthright of all tyrants, worse to bear Than this thy ravening bird on which I smile ? Thou swear'st to free me, if I will unfold What kind of doom it is whose omen flits Across thy heart, as o'er a troop of doves The fearful shadow of the kite. What need To know that truth whose knowledge cannot save ? Evil its errand hath, as well as Good ; When thine is finished, thou art known no more : There is a higher purity than thou, And higher purity is greater strength ; Thy nature is thy doom, at which thy heart Trembles behind the thick wall of thy might. Let man but hope, and thou art straightway chilled With thought of that drear silence and deep night Which, like a dream, shall swallow thee and thine ; Let man but will, and thou art god no more ; 252 PROMETHEUS. More capable of ruin than the gold And ivory that image thee on earth. He who hurled down the monstrous Titan-brood Blinded with lightnings, with rough thunders stunned. Is weaker than a simple human thought. My slender voice can shake thee, as the breeze, That seems but apt to stir a maiden's hair. Sways huge Oceanus from pole to pole : For I am still Prometheus, and foreknow In my wise heart the end and doom of all. Yes, I am still Prometheus, wiser grown By years of solitude — that holds apart The past and future, giving the soul room To search into itself — and long commune With this eternal silence — more a god In my long-suffering and strength to meet "With equal front the direst shafts of fate. Than thou in thy faint-hearted despotism, Girt with thy baby-toys of force and wrath. Yes, I am that Prometheus who brought down The light to man which thou in selfish fear Had'st to thyself usurped — his by sole right. For Man hath right to all save Tyranny — And which shall free him yet from thy frail throne. Tyrants are but the spawn of Ignorance, Begotten by the slaves they trample on, Who, could they win a glimmer of the light, And see that Tyranny is always weakness, Or Fear with its own bosom ill at ease, AVould laugh away in scorn the sand-wove chain Which their own blindness feigned for adamant. Wrong ever builds on (quicksands, but the Right PROMETHEUS. 253 To the firm centre lays its moveless base. The tyrant trembles if the air but stirs The innocent ringlets of a child's free hair, And crouches, when the thouglit of some great spirit, With world-wide murmur, like a rising gale. Over men's hearts, as over standing corn, Eushes, and bends them to its own strong will. So shall some thought of mine yet circle earth And puff away thy crumbling altars, Jove. And, would^st thou know of my supreme revenge, Poor tyrant, even now dethroned in heart, Eealmless in soul, as tyrants ever are. Listen ! and tell me if this bitter peak. This never-glutted vulture, and these chains Shrink not before it, for it shall befit A sorrow-taught, unconquered Titan-heart. Men, when their death is on them, seem to stand On a precipitous crag that overhangs The abyss of doom, and in that depth to see, As in a glass, the features dim and huge Of things to come, the shadows, as it seems. Of what have been. Death never fronts the wise, 'Not fearfully, but with clear promises Of larger life, on whose broad vans upborne, Their outlook widens, and they see beyond The horizon of the Present and the Past, Even to the very source and end of things. Such am I now : immortal woe hath made My heart a seer, and my soul a judge Between the substance and the shadow of Truth. The sure supremeness of the Beautiful, By all the martyrdoms made doubly sure Of such ^s I am, this is my revenge, 254 PROMETHEUS. Which of my wrongs builds a triumphal arch Through which I see a sceptre and a throne. The pipings of glad shepherds on the hills. Tending the flocks no more to bleed for thee — The songs of maidens pressing with white feet The vintage on thine altars poured no more — The murmurous bliss of lovers, underneath Dim grape-vine bowers, whose rosy bunches press Not half so closely their warm cheeks, unscared By thoughts of thy brute lusts — the hive-like hum Of peaceful commonwealths, where sunburnt Toil Eeaps for itself the rich earth made its own By its own labor, lightened with glad hymns To an omnipotence which thy mad bolts Would cope with as a spark with the vast sea, Even the spirit of free love and peace. Duty's sure recompense through life and death — These are such harvests as all master-spirits Reap, haply not on earth, but reap no less Because the sheaves are bound by hands not theirs ; These are the bloodless daggers wherewithal They stab fallen tyrants, this their high revenge : For their best part of life on earth is when, Long after death, prisoned and pent no more, Their thoughts, their wild dreams even, have become Part of the necessary air men breathe ; When, like the moon, herself behind a cloud, They shed down light before us on life's sea, That cheers us to steer onward still in hope. Earth with her twining memories ivies o'er Their holy sepulchres, the chainless sea In tempest or wild calm repeats their thoughts, The lightning and the thunder, all free things. PROMETHEUS. 255 Have legends of them for the ears of men. All other glories are as falling stars, But universal Nature watches theirs ; Such strength is won by love of human kind. Not that I feel that hunger after fame, Which souls of a half -greatness are beset with ; But that the memory of noble deeds Cries shame upon the idle and the vile, And keeps the heart of Man forever up To the heroic level of old time. To be forgot at first is little pain To a heart conscious of such high intent As must be deathless on the lips of men ; But, having been a name, to sink and be A something which the world can do without. Which, having been or not, would never change The lightest pulse of fate — this is indeed A cup of bitterness the worst to taste, And this thy heart shall empty to the dregs. Oblivion is lonelier than this peak — Behold thy destiny ! Thou think'st it much That I should brave thee, miserable god ! But I have braved a mightier than thou. Even the temptings of this soaring heart Which might have made me, scarcely less than thou, A god among my brethren weak and blind. Scarce less than thou, a pitiable thing. To be down-trodden into darkness soon ; But now I am above thee, for thou art The bungling workmanship of fear, the block That scares the swart Barbarian ; but I Am what myself have made, a nature wise 256 PROMETHEUS. With finding in itself the types of all, — With watching from the dim verge of the time What things to be are visible in the gleams Thrown forward on them from the luminous past — Wise with the history of its own frail heart. With reverence and sorrow, and with love Broad as the world for freedom and for man. Thou and all strength shall crumble, except Love, By whom and for whose glory ye shall cease : And, when thou art but a dim moaning heard From out the pitiless glooms of Chaos, I Shall be a power and a memory, A name to scare all tyrants with, a light TJnsetting as the pole-star, a great voice Heard in the breathless pauses of the fight By truth and freedom ever waged with wrong, Clear as a silver trumpet, to awake Huge echoes that from age to age live on In kindred spirits, giving them a sense Of boundless power from boundless suffering wrung. And many a glazing eye shall smile to see The memory of my triumph (for to meet Wrong with endurance, and to overcome The present with a heart that looks beyond, Are triumph), like a prophet eagle, perch Upon the sacred banner of the right. iEvil springs up, and flowers, and bears no seed, And feeds the green earth with its swift decay, Leaving it richer for the growth of truth ; But Good, once put in action or in thought. Like a strong oak, doth from its boughs shed down The ripe germs of a forest, Thou, weak god. PROMETHEUS. 257 Shalt fade and be forgotten ; but this soul. Fresh-living still in the serene abyss, In every heaving shall partake, that grows From heart to heart among the sons of men — As the ominous hum before the earthquake runs Far through the iEgean from roused isle to isle — Foreboding wreck to palaces and shrines. And mighty rents in many a cavernous error That darkens the free light to man : — This heart Unscarred by thy grim vulture, as the truth Grows but more lovely 'neath the beaks and claws Of Harpies blind that fain would soil it, shall In all the throbbing exultations share That wait on freedom's triumphs, and in all The glorious agonies of martyr-spirits — Sharp lightning-throes to split the jagged clouds That veil the future, showing them the end — Pain's thorny crown for constancy and truth, Girding the temples like a wreath of stars. This is a thought, that, like the fabled laurel. Makes my faith thunder-proof, and thy dread bolts Fall on me like the silent flakes of snow On the hoar brows of aged Caucasus : But, thought far more blissful, they can rend This cloud of flesh, and make my soul a star ! Unleash thy crouching thunders noAv, Jove ! Free this high heart which, a poor captive long, Doth knock to be let forth, this heart which still. In its invincible manhood, overtops Thy puny godship as this mountain doth Tlie pines that moss its roots. even now. While from my peak of suffering I look down, ^7 258 PROMETHEUS. Beholding with a far-spread gush of hope The sunrise of that Beauty in whose face. Shone all around with love, no man shall look But straightway like a god he is uplift Unto the throne long empty for his sake, And clearly oft foreshadowed in wide dreams By his free inward nature, which nor thou, Xor any anarch after thee, can bind From working its great doom — now, now set free This essence, not to die, but to become Part of that awful Presence which doth haunt The palaces of tyrants, to scare off, With its grim eyes and fearful whisperings And hideous sense of utter loneliness. All hope of safety, all desire of peace, All but the loathed foref eeling of blank death — Part of that spirit which doth ever brood In patient calm on the unpilfered nest Of man's deep heart, till mighty thoughts grow fledged To sail with darkening shadow o'er the world, Until they swoop, and their pale quarry make Of some o'erbloated wrong — that spirit which Scatters great hopes in the seed-field of man, Like acorns among grain, to grow and be A roof for freedom in all coming time. But no, this cannot be ; for ages yet. In solitude unbroken, shall I hear The angry Caspian to the Euxine shout. And Euxine answer with a muffled roar. On either side storming the giant walls Of Caucasus with leagues of climbing foam, PROMETHEUS. 259 (Less, from my height, than flakes of downy snow) That draw back baffled but to hurl again. Snatched up in wrath and horrible turmoil, Mountain on mountain, as the Titans erst, My brethren, scaling the high seat of Jove, Heaved Pelion upon Ossa's shoulders broad, In vain emprise. The moon will come and go With her monotonous vicissitude ; Once beautiful, when I was free to walk Among my fellows and to interchange The influence benign of loving eyes. But now by aged use grown wearisome ; — False thought ! most false ! for how could 1 endure These crawling centuries of lonely woe Unshamed by weak complaining, but for thee, Loneliest, save me, of all created things, Mild-eyed Astarte, my best comforter, With thy pale smile of sad benignity ? Year after year will pass away and seem To me, in mine eternal agony, But as the shadows of dumb summer-clouds. Which I have watched so often darkening o^er The vast Sarmatian plain, league-wide at first. But, with still swiftness, lessening on and on Till cloud and shadow meet and mingle where The gray horizon fades into the sky. Far, far to northward. Yes, for ages yet Must I lie here upon my altar huge, A sacrifice for man. Sorrow will be. As it hath been, his portion ; endless doom, While the immortal with the mortal linked Dreams of its wings and pines for what it dreams With upward yearn unceasing. Better so : 260 ROSALINE. For wisdom is meek sorrow's patient child, And empire over self, and all the deep Strong charities that make men seem like gods ; And love, that makes them be gods, from her breasts Sucks in the milk that makes mankind one blood. Good never comes unmixed, or so it seems. Having two faces, as some images Are carved, of foolish gods ; one face is ill, But one heart lies beneath, and that is good. As are all hearts, when we explore their depths. Therefore, great heart, bear up ! thou art but type Of what all lofty spirits endure, that fain Would win men back to strength and peace through love : Each hath his lonely peak, and on each heart Envy, or scorn, or hatred, tears lifelong With vulture beak ; yet the high soul is left. And faith, which is but hope grown wise, and love, And patience which at last shall overcome. Cambridge, Mass., June, 1843. ROSALINE. Thou look^d'st on me all yesternight. Thine eyes were blue, thy hair was bright As when we murmured our troth plight Beneath the thick stars, Rosaline ! Thy hair was braided on thy head As on the day we two were wed, Mine eyes scarce knew if thou wert dead- But my shrunk heart knew, Rosaline ! ROSALINE. 261 The deathwatcli tickt behind the wall. The blackness rustled like a pall. The moaning wind did rise and fall Among the bleak pines, Eosaline ! My heart beat thickly in mine ears : The lids may shut out fleshly fears, But still the spirit sees and hears, Its eyes are lidless, Eosaline ! A wildness rushing suddenly, A knowing some ill shape is nigh, A wish for death, a fear to die — Is not this vengeance, Eosaline ! A loneliness that is not lone, A love quite withered up and gone, A strong soul trampled from its throne — What would'st thou further, Eosaline ! 'T is lone such moonless nights as these, Strange sounds are out upon the breeze, And the leaves shiver in the trees, And then thou comest, Eosaline ! I seem to hear the mourners go, With long black garments trailing slow, And plumes a-nodding to and fro. As once I heard them, Eosaline ! Thy shroud it is of snowy white. And, in the middle of the night. Thou standest moveless and upright, Gazing upon me, Eosaline ! There is no sorrow in thine eyes. But evermore that meek surprise — 262 ROSALINE. Oh, God ! her gentle spirit tries To deem me guiltless, Rosaline ! Above thy grave the Eobin sings, And swarms of bright and happy things Flit all about with sunlit wings — But I am cheerless, Rosaline ! The violets on the hillock toss, The gravestone is overgrown with moss. For nature feels not any loss — But I am cheerless, Rosaline ! Ah ! why wert thou so lowly bred ? AVhy was my pride galled on to wed Her who brought lands and gold instead Of thy heart's treasure, Rosaline ! AVhy did I fear to let thee stay To look on me and pass away Forgivingly, as in its May, A broken flower, Rosaline ! I thought not, when my dagger strook, Of thy blue eyes ; I could not brook The past all pleading in one look Of utter sorrow, Rosaline ! I did not know when thou wert dead : A blackbird whistling overhead Thrilled through my brain ; I Avould have fled But dared not leave thee, Rosaline ! A low, low moan, a light twig stirred By the upspringing of a bird, A drip of blood — were all I heard — Then deathly stillness, Rosaline ! ROSALINE. 263 The sun rolled down, and very soon. Like a great fire, the awful moon Rose, stained with blood, and then a swoon Crept chilly o'er me, Rosaline ! The stars came out ; and, one by one. Each angel from his silver throne Looked down and saw what I had done : I dared not hide me, Rosaline I I crouched ; I feared thy corpse would cry Against me to God's quiet sky, I thought I saw the blue lips try To utter something, Rosaline ! I waited with a maddened grin To hear that voice all icy thin Slide forth and tell my deadly sin To hell and heaven, Rosaline ! But no voice came, and then it seemed That if the very corpse had screamed The sound like sunshine glad had streamed Through that dark stillness, Rosaline ! Dreams of old quiet glimmered by, And faces loved in infancy Came and looked on me mournfully. Till my heart melted, Rosaline ! I saw my mother's dying bed, I heard her bless me, and I shed Cool tears — but lo ! the ghastly dead Stared me to madness, Rosaline ! And then amid the silent night I screamed with horrible delight. 264: ROSALINE. And in my brain an awful light Did seem to crackle, Kosaline ! It is my curse ! sweet mem'ries fall From me like snow — and only all Of that one night, like cold worms crawl My doomed heart over, Rosaline ! Thine eyes are shut : they nevermore Will leap thy gentle words before To tell the secret o'er and o'er Thou could'st not smother, Eosaline ! Thine eyes are shut : they will not shine With happy tears, or, through the vine That hid thy casement, beam on mine Sunfull with gladness, Rosaline ! Thy voice I nevermore shall hear. Which in old times did seem so dear. That, ere it trembled in mine ear. My quick heart heard it, Rosaline ! Would I might die ! I were as well. Ay, better, at my home in hell. To set for aye a burning spell 'Twixt me and memory, Rosaline ! Why wilt thou haunt me with thine eyes. Wherein such blessed memories. Such pitying forgiveness lies. Than hate more bitter, Rosaline ! Woe 's me ! I know that love so high As thine, true soul, could never die. And with mean clay in churchyard lie — Would God it were so^ Rosaline ! A GLANCE BEHIND THE CURTAIN. 265 SOXNET. If some small savor creep into my rhyme Of the old poets, if some words 1 use, Neglected long, which have the lusty thews Of that gold-haired and earnest-hearted time. Whose loving joy and sorrow all sublime Have given our tongue its starry eminence, — It is not pride, God knows, but reverence Which hath grown in me since my childhood's prime ; Wherein I feel that my poor lyre is strung With soul-strings like to theirs, and that I have No right to muse their holy graves among, If I can be a custom-fettered slave. And, in mine own true spirit, am not brave To speak what rusheth upward to my tongue. A GLANCE BEHIND THE CUETAIN. We see but half the causes of our deeds, Seeking them wholly in the outer life. And heedless of the encircling spirit-world Which, though unseen, is felt, and sows in us All germs of pure and world-wide purposes. From one stage of our being to the next We pass unconscious o'er a slender bridge. The momentary work of unseen hands. Which crumbles down behind us ; looking back, We see the other shore, the gulf between. And, marvelling how we won to where we stand. Content ourselves to call the builder Chance. We trace the wisdom to the apple's fall. Not to the soul of Newton, ripe with all 266 A GLANCE BEHIND THE CURTAIN. The hoarded thoughtfulness of earnest years, And waiting but one ray of sunlight more To blossom fully. But whence came that ray ? We call our sorrows destiny, but ought Eather to name our high successes so. Only the instincts of great souls are Fate, And have predestined sway : all other things. Except by leave of us, could never be. For Destiny is but the breath of God Still moving in us, the last fragment left Of our unf alien nature, waking oft "Within our thought to beckon us beyond The narrow circle of the seen and known. And always tending to a noble end. As all things must that overrule the soul, And for a space unseat the helmsman, Will. The fate of England and of freedom once Seemed wavering in the heart of one plain man ; One step of his, and the great dial-hand That marks the destined progress of the world In the eternal round from wisdom on To higher wisdom, had been made to pause A hundred years. That step he did not take — He knew not why, nor we, but only God — And lived to make his simple oaken chair More terrible and grandly beautiful. More full of majesty, than any throne. Before or after, of a British king. Upon the pier stood two stern-visaged men, Looking to where a little craft lay moored. A GLANCE BEHIND THE CURTAIN. 267 Swayed by the lazy current of the Thames, Which weltered by in muddy listlessness. Grave men they were, and battliugs of fierce thought Had scared away all softness from their brows, And ploughed rough furrows there before their time. Care, not of self, but of the common weal, Had robbed their eyes of youth, and left instead A look of patient power and iron will, And something fiercer, too, that gave broad hint Of the plain weapons girded at their sides. The younger had an aspect of command — Not such as trickles down, a slender stream. In the shrunk channel of a great descent — But such as lies entowered in heart and head, And an arm prompt to do the ^hests of both. His was a brow where gold were out of place. And yet it seemed right worthy of a crown (Though he despised such)*, were it only made Of iron, or some serviceable stuff That would have matched his sinewy brown face. The elder, although such he hardly seemed (Care makes so little of some five short years). Bore a clear, honest face, where scholarship Had mildened somewhat of its rougher strength, To sober courage, such as best befits The unsullied temper of a well-taught mind, Yet left it so as one could plainly guess The pent volcano smouldering underneath. He spoke : the other, hearing, kept his gaze Still fixed, as on some problem in the sky. *' CROiiWELL, we are fallen on evil times I There was a day when England had wide room 268 A GLANCE BEHIND THE CURTAIN. For honest men as well as foolish kmgs ; But now the uneasy stomach of the time Turns squeamish at them both. Therefore let us Seek out that savage clime where men as yet Are free : there sleeps the vessel on the tide, Her languid sails but drooping for the wind : All things are fitly cared for, and the Lord Will watch as kindly o^'er the Exodus Of us his servants now, as in old time. We have no cloud or fire, and haply we May not pass dryshod through the ocean-stream ; But, saved or lost, all things are in His hand." So spake he, and meantime the other stood With wide, gray eyes still reading the blank air, As if upon the sky's blue wall he saw Some mystic sentence written by a hand Such as of old did scare the Assyrian king, Girt with his satraps in the blazing feast. '^Hampdeist, a moment since, my purpose was To fly with thee— for I will call it flight, Nor flatter it with any smoother name — But something in me bids me not to go ; And I am one, thou knowest, who, unscared By what the weak deem omens, yet give heed And reverence due to whatsoe'er my soul Whispers of warning to the inner ear. Why should we fly ? Nay, why not rather stay And rear again our Zion's crumbled walls. Not as of old the walls of Thebes were built By minstrel twanging, but, if need should be. With the more potent music of our swords ? Think'st thou that score of men beyond the sea A GLANCE BEHIND THE CURTAIN. 269 Claim more God's care than all of England here ? No : when He moves His arm, it is to aid Whole peoples, heedless if a few be crushed. As some are ever when the destiny Of man takes one stride onward nearer home. Believe it, 't is the mass of men He loves. And where there is most sorrow and most want, Where the high heart of man is trodden down The most, 't is not because He hides His face From them in wrath, as purblind teachers prate. Not so : there most is He, for there is He Most needed. Men who seek for Fate abroad Are not so near His heart as tliey who dare Frankly to face her where she faces them. On their own threshold, where their souls are strong To grapple with and throw her, as I once, Being yet a boy, did throw this puny king. Who now has grown so dotard as to deem That he can wrestle with an angry realm. And throw the brawned Antaeus of men's rights. No, Hampden ; they have half-way conquered Fate Who go half-way to meet her — as will I. Freedom hath yet a work for me to do ; So speaks that inward voice which never yet Spake falsely, when it urged the spirit on To noble deeds for country and mankind. ** What should we do in that small colony Of pinched fanatics, who would rather choose Freedom to clip an inch more from their hair Than the great chance of setting England free ? Not there amid the stormy wilderness Should we learn wisdom ; or, if learned, what room 270 A GLANCE BEHIND THE CURTAIN. To put it into act— else worse than naught ? We learn our souls more, tossing for an hour Upon this huge and ever vexed sea Of human thought, where kingdoms go to wreck Like fragile bubbles yonder in the stream, Than in a cycle of 'New England sloth, Broke only by some petty Indian war. Or quarrel for a letter, more or less. In some hard word, which, spelt in either way, Xot their most learned clerks can understand. New times demand new measures and new men ; The world advances, and in time outgrows The laws that in our father's day were best ; And, doubtless, after us, some purer scheme Will be shaped out by wiser men than we, Made wiser by the steady growth of truth. We cannot bring Utopia at once ; But better almost be at work in sin Than in a brute inaction browse and sleep. No man is born into the world whose work Is not born with him ; there is always work. And tools to work withal, for those who will ; And blessed are the horny hands of toil ! The busy world shoves angrily aside The man who stands with arms a-kimbo set, Until occasion tells him what to do ; And he who waits to have his task marked out, Shall die and leave his errand unfulfilled. Our time is one that calls for earnest deeds. Reason and Government, like two broad seas, Yearn for each other with outstretched arms Across this narrow isthmus of the throne, And roll their white surf higher every day. A GLANCE BEHIND THE CURTAIN. 271 The field lies wide before us, where to reap The easy harvest of a deathless name, Though with no better sickles than our swords. My soul is not a palace of tlie past, Where outworn creeds, like Rome's gray senate quake, Hearing afar the VandaFs trumpet hoarse, That shakes old systems with a thunder-fit. The time is ripe, and rotten-ripe, for change ; Then let it come : I have no dread of what Is called for by the instinct of mankind. Nor think I that God's world would fall apart Because we tear a parchment more or less. Truth is eternal, but her effluence. With endless change, is fitted to the hour ; Her mirror is turned forward, to reflect The promise of the future, not the past. I do not fear to follow out the truth. Albeit along the precipice's edge. Let us speak plain : there is more force in names Than most men dream of ; and a lie may keep Its throne a whole age longer, if it skulk Behind the shield of some fair-seeming name. Let us call tyrants tyrants, and maintain That only freedom comes by grace of God, And all that comes not by his grace must fall ; For men in earnest have no time to waste In patching fig-leaves for the naked truth. " I will have one more grapple with the man Charles Stuart : whom the boy overcame, The man stands not in awe of. I perchance Am one raised up by the Almighty arm 272 A GLANCE BEHIND THE CURTAIN. To witness some great truth to all the world. Souls destined to overleap the vulgar lot. And mould the world unto the scheme of God, Have a foreconsciousness of their high doom. As men are known to shiver at the heart, When the cold shadow of some coming ill Creeps slowly o'er their spirits unawares : Hath Good less power of prophecy than HI ? How else could men whom God hath called to sway Earth's rudder, and to steer the barque of Truth, Beating against the wind toward her port. Bear all the mean and buzzing grievances. The petty martyrdoms wherewith Sin strives To weary out the tethered hope of Faith, The sneers, the unrecognizing look of friends, Who worship the dead corpse of old king Custom, Where it doth lie in state within the Church, Striving to cover up the mighty ocean AVith a man's palm, and making even the truth Lie for them, holding up the glass reversed. To make the hope of man seem further off ? My God ! when I read o'er the bitter lives Of men whose eager hearts were quite too great To beat beneath the cramped mode of the day. And see them mocked at by the world they love. Haggling with prejudice for pennyworths Of that reform which their hard toil will make The common birthright of the age to come — When I see this, spite of my faith in God, I marvel how their hearts bear up so long ; Nor could they, but for this same prophecy. This inward feeling of the glorious end. A GLANCE BEHIND THE CURTAIN. 273 ^' Deem me not fond ; but in my warmer youth, Ere my heart's bloom was soiled and brushed away, I had great dreams of mighty things to come ; Of conquest ; whether by the sword or pen, I knew not ; but some conquest I would have. Or else swift death : now, wiser grown in years, I find youth's dreams are but the flutterings Of those strong wings whereon the soul shall soar In after time to win a starry throne ; And therefore cherish them, for they were lots Which I, a boy, cast in the helm of Fate. Xor will I draw them, since a man's right hand, A right hand guided by an earnest soul. With a true instinct, takes the golden prize From out a thousand blanks. What men call luck. Is the prerogative of valiant souls. The fealty life pays its rightful kings. The helm is shaking now, and I will stay To pluck my lot forth ; it were sin to flee ! " So they two turned together ; one to die Fighting for freedom on the bloody field ; The other, far more happy, to become A name earth wears forever next her heart ; One of the few that have a right to rank With the true Makers ; for his spirit wrought Order from Chaos ; proved that right divine Dwelt only in the excellence of Truth ; And far within old Darkness' hostile lines Advanced and pitched the shining tents of Light, Nor shall the grateful Muse forget to tell, That — not the least among his many claims To deathless honor — he was Milton's friend. i8 274 ^ SONG. A man not second among those who lived To show us that the poet's lyre demands An arm of tougher sinew than the sword. A SONG. Violet ! sweet violet ! Thine eyes are full of tears ; Are they wet Even yet With the thought of other years, Or with gladness are they full, For the night so beautiful. And longing for those far-off spheres ? Loved one of my youth thou wast, Of my merry youth, And I see. Tearfully, All the fair and sunny past. All its openness and truth. Ever fresh and green in thee As the moss is in the sea. Thy little heart, that hath with love Grown colored like the sky above. On which thou lookest ever, — Can it know All the woe Of hope for what returneth never. All the sorrow and the longing To these hearts of ours belonging ! Out on it ! no foolish pining THE MOON. 275 For the sky Dims thine eye, Or for the stars so calmly shining , • Like thee let this soul of mine Take hue from that wherefor I long, Self-stayed and high, serene and strong, Not satisfied with hoping — but divine. Violet ! dear Violet I Thy blue eyes are only wet With joy and love of him who sent thee. And, for the fulfilling sense Of that glad obedience Which made thee all which N'ature meant thee! THE MOON. My soul was like the sea Before the moon was made ; Moaning in vague immensity, Of its own strength afraid, Unrestful and unstaid. Through every rift it foamed in vain About its earthly prison, Seeking some unknown thing in pain, And sinking restless back again. For yet no moon had risen : Its only voice a vast dumb moan Of utterless anguish speaking. It lay unhopefully alone And lived but in an aimless seeking. ^76 THE FATHERLAND. So was my soul : but when 't was full Of unrest to overloading, A voice of something beautiful Whispered a dim foreboding, And yet so soft, so sweet, so low, It had not more of joy than woe : And, as the sea doth oft lie still, Making his waters meet. As if by an unconscious will. For the moon^s silver feet. Like some serene, unwinking eye That waits a certain destiny. So lay my soul within mine eyes When thou its sovereign moon didst rise. And now, howe'er its waves above May toss and seem uneaseful. One strong, eternal law of love With guidance sure and peaceful. As calm and natural as breath Moves its great deeps through Life and Death. THE FATHERLAND. AVhere is the true man^s fatherland ? Is it where he by chance is born ? Doth not the free- winged spirit scorn In such pent borders to be spanned ? Oh yes ! his fatherland must be As the blue heavens wide and free ! Is it alone where freedom is, Where God is God and man is man ? A PARABLE. 277 Doth he not claim a broader span For the soul's love of home than this ? Oh yes ! his fatherland must be As the blue heavens wide and free ! Where'er a human heart doth wear Joy's myrtle wreath, or sorrow's gyves. Where'er a human spirit strives After a life more pure and fair, There is the true man's birthplace grand ! His is a world-wide fatherland ! Where'er a single slave doth pine, Where'er one man may help another — Thank God for such a birthright, brother ! That spot of earth is thine and mine ; There is the true man's birthplace grand ! His is a world-wide fatherland ! A PARABLE. Work and footsore was the Prophet When he reached the holy hill ; " God has left the earth," he murmured, " Here his presence lingers still. " God of all the olden prophets. Wilt thou talk with me no more ? Have I not as truly loved thee As thy chosen ones of yore ? " Hear me, guider of my fathers, Lo, an humble heart is mine ; By thy mercy I beseech thee, Grant thy servant but a sign ! '^ 278 A PARABLE. Bowing then his head, he listened For an answer to his prayer ; No loud burst of thunder followed, Not a murmur stirred the air : But the tuft of moss before him Opened while he waited yet. And from out the rock's hard bosom Sprang a tender violet. " God ! I thank thee," said the Prophet, " Hard of heart and blind was I, Looking to the holy mountain For the gift of prophecy. '' Still thou speakest with thy children Freely as in Eld sublime. Humbleness and love and patience Give dominion over Time. ^' Had I trusted in my nature. And had faith in lowly things. Thou thyself wouldst then have sought me, And set free my spirit's wings. " But I looked for signs and wonders That o'er men should give me sway ; Thirsting to be more than mortal, I was even less than clay. '^ Ere I entered on my journey, As I girt my loins to start. Ran to me my little daughter, The beloved of my heart j ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND'S CHILD. 279 " In her hand she held a flower. Like to this as like may be, Which beside my very threshold She had plucked and brought to me/' ON THE DEATH OF A FEIEND'S CHILD. Death never came so nigh to me before, Nor showed me his mild face : Oft I had mused Of calm and peace and deep forgetfulness, Of folded hands, closed eyes, and heart at rest. And slumber sound beneath a flowery turf, Of faults forgotten, and an inner place Kept sacred for us in the heart of friends ; But these were idle fancies satisfied With the mere husk of this great Mystery, And dwelling in the outward shows of things. Heaven is not mounted to on wings of dreams, Nor doth the unthankful happiness of youth Aim thitherward, but floats from bloom to bloom. With earth's warm patch of sunshine well content ; 'T is sorrow builds the shining ladder up Whose golden rounds are our calamities. Whereon our firm feet planting, nearer God The spirit climbs, and hath its eyes unsealed. True is it that Death's face seems stern and cold. When he is sent to summon those we love. But all God's angels come to us disguised ; Sorrow and sickness, poverty and death. One after other lift their frowning masks. And we behold the seraph's face beneath, All radiant with the glory and the calm 280 ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND'S CHILD. Of having looked upon the smile of God. With every anguish of our earthly past The spirit's sight grows clearer ; this was meant When Jesus touched the blind man's lids with clay. Life is the jailer. Death the angel sent To draw the unwilling bolts and set us free. He flings not ope the ivory gate of Eest — Only the fallen spirit knocks at that — But to benigner regions beckons us, To destinies of more rewarded toil. In the hushed chamber, sitting by the dead, It grates on us to hear the flood of life Whirl rustling onward, senseless of our loss. The bee hums on ; around the blossomed vine Whirs the light humming-bird ; the cricket chirps ; The locust's shrill alarum stings the ear ; Hard by, the cock shouts lustily ; from farm to farm. His cheery brothers, telling of the sun. Answer, till far away the joyance dies ; We never knew before how God had filled The summer air with happy living sounds ; All round us seems an overplus of life. And yet the one dear heart lies cold and still. It is most strange, when the great Miracle Hath for our sakes been done ; when we have had Our inwardest experience of God, When with his presence still the room expands, And is awed after him, that naught is changed, That Nature's face looks unacknowledging. And the mad world still dances heedless on After its butterflies, and gives no sigh. 'T is hard at first to see it all aright ; ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND'S CHILD. 281 In vain Faith blows her trump to summon back Her scattered troop ; yet, through the clouded glass Of our own bitter tears, we learn to look Undazzled on the kindness of God^s face ; Earth is too dark, and Heaven alone shines through. How changed, dear friend, are thy part and thy child's ! He bends above thy cradle now, or holds His warning finger out to be thy guide ; Thou art the nursling now ; he watches thee Slow learning, one by one, the secret things Which are to him used sights of every day ; He smiles to see thy wondering glances con The grass and pebbles of the spirit world, To thee miraculous ; and he will teach Thy knees their due observances of prayer. Children are God's apostles, day by day. Sent forth to preach of love, and hope, and peace ; Nor hath thy babe his mission left undone. To me, at least, his going hence hath given Serener thoughts and nearer to the skies. And opened a new fountain in my heart For thee, my friend, and all : and oh, if Death More near approaches, meditates, and clasps Even now some dearer, more reluctant hand, God, strengthen thou my faith, that I may see That 't is thine angel who, with loving haste, Unto the service of the inner shrine Doth waken thy beloved with a kiss ! Cambridge, Mass., Sept. 3, 1844. 282 AN INCIDENT IN A RAILROAD CAR. AN INCIDENT IN A RAILROAD CAE. He spoke of Burns : men rude and rough Pressed round to hear the praise of one Whose breast was made of manly, simple stuff. As homespun as their own. And, when he read, they forward leaned And heard, with eager hearts and ears, His birdlike songs whom glory never weaned From humble smiles and tears. Slowly there grew a tender awe, Sunlike o'er faces brown and hard. As if in him who read they felt and saw Some presence of the bard. It was a sight for sin and wrong. And slavish tyranny to see, A sight to make our faith more pure and strong In high Humanity. I thought, these men will carry hence. Promptings their former life above, And something of a finer reverence For beauty, truth, and love. God scatters love on every side. Freely among his children all. And always hearts are lying open wide AVherein some grains may fall. There is no wind but sows some seeds Of a more true and open life, Which burst unlooked for into high-souled deeds With wayside beauty rife. AN INCIDENT IN A RAILROAD CAR. 283 We find within these souls of ours Some wild germs of a higher birth, Which in the poet's tropic heart bears flowers Whose fragrance fills the earth. Within the hearts of all men lie These promises of wider bliss, Which blossom into hopes that cannot die, In sunny hours like this. All that hath been majestical In life or death since time began. Is native in the simple heart of all. The angel heart of man. And thus among the untaught poor Great deeds and feelings find a home Which casts in shadow all the golden lore 01 classic Greece or Rome. Oh ! mighty brother-soul of man. Where'er thou art, in low or high. Thy skyey arches with exulting span O'er-roof infinity. All thoughts that mould the age begin Deep down within the primitive soul, And, from the many, slowly upward wing To One who grasps the whole. In his broad breast, the feeling deep Which struggled on the many's tongue. Swells to a tide of Thought whose surges leap O'er the weak throne of wrong. 284 AN INCIDENT OF THE FIRE AT HAMBURGH. Never did poesy appear So full of Heav'n to me as when I saw how it would pierce through pride and fear. To lives of coarsest men. It may be glorious to write Thoughts that shall glad the two or three High souls like those far stars that come in sight Once in a century. But better far it is to speak One simple word which now and then Shall waken their free nature in the weak And friendless sons of men ; To write some earnest verse or line, Which, seeking not the praise of Art, Shall make a clearer faith and manhood shine In the unlearned heart. Boston, April, 1842. AN INCIDENT OF THE FIRE AT HAMBURGH. The tower of old Saint Nicholas soared upward to the skies. Like some huge piece of nature's make, the growth of centuries ; You could not deem its crowding spires a work of human art. They seemed to struggle lightward so from a sturdy living heart. AN INCIDENT OF THE FIRE AT HAMBURGH. 285 Not Nature's self more freely speaks in crystal or in oak Than, through the pious builder's hand, in that gray pile she spoke ; And as from acorn springs the oak, so, freely and alone. Sprang from his heart this hymn to God, sung in obedient stone. It seemed a wondrous freak of chance, so perfect, yet so rough, A whim of Nature crystallized slowly in granite tough ; The thick spires yearned toward the sky in quaint harmonious lines. And in broad sunlight basked and slept, like a grove of blasted pines. Never did rock or stream or tree lay claim with better right To all the adorning sympathies of shadow and of light ; And, in that forest petrified, as forester there dwells Stout Herman, the old sacristan, sole lord of all its bells. Surge leaping after surge, the fire roared onward, red as blood, Till half of Hamburgh lay engulfed beneath the eddy- ing flood, For miles away, the fiery spray poured down its deadly rain. And back and forth the billows drew, and paused, and broke again. 286 AN INCIDENT OF THE FIRE AT HAMBURGH. From square to square, with tiger leaps, still on and on it came ; The air to leeward trembled with the pantings of the flame, And church and palace, which even now stood whelmed but to the knee, Lift their black roofs like breakers lone amid the rush- ing sea. Up in his tower old Herman sat and watched with quiet look ; His soul had trusted God too long to be at last forsook : He could not fear, for surely God a pathway would unfold Through this red sea, for faithful hearts, as once he did of old. But scarcely can he cross himself, or on his good saint call, Before the sacrilegious flood o'erleaped the church- yard wall. And, ere a pater half was said, ^mid smoke and crack- ling glare. His island tower scarce just its head above the wide despair. Upon the peril's desperate peak his heart stood up sublime ; His first thought was for God above, his next was for his chime ; ''Sing now, and make your voices heard in hymns of praise,'' cried he, ^ ' As did the Israelites of old, safe-walking through the sea ! SONNETS. 287 *' Through this red sea our God hath made our pathway safe to shore ; Our promised laud stands full in sight ; shout now as ne'er before." And, as the tower came crashing down, the bells, in clear accord, Pealed forth the grand old German hymn — ^' All good souls praise the Lord ! " so:n"nets. I. As the broad ocean endlessly upheaveth, With the majestic beating of his heart, The mighty tides, whereof its rightful part Each sea-wide gulf and little weed receiveth — So, through hij soul who earnestly believeth, Life from the universal Heart doth flow. Whereby some conquest of the eternal woe By instinct of God^s nature he achieveth : A fuller pulse of this all-powerful Beauty Into the poet's gulf -like heart doth tide. And he more keenly feels the glorious duty Of serving Truth despised and crucified — Happy, unknowing sect or creed, to rest And feel God flow forever through his breast. II. Once hardly in a cycle blossometh A flower-like soul ripe with the seeds of song A spirit foreordained to cope with wrong, 288 SONNETS. Whose divine thoughts are natural as breath, Who the old Darkness thickly scattereth With starry words which shoot prevailing light Into the deeps, and wither with the blight Of serene Truth the coward heart of Death : Woe if such spirit sell his birthright high, And mock with lies the longing soul of man ! Yet one age longer must true Culture lie. Soothing her bitter fetters as she can. Until new messages of love outstart At the next beating of the infinite Heart. III. The love of all things springs from love of one ; Wider the soul's horizon hourly grows. And over it with fuller glory flows The sky-like spirit of God ; a hope begun In doubt and darkness, 'neath a fairer sun Cometh to fruitage, if it be of Truth ; And to the law of meekness, faith, and ruth. By inward sympathy shall all be won : This thou shouldst know, who from the painted feature Of shifting Fashion, couldst thy brethren turn Unto the love of ever youthful nature. And of a beauty fadeless and eterne ; And always 't is the saddest sight to see An old man faithless in Humanity. IV. A poet cannot strive for despotism ; His harp falls shattered ; for it still must be The instinct of great spirits to be free, SONNETS. 289 And the sworn foes of cunning barbarism. He who has deepest searched the wide abysm Of that life-giving Soul which men call fate, Knows that to put more faith in lies and hate Than truth and love, is the worst atheism : Upward the soul forever turns her eyes ; The next hour always shames the hour before ; One beauty at its highest prophesies That by whose side it shall seem mean and poor ; No Godlike thing knows aught of less and less. But widens to the boundless Perfectness. V. Therefore think not the Past is wise alone. For Yesterday knows nothing of the Best, And thou shalt love it only as the nest Whence glory- winged things to Heaven have flown. To the great Soul alone are all things known, Present and future are to her as past. While she in glorious madness doth forecast That perfect bud which seems a flower full-blown To each new Prophet, and yet always opes Fuller and fuller with each day and hour. Heartening the soul with odor of fresh hopes. And longings high and gushings of wide power Yet never is or shall be fully blown Save in the forethought of the Eternal One. VI. Far 'yond this narrow parapet of Time, With eyes uplift, the poet's soul should look Into the Endless Promise, nor should brook 12 290 THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT. One prying doubt to shake his faith sublime ; To him the earth is ever in her prime And dewiness of morning ; he can see Good lying hid, from all eternity, "Within the teeming womb of sin and crime ; His soul shall not be cramped by any bar — His nobleness should be so Godlike high That his least deed is perfect as a star, His common look majestic as the sky, And all o'erflooded with a light from far, Undimmed by clouds of weak mortality. Boston, April 2, 1842. THE UNHAPPY LOT OF ME. KNOTT. PART I. Showing how he built his house and his wife moved into it. My worthy friend, A. Gordon Knott, Erom business snug withdrawn. Was much contented with a lot Which would contain a Tudor cot Twixt twelve feet square of garden-plot, And twelve feet more of lawn. He had laid business on the shelf To give his taste expansion. And, since no man, retired with pelf, The building mania can shun, Knott, being middle-aged himself, Kesolved to build (unhappy elf ! ) A mediaeval mansion. THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT. 291 He called an architect in counsel ; "I want," said he, '* a — you know what. You are a builder, I am Knott,) A thing complete from chimney-pot Down to the very groundsel ; Here's a half -acre of good land ; Just have it nicely mapped and planned And make your workmen drive on ; Meadow there is, and upland too, And I should like a water-view, D' you think you could contrive one ? (Perhaps the pump and trough would do, If painted a judicious blue ?) The woodland Fve attended to ; " (He meant three pines stuck up askew, Two dead ones and a live one.) ^' A pocket- full of rocks 't would take To build a house of free-stone. But then it is not hard to make What nowadays is the stone ; The cunning painter in a trice Your house's outside petrifies. And people think it very gneiss Without inquiring deeper ; My money never shall be thrown Away on such a deal of stone. When stone of deal is cheaper. '* And so the greenest of antiques Was reared for Knott to dwell in ; The architect worked hard for weeks In venting all his private peaks Upon the roof, whose crop of leaks 292 THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT. Had satisfied Fluellen. Whatever anybody had Out of the common, good or bad, Knott had it all worked well in, A donjon-keep, where clothes might dry, A porter's lodge that was a sty, A campanile slim and high. Too small to hang a bell in ; All up and down and here and there, With Lord-knows-whats of round and square Stuck on at random everywhere. It was a house to make one stare. All corners and all gables ; Like dogs let loose upon a bear. Ten emulous styles, stahoyed with care. The whole among them seemed to tear. And all the oddities to spare Were set upon the stables. Knott was delighted with a pile Approved by fashion's leaders ; (Only he made the builder smile By asking every little while, Why that was called the Twodoor style Which certainly had three doors ?) Yet better for this luckless man If he had put a downright ban Upon the thing in limine ; For, though to quit affairs his plan, Ere many days, poor Knott began Perforce accepting draughts, that ran All ways — except up chimney ; The house, though painted stone to mock, THE UNHAPPY LOT OP MR. KNOTT. 293 With nice white lines round every block, Some trepidation stood in, When tempests (with petrific shock, So to speak) made it really rock, Though not a whit less wooden ; And painted stone, howe'er well done. Will not take in the prodigal sun Whose beams are never quite at one With our terrestrial lumber ; So the wood shrank around the knots, And gaped in disconcerting spots. And there were lots of dots and rots And crannies without number, Wherethrough, as you may well presume, The wind, like water through a flume. Came rushing in ecstatic. Leaving, in all three floors, no room That was not a rheumatic ; And, what with points and squares and rounds Grown shaky on their poises. The house at night was full of pounds. Thumps, bumps, creaks, scratchings, raps — till — '' Zounds ! " Cried Knott, *' this goes beyond all bounds, I do not deal in tongues and sounds, Nor have I let my house and grounds To a family of N^oyeses ! " But though Knott^s house was full of airs. He had but one — a daughter ; And, as he owned much stocks and shares, Many who wished to render theirs Such vain, unsatisfying cares. 294 THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT. And needed wives to sew their tears, In matrimony sought her ; They vowed her gold they wanted not, Their faith would never falter. They longed to tie this single Knott In the Hymeneal halter ; So daily at the door they rang. Cards for the belle delivering. Or in the choir at her they sang. Achieving such a rapturous twang As set her nerves a-shivering. Now Knott had quite made up his mind That Colonel Jones should have her ; No beauty he, but oft we find Sweet kernels ^neath a roughish rind. So hoped his Jenny 'd be resigned And make no more palaver ; Glanced at the fact that love was blind, That girls were ratherish inclined To pet their little crosses. Then nosologically defined The rate at which the system pined In those unfortunates who dined Upon that metaphoric kind Of dish — their own proboscis. But she, with many tears and moans. Besought him not to mock her. Said 't was too much for flesh and bones. To marry mortgages and loans. That fathers' hearts were stocks and stones. And that sheM go, when Mrs. Jones, To Davy Jones's locker ; THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT. 295 Then gave her head a little toss That said as plain as ever was, If men are always at a loss Mere womankind to bridle — To try the thing on woman cross, Were fifty times as idle ; For she a strict resolve had made And registered in private, That either she would die a maid, Or else be Mrs. Dr. Slade, If woman could contrive it ; And, though the wedding-day was set, Jenny was more so, rather, Declaring, in a pretty pet, That, howsoe^e they spread their net. She would out Jennyral them yet. The colonel and her father. Just at this time the Public's eyes Were keenly on the watch, a stir Beginning slowly to arise About those questions and replies. Those raps that unwrapped mysteries So rapidly at Rochester. And Knott, already nervous grown By lying much awake alone. And listening, sometimes to a moan. And sometimes to a clatter. Whene'er the wind at night would rouse The ginger-bread-work on his house. Or when some hasty-tempered mouse, Behind the plastering made a towse About a family matter. Began to wonder if his wife, 296 THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT. A paralytic half her life, Which made it more surprising. Might not, to rule him from her urn, Have taken a peripatetic turn For want of exorcising. This thought, once nestled in his head, Ere long contagious grew, and spread Infecting all his mind with dread. Until at last he lay in bed And heard his wife, with well-known tread, Entering the kitchen through the shed, (Or was 't his fancy mocking ?) Opening the pantry, cutting bread. And then (she M been some ten years dead) Closets and drawers unlocking ; Or, in his room, (his breath grew thick) He heard the long familiar click Of slender needles flying quick. As if she knit a stocking ; For whom ?— he prayed that years might flit With pains rheumatic shooting, Before those ghostly things she knit Upon his unfleshed sole might fit. He did not fancy it a bit. To stand upon that footing ; At other times, his frightened hairs Above the bed-clothes trusting. He heard her, full of household cares, (No dream entrapped in supper's snares^ The foal of horrible nightmares. But broad awake, as he declares,) Go bustling up and down the stairs, THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR, KNOTT. 297 Or setting back last evening^s chairs, Or with the poker thrusting The raked-up sea-coal's hardened crust — And — what ! impossible ! it must ! He knew she had returned to dust, And yet could scarce his senses trust, Hearing her as she poked and fussed About the parlor, dusting ! Night after night he strove to sleep And take his ease in spite of it ; But still his flesh would chill and creep. And, though two night-lamps he might keep, He could not so make light of it. At last, quite desperate, he goes And tells his neighbors all his woes. Which did but their amount enhance ; They made such mockery of his fears, That soon his days were of all jeers. His nights of the rueful countenance ; '^I thought most folks," one neighbor said, " Gave up the ghost when they were dead," Another gravely shook his head. Adding, '^from all we hear, it's Quite plain poor Knott is going mad — For how can he at once be sad And think he 's full of spirits ? " A third declared he knew a knife Would cut this Knott much quicker, '' The surest way to end all strife. And lay the spirit of a wife. Is just to take and lick her ! " A temperance man caught up the word, 298 THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT. '^ Ah, yes," he groaned, ''^ I 've always heard Our poor friend always slanted Tow'rd taking liquor overmuch ; I fear these spirits may be Dutch, (A sort of gins, or something such,) With which his house is haunted ; I see the thing as clear as light — If Knott would give up getting tight. Naught farther would be wanted : " So all his neighbors stood aloof And, that the spirits 'neath his roof Were not entirely up to proof. Unanimously granted. Knott knew that cocks and sprites were foes. And so bought up. Heaven only knows How many, though he wanted crows To give ghosts cause, as I suppose. To think that day was breaking ; Moreover, what he called his park. He turned into a kind of ark, For dogs, because a little bark Is a good tonic in the dark, If one is given to waking ; But things went on from bad to worse. His curs were nothing but a curse, And, what was still more shocking. Foul ghosts of living fowl made scoff And would not think of going off In spite of all his cocking. Shanghais, Bucks-counties, Dominiques, Malays (that did n't lay for weeks,) Polanders, Bantams, Dorkings, f THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT. 299 Waiving the cost, no trifling ill, (Since each brought in his little bill) By day or night were never still. But every thought of rest would kill With cacklings and with quorkings : Henry the Eighth of wives got free By a way he had of axing ; But poor Knott's Tudor henery Was not so fortunate, and he Still found his trouble waxing ; As for the dogs, the rows they made, And how they howled, snarled, barked, and bayed. Beyond all human knowledge is ; All night, as wide awake as gnats. The terriers rumpused after rats, Or, just for practice, taught their brats To worry cast-off shoes and hats. The bull-dogs settled private spats, All chased imaginary cats. Or raved behind the fence's slats At real ones, or, from their mats. With friends miles off, held pleasant chats. Or, like some folks in white cravats, Contemptuous of sharps and flats, Sat up and sang dogsologies. PART II. Showing what is meant by a flow of Spirits. At first the ghosts were somewhat shy. Coming when none but Knott was nigh, And people said 't was all their eye, (Or rather his) a flam, the sly 300 THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT. Digestion's machination ; Some recommended a wet sheet. Some a nice broth of pounded peat. Some a cold flat-iron to the feet. Some a decoction of lamVs-bleat ; Some a southwesterly grain of wheat ; Meat was by some pronounced unmeet, Others thought fish most indiscreet. And that 't was worse than all to eat Of vegetables, sour or sweet, (Except, perhaps, the skin of beet,) In such a concatenation : One quack his button gently plucks And murmurs '' biliary ducks ! " Says Knott, ^' I never ate one ; " But all, though brimming full of wrath, Homeo, Alio, Hydropath, Concurred in this — that Mother's path To death's door was the straight one. But, spite of medical advice. The ghosts came thicker, and a spice Of mischief grew apparent ; Nor did they only come at night. But seemed to fancy broad daylight. Till Knott, in horror and affright. His unoffending hair rent ; Whene'er, with handkerchief on lap, He made his elbow-chair a trap To catch an after-dinner nap. The spirits, always on the tap. Would make a sudden raiJ, raj), raj), The half-spun cord of life to snap, (xind what is life without its nap THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT. 30I But threadbareness and mere mishap ?) As 't were with a percussion cap The trouble^s climax capping ; It seemed a party dried and grim Of mummies had come to visit him, Each getting off from every limb Its multitudinous wrapping ; Scratchings sometimes the walls ran round. The merest penny-weights of sound ; Sometimes 't was only by the pound They carried on their dealing, A thumping 'neatli the parlor floor. Thump — bump — thump — bumping o'er and o'er. As if the vegetables in store, (Quiet and orderly before,) Were all together pealing ; You would have thought the thing was done By the Spirit of some son of a gun. And that a forty-two pounder. Or that the ghost which made such sounds Could be none other than John Pounds, Of Eagged Schools the founder. Through three gradations of affright. The awful noises reached their height ; At first they knocked nocturnally. Then, for some reason, changing quite, (As mourners, after six months' flight. Turn suddenly from dark to light,) Began to knock diurnally, And last, combining all their stocks> (Scotland was ne'er so full of Knox,) Into one Chaos, (father of Nox), 302 THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT. Node pluit — they showered knocks. And knocked, knocked, knocked eternally; Ever upon the go, like buoys, (Wooden sea-urchins)^ all Knott's joys, They turned to trouble and a noise That preyed on him internally. Soon they grew wider in their scope ; Whenever Knott a door would ope. It would ope not, or else elope And fly back (curbless as a trope Once started down a stanza's slope By a bard that gave it too much rope—) Like a clap of thunder slamming ; And, when kind Jenny brought his hat, (She always, when he walked, did that,) Just as upon his head it sat. Submitting to his settling pat — Some unseen hand would jam it flat. Or give it such a furious bat That eyes and nose went cramming Up out of sight, and consequently. As when in life it paddled free. His beaver caused mucli damning ; If these things seem overstrained to be. Bead the account of Doctor Dee, 'T is in our college library ; Eead Wesley's circumstantial plea. And Mrs. Crow, more like a bee. Sucking the nightshade's honied fee. And Stilling's Pneumatology ; Consult Scot, Glanvil, grave Wie- rus, and both Mathers ; further, see THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT. 303 Webster, Casaubon, James First^s trea- tise, a right royal Q. E. D. "Writ with the moon in perigee, Bodin de Demonomanie (Accent that last line gingerly) All full of learning as the sea Of fishes, and all disagree, Save in Satlianas apage ! Or, what will surely put a flea In unbelieving ears — with glee. Out of a paper (sent to me By some friend who forgot to P . . . A . . . Y . . . — I use cryptography Lest I his vengeful pen should dree — His P ... ... S ... T ... A ... G ... E) Things to the same eifect I cut, About the tantrums of a ghost, Not more than three weeks since, at most, Near Stratford, in Connecticut. [Heavens ! what a sentence that is ! I throw it in, though, gratis, And, taking* breath, anew Catch up my legend's clew.] Knott's Upas daily spread its roots, Sent up on all sides livelier shoots. And bore more pestilential fruits ; The ghosts behaved like downright brutes, They snipped holes in his Sunday suits. Practised all night on octave flutes, Put peas (not peace) into his boots. Whereof grew corns in season. They scotched his sheets, and, what was worse, Stuck his silk night-cap full of burs^ 30.1: THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT. Till he, in language plain and terse, (But much unlike a Bible verse), Swore he should lose his reason. Of course such doings, far and wide, With rumors filled the country-side, And (as it is our nation's pride To think a Truth's not verified Till with majorities allied,) Parties sprung up, affirmed, denied. And candidates with questions plied. Who like the circus-riders, tried At once both hobbies to bestride. And each with his opponent vied In being inexplicit. Earnest inquirers multiplied ; Folks, whose tenth cousins lately died, Wrote letters long, and Knott replied ; All who could either walk or ride. Gathered to wonder or deride. And paid the house a visit ; Horses were at his pine-trees tied, Mourners in every corner sighed, Widows brought children there that cried, Swarms of lean Seekers, eager-eyed, (People Knott never could abide,) Into each hole and cranny pried With strings of questions cut and dried From the Devout Inquirer's Guide, For the wise spirits to decide — As, for example, is it True that the damned are fried or boiled ? Was the Earth's axis greased or oiled ? THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT. 305 "Who cleaned the moon when it was soiled ? How heal diseased potatoes ? Did spirits have the sense of smell ? Where would departed spinsters dwell ? If the late Zenas Smith were well ? If Earth were solid or a shell ? Were spirits fond of Doctor Fell ? Did the bull toll Cock-Robin's knell ? What remedy would bugs expel ? If Paine's invention were sell ? Did spirits by Webster's system spell ? Was it a sin to be a belle ? Did dancing sentence folks to hell ? If so, then where most torture fell — On little toes or great toes ? If life's true seat were in the brain ? Did Ensign mean to marry Jane ? By whom, in fact, was Morgan slain ? Could matter ever suffer pain ? What would take out a cherry-stain ? Who picked the pocket of Seth Crane, Of Waldo precinct, State of Maine ? Was Sir John Franklin sought in vain ? Did primitive Christians ever train ? What was the family-name of Cain ? Them spoons, were they by Betty ta'en ? Would earth-worm poultice cure a sprain ? Was Socrates so dreadful plain ? What teamster guided Charles's wain ? Was Uncle Ethan mad or sane ? And could his will in force remain ? If not, what counsel to retain ? Did Le Sage steal Gil Bias from Spain ? 20 306 THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT. Was Junius writ by Thomas Paine ? Were clucks discomforted by rain ? Hoiu did Britannia rule the main ? Was Jonas coming back again ? Was vital truth upon the wane ? Did ghosts, to scare folks, drag a chain ? Who was our Huldah's chosen swain ? Did none have teeth pulled without payin', Ere ether was invented ? Whether mankind would not agree. If the universe were tuned in C ? What was it ailed Lucindy's knee ? Whether folks eat folks in Feejee ? Whether his name would end with T ? If Saturn's rings were two or three ? And what bump in Phrenology They truly represented ? These problems dark, wherein they groped, Wherewith man's reason vainly coped, Now that the spirit world was oped, In all humility they hoped Would be resolved instanter ; Each of the miscellaneous rout Brought his, or her, own little doubt, And wished to pump the spirits out, Through his, or her, own private spout, Into his, or her, decanter. PART III. Wherein it is shown that the most ardent Spirits are more ornamental thanuseful. Many a speculating wight Came by express-trains, day and night. THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT. 307 To see if Knott would '' sell his right," Meaning to make the ghosts a sight — What they called a '^ meenaygerie ; " One threatened, if he would not " trade," His run of custom to invade, (He could not these sharp folks persuade That he was not, in some way, paid,) And stamp him as a plagiary, By coming down, at one fell swoop. With THE ORIGINAL knocking troupe Come recently from Hades, Who (for a quarter-dollar heard) Would ne^er rap out a hasty word Whence any blame might be incurred From the most fastidious ladies ; The late lamented Jesse Soule To stir the ghosts up with a pole And be director of the whole. Who was engaged the rather For the rare merits he 'd combine, Having been in the spirit line, Which trade he only did resign With general applause, to shine. Awful in mail of cotton fine. As ghost of Hamlet's father ! Another a fair plan reveals Never yet hit on, which, he feels. To Knott's religious sense appeals — *^ We'll have your house set up on wheels, A speculation pious ; For music we can shortly find A barrel-organ that will grind Psalm-tunes (an instrument designed 308 THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT. For the Xew England tour) refined From secular drosses, and inclined To an unworldly turn (combined With no sectarian bias ; ) Then, travelling by stages slow, Under the style of Knott & Co., I would accompany the show As moral lecturer, the foe Of Rationalism ; you could throw The rappings in, and make them go Strict Puritan principles, you know, (How do you make 'em ? with your toe ?) And the receipts which thence might flow. We could divide between us ; Still more attractions to combine. Beside these services of mine, I will throw in a very fine (It would do nicely for a sign) Original Titian's Venus." Another offered handsome fees If Knott would get Demosthenes. (Nay, his mere knuckles, for more ease,) To rap a few short sentences ; Or if, for want of proper keys. His Greek might make confusion. Then, just to get a rap from Burke, To recommend a little work On Public Elocution. {Non7iulla Mc desunt Meliora quae sunt. Meanwhile the spirits made replies To all the reverent wliats and icliys, THE UNHAPPY LOT OP MR. KNOTT. 309 Resolving doubts of every size, And giving seekers grave and wise, "Who came to know their destinies, A rap-turous reception ; When unbelievers void of grace Came to investigate the place, (Creatures of Sadducistic race, With grovelling intellects and base) They could not find the slightest trace To indicate deception ; Indeed, it is declared by some That spirits (of this sort) are glum, Almost, or wholly, deaf and dumb, And (out of self-respect) quite mum To sceptic natures cold and numb. Who of this kind of Kingdom Come, Have not a just conception ; True, there were people who demurred That, though the raps no doubt were heard Both under them and o'er them. Yet, somehow, when a search they made. They found Miss Jenny sore afraid. Or Jenny's lover, Doctor Slade, Equally awe-struck and dismayed, Or Deborah, the chamber-maid. Whose terrors, not to be gainsaid. In laughs hysteric were displayed, Was always there before them ; This had its due effect with some Who straight departed, muttering. Hum ! Transparent hoax ! and Gammon ! But these were few ; believing souls Came, day by day, in larger shoals, 310 THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT. As the ancients to the windy holes ^Neath Delphi's tripod brought their doles, Or to the shrine of Ammon. The spirits seemed exceeding tame, Call whom you fancied and he came ; The shades august of eldest fame You summoned with an awful ease ; As grosser spirits gurgled out From chair and table with a spout, In Auerbach's cellar once, to flout The senses of the rabble rout. Where'er the gimlet twirled about Of cunning Mephistopheles — So did these spirits seem in store. Behind the wainscot or the door. Ready to thrill the being's core Of every enterprising bore With their astounding glamour ; Whatever ghost one wished to hear. By strange coincidence, was near To make the past or future clear, (Sometimes in shocking grammar,) By raps and taps, now there, now here — It seemed as if the spirit queer Of some departed auctioneer Were doomed to practise by the year With the spirit of his hammer ; Whate'er you asked was answered, yet One could not very deeply get Into the obliging spirits' debt, ecause they used the alphabet In all communications. And new revealings (though sublime) THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT. 311 Rapped out, one letter at a time, With boggles, hesitations, Stoppings, beginnings o'er again. And getting matters into train. Could hardly overload the brain AVith too excessive rations. Since just to ask if two a7id tiuo Really make four 9 or, Hoiu d' ye do9 And get the fit replies thereto In the tramundane rat-tat-too, Might ask a whole day's patience. 'T was strange ('mongst other things) to find In what odd sets the ghosts combined, Happy forthwith to thump any Piece of intelligence inspired, The truth whereof had been inquired By some one of the company ; For instance. Fielding, Mirabeau, Orator Henley, Cicero, Paley, John Zisca, Marivaux, Melanchthon, Robertson, Junot, Scaliger, Chesterfield, Rousseau, Hakluyt, Boccaccio, South, De Foe, Diaz, Josephus, Richard Roe, Odin, Arminius, Charles le gros. Tiresias, the late James Crow, Casablanca, Grose, Prideaux, Old Grimes, young Korval, Swift, Brissot, Maimonides, the Chevalier D ^0, Socrates, Fenelon, Job, Stow, The inventor of Elixir pro, Euripides, Spinoza, Poe, 312 THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT. Confucius, Hiram Smith, and Fo, Came (as it seemed, somewhat de trop) With a disembodied Esquimaux, To say that it was so and so. With Franklin's Expedition ; One testified to ice and snow. One that the mercury was low, One that his progress was quite slow, One that he much desired to go, One that the cook had frozen his toe, (Dissented from by Dandolo, Wordsworth, Cynaegirus, Boileau, La Hontan and Sir Thomas Roe,) One saw twelve white bears in a row, One saw eleven and a crow, With other things we could not know (Of great statistic value, though) By our mere mortal vision. Sometimes the spirits made mistakes, And seemed to play at ducks and drakes. With bold inquiry's heaviest stakes In science or in mystery ; They knew so little (and that wrong) Yet rapped it out so bold and strong, One would have said the entire throng Had been Professors of History ; What made it odder was, that those Who, you would naturally suppose, Could solve a question, if they chose, As easily as count their toes Were just the ones that blundered ; One day, Ulysses happening down, A reader of Sir Thomas Browne THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT. 313 And who (with him) had wondered What song it was the Sirens sang, Asked the shrewd Ithacan — bang ! hang ! With this response the chamber rang, *'I guess it was Old Hundred.' And Franklin, being asked to name The reason why the lightning came, Replied, ^' Because it thundered." On one sole point the ghosts agreed, One fearful point, than which, indeed, Nothing could seem absurder ; Poor Colonel Jones they all abused. And finally downright accused The poor old man of murder ; 'T was thus ; by dreadful raps was shown Some spirit's longing to make known A bloody fact, which he alone A¥as privy to, (such ghosts more prone In Earth's affairs to meddle are ;) Who are you ? with awe-stricken looks, All ask : his airy knuckles he crooks, And raps, *^I was Eliab Snooks, That used to be a pedler ; Some on ye still are on my books ! " Whereat, to inconspicuous nooks, (More fearing this than common spooks,) Shrank each indebted meddler ; Further the vengeful ghost declared That while his earthly life was spared. About the country he had fared, A duly licensed follower Of that much-wandering trade that wins 314 THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR KNOTT. Slow profit from the sale of tins, And various kinds of hollow-ware ; That Colonel Jones enticed him in Pretending that he wanted tin, There slew him with a rolling-pin. Hid him in a potato-bin, And (the same night) him ferried Across Great Pond to t' other shore, And there on land of Widow Moore, Just where you turn to Larkin's store, Under a rock him buried ; Some friends (who happened to be by) He called upon to testify That what he said was not a lie, And that he did not stir this Foul matter out of any spite But from a simple love of right ; — Which statement the Xine Worthies, Rabbi Akiba, Charlemagne, Seth, Colley Cibber, General Wayne, Cambyses, Tasso, Tubal-Cain, The owner of a castle in Spain, Jehangire and the Widow of Nain, (The friends aforesaid) made more plain And by loud raps attested ; To the same purport testified Plato, John Wilkes and Colonel Pride Who knew said Snooks before he died, Had in his wares invested. Thought him entitled to belief And freely could concur, in brief In everything the rest did. THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT. 315 Eliab this occasion seized, (Distinctly here the Spirit sneezed) To say that he should ne'er be eased Till Jenny married whom she pleased, Free from all checks and urgin's (This spirit dropped his final g's) And that, unless Knott quickly sees This done, the spirits to appease, They would come back his life to tease As thick as mites in ancient cheese, And let his house on an endless lease To the ghosts (terrific rappers these And veritable Eumenides,) Of the Eleven Thousand Virgins ! Knott was perplexed and shook his head, He did not wish his child to wed With a suspected murderer, (For,- true or false, the rumor spread,) But as for this riled life he led, "It would not answer, '^ so he said, '* To have it go no furderer." At last, scarce knowing what it meant, Reluctantly he gave consent That Jenny, since 't was evident That she would follow her own bent, Should make her own election ; For that appeared the only way These frightful noises to allay Which had already turned him gray And plunged him in dejection. 316 THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT. Accordingly^, this artless maid Her father's ordinance obeyed. And, all in whitest crape arrayed, (Miss Pulsifer the dresses made And wishes here the fact displayed That she still carries on the trade, The third door south from Bagg's Arcade,) A very faint '^ I do " essayed And gave her hand to Hiram Slade, From which time forth, the ghosts were laid ; . And ne'er gave trouble after ; But the Selectmen, be it known, Dug underneath the aforesaid stone. Where the poor pedler's corpse was thrown. And found thereunder a jaw-bone. Though, when the crowner sat thereon. He nothing hatched, except alone Successive broods of laughter ; It was a frail and dingy thing, In which a grinder or two did cling. In color like molasses. Which surgeons, called from far and wide, Upon the horror to decide. Having put on their glasses, Keported thus — " To judge by looks. These bones, by some queer hooks or crooks, May have belonged to Mr. Snooks, But, as men deepest read in books Are perfectly aware, bones. If buried, fifty years or so. Lose their identity and grow From human bones to bare bones." THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT. 317 Still, if to Jaalam you go down. You '11 find two parties in the town. One headed by Benaiah Brown, And one by Perez Tinkham ; The first believe the ghosts all through. And vow that they shall never rue The happy chance by which they knew That people in Jupiter are blue, And very fond of Irish stew. Two curious facts which Prince Lee Boo Rapped clearly to a chosen few — Whereas the others think 'em A trick got up by Doctor Slade With Deborah the chamber-maid And that sly cretur Jenny, That all the revelations wise. At which the Brownites made big eyes, Might have been given by Jared Keyes, A natural fool and ninny. And, last week, did n't Eliab Snooks, Come back with never better looks. As sharp as new bought mackerel hooks, And bright as a new pin, eh ? Good Parson Wilbur, too, avers (Though to be mixed in parish stirs Is worse than handling chestnut-burs) That no case to his mind occurs Where spirits ever did converse Save in a kind of guttural Erse, (So say the best authorities ;) And that a charge by raps conveyed, Should be most scrupulously weighed . And searched into before it is 318 HAKON'S LAY. Made public, since it may give pain That cannot soon be cured again, And one word may infix a stain Which ten cannot glo&s over, Though speaking for his private part, He is rejoiced with all his heart Miss Knott missed not her lover. December, 1850. HAKON'S LAY. Thek Thorstein looked at Hakon, where he sate, Mute as a cloud amid the stormy hall. And said : ^^0, Skald, sing now an olden song. Such as our fathers heard who led great lives ; And, as the bravest on a shield is borne Along the waving host that shouts him king. So rode their thrones upon the thronging seas ! '' Then the old man arose, white-haired he stood, White-bearded, and with eyes that looked afar From their still region of perpetual snow. Over the little smokes and stirs of men : His head was bowed with gathered flakes of years. As winter bends the sea-foreboding pine, But something triumphed in his brow and eye. Which whoso saw it, could not see and crouch : Loud rang the emptied beakers as he mused. Brooding his eyried thoughts ; then, as an eagle Circles smooth-winged above the wind-vexed woods.. So wheeled his soul into the air of song High o'er the stormy hall ; and thus he sang : HAKON'S LAY. 319 *' The fletcher for his arrow-shaft picks out Wood closest-grained, long-seasoned, straight as light ; And, from a quiver full of such as these. The wary bow-man, matched against his peers, Long doubting, singles yet once more the best. Who is it that can make such shafts as Fate ? What archer of his arrows is so choice. Or hits the white so surely ? They are men, The chosen of her quiver ; nor for her Will every reed suffice, or cross-grained stick At random from life's vulgar fagot plucked : Such answer household ends ; but she will have Souls straight and clear, of toughest fibre, sound Down to the heart of heart ; from these she strips All needless stuff, all sapwood, hardens them, From circumstance untoward feathers plucks Crumpled and cheap, and barbs with iron will : The hour that passes is her quiver-boy ; AVhen she draws bow, ^t is not across the wind. Nor Against the sun, her haste-snatched arrow sings. For sun and wind have plighted faith to her : Ere men have heard the sinew twang, behold. In the butt's heart her trembling messenger ! ''The song is old and simple that I sing : Good were the days of yore, when men were tried By ring of shields, as now by ring of gold ; But, while the gods are left, and hearts of men. And the free ocean, still the days are good ; Through the broad Earth roams Opportunity And knocks at every door of hut or hall, Until she finds the brave soul that she wants," 320 TO THE FUTURE. He ceased, and instantly the frothy tide Of interrupted wassail roared along ; But Leif, the son of Eric, sate apart Musing, and, with his eyes upon the fire, Saw shapes of arrows, lost as soon as seen ; But then with that resolve his heart was bent. Which, like a humming shaft, through many a strife Of day and night across the unventured seas. Shot the brave prow to cut on Vinland sands The first rune in the Saga of the West. TO THE FUTUEE. 0, Lais'D of Promise ! from what Pisgah's height Can I behold thy stretch of peaceful bowers ? Thy golden harvests flowing out of sight. Thy nestled homes and sun-illumined towers ? Gazing upon the sunset's high-heaped gold, Its crags of opal and of chrysolite, Its deeps on deeps of glory that unfold Still brightening abysses. And blazing precipices. Whence but a scanty leap it seems to heaven. Sometimes a glimpse is given, Of thy more gorgeous realm, thy more unstinted blisses. 0, Land of Quiet ! to thy shore the surf Of the perturbed Present rolls and sleeps ; Our storms breathe soft as June upon thy turf And lure out blossoms ; to thy bosom leaps, As to a mother's, the o'er wearied heart. TO THE FUTURE. 321 Hearing far off and dim the toiling mart, The hurrying feet, the curses without number. And, circled with the glow Elysian, Of thine exulting vision, Out of its very cares wooes charms for peace and slumber. To thee the Earth lifts up her fettered hands And cries for vengeance ; with a pitying smile Thou blessest her, and she forgets her bands. And her old woe-worn face a little while Grows young and noble ; unto thee the Oppressor Looks, and is dumb with awe ; The eternal law Which makes the crime its own blindfold redresser, Shadows his heart with perilous foreboding, And he can see the grim-eyed Doom From out the trembling gloom Its silent-footed steeds toward his palace goading. What promises hast thou for Poet's eyes. Aweary of the turmoil and the wrong ! To all their hopes what over-joyed replies ! What undreamed ecstasies for blissful song ! Thy happy plains no war-trump's brawling clangor Disturbs, and fools the poor to hate the poor ; The humble glares not on the high with auger ; Love leaves no grudge at less, no greed for more ; In vain strives Self the godlike sense to smother ; From the soul's deeps It throbs and leaps ; The noble 'neath foul rags beholds his long-lost brother, 31 322 TO THE FUTURE. To thee the Martyr looketh, and his fires Unlock their fangs and leave his spirit free ; To thee the Poet ^mid his toil aspires, And grief and hunger climb about his knee Welcome as children ; thou upholdest The lone Inventor by his demon haunted ; The Prophet cries to thee when hearts are coldest. And, gazing o'er the midnight's bleak abyss. Sees the drowsed soul awaken at thy kiss. And stretch its happy arms and leap up disenchanted. Thou bringest vengeance, but so loving kindly The guilty thinks it pity ; taught by thee Fierce tyrants drop the scourges wherewith blindly Their own souls they were scarring ; conquerors see With horror in their hands the accursed spear That tore the meek One's side on Calvary, And from their trophies shrink with ghastly fear ; Thou, too, art the Forgiver, The beauty of mane's soul to man revealing ; The arrows from thy quiver Pierce error's guilty heart, but only pierce for healing. 0, whither, whither, glory-winged dreams. From out Life's sweat and turmoil would ye bear me '? Shut, gates of Fancy, on your golden gleams. This agony of hopeless contrast spare me ! Fade, cheating glow, and leave me to my night ! He is a coward who would borrow A charm against the present sorrow From the vague Future's promise of delight : As life's alarums nearer roll, OUT OF DOORS. 323 The ancestral buckler calls. Self-clanging, from the walls In the high temple of the soul ; Where are most sorrows, there the poet's sphere is, To feed the soul with patience. To heal its desolations "With words of unshorn truth, with love that never wearies. OUT OF DOORS. 'T IS good to be abroad in the sun, His gifts abide when day is done ; Each thing in nature from his cup Gathers a several virtue up ; The grace within its being's reach Becomes the nutriment of each. And the same life imbibed by all Makes each most individual : Here the twig-bending peaches seek The glow that mantles in their cheek — Hence comes the Indian-summer bloom That hazes round the basking plum. And, from the same impartial light, The grass sucks green, the lily white. Like these the soul, for sunshine made, Grows wan and gracile in the shade. Her faculties, which God decreed Various as Summer's daedal breed. With one sad color are imbued, Shut from the sun that tints their blood ; 324 ^UT OF DOORS. The shadow of the poet's roof Deadens the dyes of warp and woof ; Whatever of ancient song remains Has fresh air flowing in its veins. For Greece and eldest Ind knew well That out of doors, with world-wide swell Arches the student's lawful cell. Away, unfruitful lore of books. For whose vain idiom we reject The spirit^'s mother-dialect, Aliens among the birds and brooks. Dull to interpret or believe What gospels lost the woods retrieve. Or what the eaves-dropping violet Eeports from God, who walketh yet His garden in the hush of eve ! Away, ye pedants city -bred, Unwise of heart, too wise of head, Who handcuff Art with thus and so. And in each other's footprints tread. Like those who walk through drifted snow ; Who, from deep study of brick walls Conjecture of the water-falls, By six square feet of smoke-stained sky Compute those deeps that overlie The still tarn's heaven-anointed eye, And, in your earthen crucible, With chemic tests essay to spell How nature works in field and dell ! Seek we where Shakspeare buried gold ? Such hands no charmed witch-hazel hold; To beach and rock repeats the sea A HEVERIE. 325 The mystic 0;je7i Sesame ; Old Greylock's voices not in vain Comment on Milton's mountain strain. And cunningly the various wind Spenser's locked music can unbind. A REVERIE. In the twilight deep and silent Comes thy spirit unto mine, When the moonlight and the starlight Over cliff and woodland shine, And the quiver of the river Seems a thrill of joy benign. Then I rise and wander slowly To the headland by the sea, When the evening star throbs setting Through the cloudy cedar tree, And from under, mellow thunder Of the surf comes fitfully. Then within my soul I feel thee Like a gleam of other years. Visions of my childhood murmur Their old madness in my ears. Till the pleasance of thy presence Cools my heart with blissful tears. All the wondrous dreams of boyhood — All youth's fiery thirst of praise — All the surer hopes of manhood Blossoming in sadder days — Joys that bound me, griefs that crowned me 326 A REVERIE. With a better wreath than bays — All the longings after freedom — The vague love of human kind, Wandering far and near at random Like a winged seed in the wind — The dim yearnings and fierce burnings Of an undirected mind — All of these, oh best beloved, Happiest present dreams and past. In thy love find safe fulfilment, Eipened into truths at last ; Faith and beauty, hope and duty To one centre gather fast. How my nature, like an ocean, At the breath of thine awakes. Leaps its shores in mad exulting And in foamy thunder breaks, Then downsinking, lieth shrinking At the tumult that it makes ! Blazing Hesperus hath sunken Low within the pale-blue west. And with golden splendor crowneth The horizon^s piny crest ; Thoughtful quiet stills the riot Of wild longing in my breast. Home I loiter through the moonlight. Underneath the quivering trees. Which, as if a spirit stirred them. Sway and bend, till by degrees . The far surge's murmur merges In the rustle of the breeze. IN SADNESS. 327 m SADNESS. There is not in this life of ours One bliss unmixed with fears, The hope that wakes our deepest powers A face of sadness wears, And the dew that showers our dearest flowers Is the bitter dew of tears. Fame waiteth long, and lingereth Through weary nights and moms — And evermore the shadow Death With mocking finger scorns That underneath the laurel wreath Should be a wreath of thorns. The laurel leaves are cool and green. But the thorns are hot and sharp. Lean Hunger grins and stares between The poet and his harp ; Though of Love's sunny sheen his woof have been. Grim want thrusts in the warp. And if beyond this darksome clime Some fair star Hope may see, That keeps unjarred the blissful chime Of its golden infancy — Where the harvest-time of faith sublime Not always is to be — Yet would the true soul rather choose Its home where sorrow is. Than in a sated peace to lose Its life's supremest bliss — 328 IN SADNESS. The rainbow hues that bend profuse O'er cloudy spheres like this — The want, the sorrow and the pain, That are Love's right to cure — The sunshine bursting after rain — The gladness insecure That makes us fain strong hearts to gain To do and to endure. High natures must be thunder-scarred With many a searing wrong ; From mother Sorrow's breasts the bard Sucks gifts of deepest song. Nor all unmarred with struggles hard Wax the Soul's sinews strong. Dear Patience, too, is born of woe. Patience that opes the gate Wherethrough the soul of man must go Up to each noble state, Whose voice's flow so meek and low Smooths the bent brows of Fate. Though Fame be slow, yet Death is swift. And, o'er the spirit's eyes, Life after life doth change and shift With larger destinies : As on we drift, some wider rift Shows us serener skies. And though naught falleth to us here But gains the world counts loss. Though all we hope of wisdom clear FAREWELL. 329 "When climbed to seems but dross. Yet all, though ne'er Christ's faith they wear. At least may share his cross. FAEEWELL. Parewell ! as the bee round the blossom Doth murmur drowsily, So murmureth round my bosom The memory of thee , Lingering, it seems to go, When the wind more full doth flow Waving the flower to and fro. But still returneth, Marian ! My hope no longer burneth. Which did so fiercely burn. My joy to sorrow turneth. Although loath, loath to turn — I would forget — And yet — and yet My heart to thee still yearneth, Marian ! Fair as a single star thou shinest. And white as lilies are The slender hands wherewith thou twinest Thy heavy auburn hair ; Thou art to me A memory Of all that is divinest : Thou art so fair and tall. Thy looks so queenly are. Thy very shadow on the wall. 330 FAREWELL. Thy step upon the stair, The thought that thou art nigh, The chance look of thine eye - Are more to me than all, Marian, And will be till I die ! As the last quiver of a bell Doth fade into the air, With a subsiding swell That dies we know not where. So my hope melted and was gone : I raised mine eyes to bless the star That shared its light with me so far Below its silver throne. And gloom and chilling vacancy Were all was left to me, In the dark, bleak night I was alone ! Alone in the blessed Earth, Marian, For what were all to me — Its love, and light, and mirth, Marian, If I were not with thee ? My heart will not forget thee More than the moaning brine Forgets the moon when she is set ; The gush when first I met thee That thrilled my brain like wine. Doth thrill as madly yet ; My heart cannot forget thee, Though it may droop and pine. Too deeply it had set thee In every love of mine ; No new moon ever cometh, FAREWELL. 331 No flower ever bloometh. No twilight ever gloometh, But I'm more only thine. Oh look not on me, Marian, Thine eyes are wild and deep, And they have won me, Marian, From peacefulness and sleep ; The sunlight doth not sun me. The meek moonshine doth shun me.. All sweetest voices stun me — There is no rest Within my breast And I can only weep, Marian ! As a landbird far at sea Doth wander through the sleet And drooping downward wearily Finds no rest for her feet, So wandereth my memory O'er the years when we did meet : I used to say that everything Partook a share of thee, That not a little bird could sing. Or green leaf flutter on a tree. That nothing could be beautiful Save part of thee were there. That from thy soul so clear and full All bright and blessed things did cull The charm to make them fair ; And now I know That it was so, Thy spirit through the earth doth flow And face me whereso'er I go — 332 FAREWELL. What right hath perfectness to give Such weary weight of woe Unto the soul which cannot live On anything more low ? Oh leave me, leave me, Marian, There 's no fair thing 1 see But doth deceive me, Marian, Into sad dreams of thee ! A cold snake gnaws my heart And crushes round my brain, And I should glory but to part So bitterly again, Feeling the slow tears start And fall in fiery rain : There's a wide ring round the moon. The ghost-like clouds glide by. And I hear the sad winds croon A dirge to the lowering sky ; There 's nothing soft or mild In the pale moon's sickly light. But all looks strange and wild Through the dim, foreboding night : I think thou must be dead In some dark and lonely place. With candles at thy head. And a pall above thee spread To hide thy dead, cold face ; But I can see thee underneath So pale, and still, and fair. Thine eyes closed smoothly and a wreath Of flowers in thy hair ; I nevei" sa^^^ thy face so Qle^,? A DIRGE. 333 When thou wast with the living, As now beneath the pall, so drear, And stiff, and unforgiving ; I cannot flee thee, Marian, I cannot turn away. Mine eyes must see thee, Marian, Through salt tears night and day. A DIRGE. Poet ! lonely is thy bed, And the turf is overhead — Cold earth is thy cover ; But thy heart hath found release, And it slumbers full of peace 'Neath the rustle of green trees And the warm hum of the bees, 'Mid the drowsy clover ; Through thy chamber, still as death, A smooth gurgle wandereth. As the blue stream murmureth To the blue sky over. Three paces from the silver strand. Gently in the fine, white sand. With a lily in thy hand. Pale as snow, they laid thee ; In no coarse earth wast thou hid. And no gloomy coffin-lid Darkly overweighed thee. Silently as snow-flakes drift. The smooth sand did sift and sift 334 A DIRGE. O'er the bed they made thee ; All sweet birds did come and sing At thy sunny burying — Choristers unbidden, And, beloved of sun and dew, Meek forget-me-nots upgrew Where thine eyes so large and blue 'Neath the turf were hidden. Where thy stainless clay doth lie, Blue and open is the sky, And the white clouds wander by, Dreams of summer silently Darkening the river ; Thou hearest the clear water run ; And the ripples every one. Scattering the golden sun. Through thy silence quiver ; Vines trail down upon the stream, Into its smooth and glassy dream A green stillness spreading. And the shiner, perch, and bream Through, the shadowed waters gleam 'Gainst the current heading. White as snow, thy winding sheet Shelters thee from head to feet. Save thy pale face only ; Thy face is turned toward the skies, The lids lie meekly o'er thine eyes. And the low-voiced pine-tree sighs O'er thy bed so lonely. All thy life thou lov'dst its shade ; A DIRGE. 335 Underneath it tho^ art laid, In an endless shelter ; Thou hearest it forever sigh As the wind's vague longings die In its branches dim and high — Thou hear'st the waters gliding by Slumberously welter. Thou wast full of love and truth. Of forgiveness and ruth — Thy great heart with hope and youth Tided to o'erflowing. Thou didst dwell in mysteries, And there lingered on thine eyes Shadows of serener skies, Awfully wild memories, That were like foreknowing ; Through the earth thou would'st have gone, Lighted from within alone. Seeds from flowers in Heaven grown With a free hand sowing. Thou didst remember well and long Some fragments of thine angel-song, And strive, through want of woe and wrong, To win the world unto it ; Thy sin it was to see and hear Beyond To-day's dim hemisphere — Beyond all mists of hope and fear, Into a life more true and clear. And dearly thou didst rue it ; Light of the new world thou hadst won, O'erflooded by a purer sun — 336 A DIRGE. Slowly Fate's ship came drifting on, And through the dark, save thou, not one Caught of the land a token. Thou stood'st upon the farthest prow. Something within thy soul said " Now \" And leaping forth with eager brow. Thou feirst on shore heart-broken. Long time thy brethren stood in fear ; Only the breakers far and near. White with their anger, they could hear ; The sounds of land, whicli thy quick ear Caught long ago, they heard not. And, when at last they reached the strand. They found thee lying on the sand With some wild flowers in thy hand, But thy cold bosom stirred not ; They listened, but they heard no sound Save from the glad life all around A low, contented murmur. The long grass flowed adown the hill, A hum rose from a hidden rill, But thy glad heart, that knew no ill But too much love, lay dead and still — The only thing that sent a chill Into the heart of summer. Thou didst not seek the poet's wreath But too soon didst win it ; Without 'i was green, but underneath Were scorn and loneliness and death. Gnawing the brain with burning teeth. And making mock within it. Thou, who wast full of nobleness, A DIRGE. 337 Whose very life-blood 't was to bless. Whose soul's one law was giving, Must bandy words with wickedness. Haggle with hunger and distress. To win that death which worldliness Calls bitterly a living. '' Thou sow'st no gold, and shalt not reap ! " Muttered earth, turning in her sleep ; '^ Come home to the Eternal Deep ! '^ Murmured a voice, and a wide sweep Of wings through thy souFs hush did creep. As of thy doom overflying ; It seemed that thy strong heart would leap Out of thy breast, and thou didst weep. But not with fear of dying ; Men could not fathom thy deep fears. They could not understand thy tears. The hoarded agony of years Of bitter self-denying. So once, when high above the spheres Thy spirit sought its starry peers. It came not back to face the jeers Of brothers who denied it ; Star-crowned, thou dost possess the deeps Of God, and thy white body sleeps Where the lone pine forever keeps Patient watch beside it. Poet ! underneath the turf. Soft thou sleepest, free from morrow, Thou hast struggled through the surf Of wild thoughts and want and sorrow. M 338 A DIRGE. 'Now, beneath the moaning pine, Full of rest, thy body lieth, While far up is clear sunshine, Underneath a sky divine. Her loosed wings thy spirit trieth ; Oft she strove to spread them here. But they were too white and clear For our dingy atmosphere. Thy body findeth ample room In its still and grassy tomb By the silent river ; But thy spirit found the earth Narrow for the mighty birth Which it dreamed of ever ; Thou wast guilty of a rhyme Learned in a benigner clime. And of that more grievous crime. An ideal too sublime For the low-hung sky of Time. The calm spot where thy body lies Gladdens thy soul in Paradise, It is so still and holy ; Thy body sleeps serenely there. And well for it thy soul may care. It was so beautiful and fair, Lily white so wholly. From so pure and sweet a frame Thy spirit parted as it came, Gentle as a maiden ; J^ow it lieth full of rest — FANCIES ABOUT A ROSEBUD, 339 Sods are lighter on its breast Than the great, prophetic guest Wherewith it was laden. FANCIES ABOUT A ROSEBUD, PEESSED lij^ Aif OLD COPY OF SPENSEK. Who prest you here ? The Past can tell, When summer skies were bright above, And some full heart did leap and swell Beneath the white new moon of love. Some Poet, haply, when the world Showed like a calm sea, grand and blue. Ere its cold, inky waves had curled O'er the numb heart once warm and true ; When, with his soul brimful of morn. He looked beyond the vale of Time, JSTor saw therein the dullard scorn That made his heavenliness a crime ; When, musing o'er the Poets olden, His soul did like a sun upstart To shoot its arrows, clear and golden. Through slavery's cold and darksome heart. Alas ! too soon the veil is lifted That hangs between the soul and pain, Too soon the morning-red hath drifted Into dull cloud, or fallen in rain I S40 FANCIES ABOUT A ROSEBUD, Or were you prest by one who nurst Bleak memories of love gone by, Whose heart, like a star fallen, burst In dark and erring vacancy ? To him you still were fresh and green As when you grew upon the stalk, And many a breezy summer scene Came back — and many a moonlit walk ; And there would be a hum of bees, A smell of childhood in the air, And old, fresh feelings cooled the breeze That, like loved fingers, stirred his hair ! Then would you suddenly be blasted By the keen wind of one dark thought. One nameless woe, that had outlasted The sudden blow whereby 't was brought. Or were you prest here by two lovers Who seemed to read these verses rare. But found between the antique covers AVhat Spenser could not prison there : Songs which his glorious soul had heard, But his dull pen could never write. Which flew, like some gold-winged bird, Through the blue heaven out of sight ? My heart is with them as they sit, I see the rosebud in her breast, I see her small hand taking it From out its odorous, snowy nest ; NEW YEAR'S EVE, 1844. 341 I hear him swear that he will keep it, In memory of that blessed day, To smile on it or over-weep it When she and spring are far away. Ah me ! I needs must droop my head. And brush away a happy tear, For they are gone, and, dry and dead. The rosebud lies before me here. Yet is it in no stranger's hand. For I will guard it tenderly. And it shall be a magic wand To bring mine own true love to me. My heart runs o'er with sweet surmises. The while my fancy weaves her rhyme. Kind hopes and musical surprises Throng round me from the olden time. I do not care to know who prest you : Enough for me to feel and know That some heart's love and longing blest you, Knitting to-day with long-ago. NEW YEAE'S EVE, 1844. A FRAGMENT. The night is calm and beautiful ; the snow Sparkles beneath the clear and frosty moon And the cold stars, as if it took delight In its own silent whiteness ; the hushed earth Sleeps in the soft arms of the embracing blue. 342 NEW YEAR'S EVE, 1844. Secure as if angelic squadrons yet Encamped about her, and each watching star Gained double brightness from the flashing arms Of winged and unsleeping sentinels. Upward the calm of infinite silence deepens, The sea that flows between high heaven and earth, Musing by whose smooth brink we sometimes find A stray leaf floated from those happier shores. And hope, perchance not vainly, that some flower, Which we had watered with our holiest tears. Pale blooms, and yet our scanty garden's best, O'er the same ocean piloted by love. May flnd a haven at the feet of God, And be not wholly worthless in his sight. 0, high dependence on a higher Power, Sole stay for all these restless faculties That wander, Ishmael-like, the desert bare Wherein our human knowledge hath its home. Shifting their light-framed tents from day to day. With each new-found oasis, wearied soon. And only certain of uncertainty ! 0, mighty humbleness that feels with awe, Yet with a vast exulting feels, no less. That this huge Minister of the Universe, Whose smallest oratories are glorious worlds. With painted oriels of dawn and sunset ; Whose carved ornaments are systems grand, Orion kneeling in his starry niche. The Lyre whose strings give music audible To holy ears, and countless splendors more. Crowned by the blazing Cross high-hung o'er all ; Whose organ music is the solemn stops Of endless Change breathed through by endless Good ; NEW YEAR'S EVE, 1844. 343 Whose choristers are all the morning stars ; Whose altar is the sacred human heart Whereon Love's candles burn unquenchably. Trimmed day and night by gentle-handed Peace ; With all its arches and its pinnacles That stretch forever and forever up, Is founded on the silent heart of God, Silent, yet pulsing forth exhaustless life Through the least veins of all created things. Fit musings these for the departing year ; And God be thanked for such a crystal night As fills the spirit with good store of thoughts, That, like a cheering fire of walnut, crackle Upon the hearthstone of the heart, and cast A mild-home glow o'er all Humanity ! Yes, though the poisoned shafts of the evil doubts Assail the skyey panoply of Faith, Though the great hopes which we have had for man. Foes in disguise, because they based belief On man^s endeavor, not on God's decree — Though these proud- visaged hopes, once turned to fly. Hurl backward many a deadly Parthian dart That rankles in the soul and makes it sick With vain regret, nigh verging on despair — Yet, in such calm and earnest hours as this. We well can feel how every living heart That sleeps to-night in palace or in cot. Or unroofed hovel, or which need hath known Of other homestead than the arching sky. Is circled watchfully with seraph fires ; How our own erring will it is that hangs The flaming sword o'er Eden's unclosed gate, Which gives free entrance to the pure in heart, 344 NEW YEAR'S EVE, 1844. And with its guarding walls dotli fence the meek. Sleep then, Earth, in thy blue-vaulted cradle. Bent over always by thy mother Heaven ! We all are tall enough to reach God's hand, And angels are no taller : looking back Upon the smooth wake of a year o'erpast, We see the black clouds furling, one by one, From the advancing majesty of Truth, And something won for Freedom, whose least gain Is as a firm and rock-built citadel Wherefrom to launch fresh battle on her foes ; Or, leaning from the time's extremest prow. If we gaze forward through the blinding spray, And dimly see how much of ill remains, How many fetters to be sawn asunder By the slow toil of individual zeal. Or haply rusted by salt tears in twain. We feel, with something of a sadder heart, Yet bracing up our bruised mail the while. And fronting the old foe with fresher spirit. How great it is to breathe with human breath, To be but poor foot-soldiers in the ranks Of our old exiled king, Humanity ; Encamping after every hard-won field Nearer and nearer Heaven^s happy plains. Many great souls have gone to rest, and sleep Under this armor, free and full of peace : If these have left the earth, yet Truth remains. Endurance, too, the crowning faculty Of noble minds, and Love, invincible By any weapons ; and these hem us round With silence such that all the groaning clank NEW YEAR'S EVE, 1844. 345 Of this mad engine men have made of earth Dulls not some ears for catching purer tones. That wander from the dim surrounding vast, Or far more clear melodious. prophecies, The natural music of the heart of man, Which by kind Sorrow's ministry hath learned That the true sceptre of all power is love And humbleness the palace-gate of truth. What man with soul so blind as sees not here The first faint tremble of Hope's morning-star. Foretelling how the God-forged shafts of dawn, Fitted already on their golden string, Shall soon leap earthward with exulting flight To thrid the dark heart of that evil faith Whose trust is in the clumsy arms of Force, The ozier hauberk of a ruder age ? Freedom ! thou other name for happy Truth, Thou warrior-maid, whose steel-clad feet were never Out of the stirrup, nor thy lance uncouched. Nor thy fierce eye enticed from its watch. Thou hast learned now, by hero-blood in vain Poured to enrich the soil which tyrants reap ; By wasted lives of prophets, and of those Who, by the promise in their souls upheld. Into the red arms of a fiery death Went blithely as the golden-girdled bee Sinks in the sleepy poppy's cup of flame By the long woes of nations set at war. That so the swollen torrent of their wrath May find a vent, else sweeping off like straws The thousand cobweb threads, grown cable-huge By time's long gathered dust, but cobwebs still. Which bind the Many that the Few may gain 346 A MYSTICAL BALLAD. Leisure to wither by the drought of ease What heavenly germs in their own souls were sown ;- By all these searching lessons thou hast learned To throw aside thy blood-stained helm and spear And with thy bare brow daunt the enemy's front. Knowing that God will make the lily stalk, In the soft grasp of naked Gentleness, Stronger than iron spear to shatter through The sevenfold toughness of Wrong's idle shield. A MYSTICAL BALLAD. I. The sunset scarce had dimmed away Into the twilight's doubtful gray ; One long cloud o'er the horizon lay, Neath which, a streak of bluish white. Wavered between the day and night ; Over the pine trees on the hill The trembly evening-star did thrill. And the new moon, with slender rim. Through the elm arches gleaming dim, Filled memory's chalice to the brim. II. On such an eve the heart doth grow Full of surmise, and scarce can know If it be now or long ago, Or if indeed it doth exist ; — A wonderful enchanted mist From the new moon doth wander out, Wrapping all things in mystic doubt. A MYSTICAL BALLAD. 347 So that this world doth seem untrue, And all our fancies to take hue From some life ages since gone through. III. The maiden sat and heard the flow Of the west wind so soft and low The leaves scarce quivered to and fro ; Unbound, her heavy golden hair Rippled across her bosom bare, Which gleamed with thrilling snowy white Far through the magical moonlight : The breeze rose with a rustling swell. And from afar there came the smell Of a long-forgotten lily-bell. IV. The dim moon rested on the hill, But silent, without thought or will. Where sat the dreamy maiden still ; And now the moon's tip, like a star. Drew down below the horizon's bar ; To her black noon the night hath grown. Yet still the maiden sits alone. Pale as a corpse beneath a stream And her white bosom still doth gleam Through the deep midnight like a dream. V. Cloudless the morning came and fair. And lavishly the sun doth share His gold among her golden hair. Kindling it all, till slowly so 348 A MYSTICAL BALLAD. A glory round her head doth glow ; A withered flower is in her hand, That grew in some far distant land. And, silently transfigured, With wide calm eyes, and undrooped head, They found the stranger-maiden dead. VI. A youth, that morn, 'neath other skies. Felt sudden tears burn in his eyes, And his heart throng with memories ; All things without him seemed to win Strange brotherhood with things within, And he forever felt that he Walked in the midst of mystery, And thenceforth, why, he could not tell. His heart would curdle at the smell Of his once-cherished lily-bell. VII. Something from him had passed away ; Some shifting trembles of clear day, Through starry crannies in his clay. Grew bright and steadfast, more and more. Where all had been dull earth before ; And, through these chinks, like him of old. His spirit converse high did hold With clearer loves and wider powers. That brought him dewy fruits and flowers From far Elysian groves and bowers. VIII. Just on the farther bound of sense, Unproved by outward evidence, A MYSTICAL BALLAD. 349 But known by a deep influence Which through our grosser clay doth shine With light unwaning and divine. Beyond where highest thought can fly Stretcheth the world of Mystery — And they not greatly overween Who deem that nothing true hath been Save the unspeakable Unseen. IX. One step beyond life's work-day things, One more beat of the sours broad wings One deeper sorrow sometimes brings The spirit into that great Vast Where neither future is nor past ; None knoweth how he entered there, But, waking, finds his spirit where He thought an angel could not soar. And, what he called false dreams before, The very air about his door. X. These outward seemings are but shows Whereby the body sees and knows ; Far down beneath, forever flows A stream of subtlest sympathies That make our spirits strangely wise In awe, and fearful bodings dim Which, from the sense's outer rim, Stretch forth beyond our thought and sight. Fine arteries of circling light, Pulsed outward from the Infinite, 350 A YEAR'S LIFE. OPEN^IKG POEM TO A YEAR'S LIFE. Hope first the youthful Poet leads, And he is glad to follow her ; Kind is she, and to all his needs With a free hand doth minister. But, when sweet Hope at last hath fled, Cometh her sister. Memory ; She wreathes Hope's garlands round her head, And strives to seem as fair as she. Then Hope comes back, and by the hand She leads a child most fair to see, Who with a joyous face doth stand Uniting Hope and Memory. So brighter grew the Earth around, And bluer grew the sky above ; The Poet now his guide hath found. And follows in the steps of Love. DEDICATION TO VOLUME OF POEMS EISTTITLED A YEAR'S LIFE. The gentle Una I have loved. The snowy maiden, pure and mild. Since ever by her side I roved. Through ventures strange, a wondering child, In fantasy a Red Cross Knight, Burning for her dear sake to fight. THRENODIA. 351 If there be one who can, like her, Make sunshine in life's shady places, One in whose holy bosom stir As many gentle household graces — And such I think there needs must be — Will she accept this book from me ? THRENODIA. Gone, gone from us ! and shall we see Those sybil-leaves of destiny, Those calm eyes, nevermore ? Those deep, dark eyes so warm and bright, "Wherein the fortunes of the man Lay slumbering in prophetic light. In characters a child might scan ? So bright, and gone forth utterly ? stern word — Nevermore ! The stars of those two gentle eyes Will shine no more on earth ; Quenched are the hopes that had their birth. As we watched them slowly rise. Stars of a mother's fate ; And she would read them o'er and o'er, Pondering, as she sate. Over their dear astrology, Which she had conned and conned before. Deeming she needs must read aright What was writ so passing bright. And yet, alas ! she knew not why. Her voice would falter in its song, 352 THRENODIA. And tears would slide from out her eye, Silent, as they were doing wrong. Her heart was like a wind-flower, bent Even to breaking with the balmy dew, Turning its heavenly nourishment (That filled with tears its eyes of blue. Like a sweet suppliant that weeps in prayer, Making her innocency show more fair. Albeit unwitting of the ornament,) Into a load too great for it to bear : stern word — Nevermore ! The tongue, that scarce had learned to claim An entrance to a mother's heart By that dear talisman, a mother's name, Sleeps all forgetful of its art ! 1 loved to see the infant soul (How mighty in the weakness Of its untutored meekness !) Peep timidly from out its nest, His lips, the while. Fluttering with half-fledged words. Or hushing to a smile That more than words expressed, "When his glad mother on him stole And snatched him to her breast ! 0, thoughts were brooding in those eyes. That would have soared like strong-winged birds Far, fax into the skies. Gladdening the earth with song And gushing harmonies. Had he but tarried with us long ! stern word — Nevermore \ THRENODIA. 353 How peacefully they rest, Crossfolded there Upon his little breast, Those small, white hands that ne'er were still before. But ever sported with his mother's hair, Or the plain cross that on her breast she wore ! Her heart no more will beat To feel the touch of that soft palm. That ever seemed a new surprise Sending glad thoughts up to her eyes To bless him with their holy calm — Sweet thoughts ! they made her eyes as sweet. How quiet are the hands That wove those pleasant bands ! But that they do not rise and sink AVith his calm breathing, I should think That he were dropped asleep ; Alas ! too deep, too deep In this his slumber ! Time scarce can number The years ere he will wake again — 0, may we see his eyelids open then ! stern word — Nevermore ! As the airy gossamere. Floating in the sunlight clear. Where'er it toucheth clinging tightly Round glossy leaf or stump unsightly, So from his spirit wandered out Tendrils spreading all about. Knitting all things to its thrall With a perfect love of all : stern word — Nevermore ! 23 354 THRENODIA. He did but float a little way Adown the stream of time, AVith dreamy eyes watching the ripples play, Or listening to their fairy chime ; His slender sail Ne'er felt the gale ; He did but float a little way. And, putting to the shore While yet ^t was early day, Went calmly on his way, To dwell with us no more ! No jarring did he feel, No grating on his vessel's keel ; A strip of silver sand Mingled the waters with the land Where he was seen no more : stern word — Nevermore ! Full short his journey was ; no dust Of earth into his sandals clave ; The weary weight that old men must. He bore not to the grave. He seemed a cherub who had lost his way And wandered hither, so his stay With us was short, and 't was most meet That he should be no delver in Earth^'s clod. Nor need to pause and cleanse his feet To stand before his God ; blest word — Evermore ! THE SERENADE. 355 THE SERENADE. Gentle, Lady, be thy sleeping, Peaceful may thy dreamings be. While around thy soul is sweeping, Dreamy-winged, our melody ; Chant we. Brothers, sad and slow, Let our song be soft and low, As the voice of other years. Let our hearts within us melt, To gentleness, as if we felt The dropping of our mother's tears. Lady ! now our song is bringing Back again thy childhood^s hours — Hearest thou the humbee singing Drowsily among the flowers ? Sleepily, sleepily In the noontide swayeth he. Half-rested on the slender stalks That edge those well-known garden walks ; Hearest thou the fitful whirring Of the humbird's viewless wings — Feel'st not round thy heart the stirring Of childhood's half-forgotten things ? Seest thou the dear old dwelling With the woodbine round the door ? Brothers, soft ! her breast is swelling With the busy thoughts of yore ; Lowly sing ye, sing ye mildly. Rouse her spirit not so wildly, Lest she sleep not any more. 'T is the pleasant summertide, 356 TlIE SERENAM; Open stands the window wide^ Whose voices, Lady, art thou drinking ? Who sings that best beloved tune In a clear note, rising, sinking. Like a thrush's song in June ? Whose laugh is that which rings so clear And joyous in thine eager ear ? Lower, Brothers, yet more low Weave the song in mazy twines ; She heareth now the west wind blow At evening through the clump of pines ; ! mournful is their tune, As of a crazed thing Who, to herself alone. Is ever murmuring, Through the night and through the day, For something that hath passed away. Often, Lady, hast thou listened. Often have thy blue eyes glistened. Where the summer evening breeze Moaned sadly through those lonely trees. Or with the fierce wind from the north Wrung their mournful music forth. Ever the river floweth In an unbroken stream, Ever the west wind bloweth. Murmuring as he goeth, And mingling with her dream ; Onward still the river sweepeth With a sound of long-agone ; Lowly, Brothers, lo ! she weepeth, She is now no more alone ] SONG. 357 Long-loved forms and long-loved faces Eound about her pillow throng, Through her memory's desert places Flow the waters of our song. Lady ! if thy life be holy As when thou wert yet a child. Though our song be melancholy, It will stir no anguish wild ; For the soul that hath lived well. For the soul that child-like is, There is quiet in the spell That brings back early memories. SONG. I. Lift up the curtains of thine eyes And let their light outshine ! Let me adore the mysteries Of those mild orbs of thine, Which ever queenly calm do roll. Attuned to an ordered soul ! II. Open thy lips yet once again And, while my soul doth hush With awe, pour forth that holy strain Which seemeth me to gush, A fount of music, running o'er From thy deep spirit's inmost core ! 358 "THE DEPARTED. The melody that dwells in thee Begets in me as well A spiritual harmony, A mild and blessed spell ; Far, far above earth's atmosphere I rise, whene'er thy voice I hear. THE DEPARTED. Not they alone are the departed. Who have laid them down to sleep In the grave narrow and lonely, Not for them only do I vigils keep, Not for them only am I heavy-hearted, Not for them only ! Many, many, there are many Who no more are with me here, As cherished, as beloved as any Whom I have seen upon the bier. I weep to think of those old faces, To see them in their grief or mirth ; I weep— for there are empty places Around my heart's once crowded hearth ; The cold ground doth not cover them. The grass hath not grown over them. Yet are they gone from me on earth ; — ! how more bitter is this weeping. Than for those lost ones who are sleeping Where sun will shine and flowers blow, THE DEPARTED. 359 Where gentle winds will whisper low, And the stars have them in their keeping ! Wherefore from me who loved you so, ! wherefore did ye go ? 1 have shed full many a tear, I have wrestled oft in prayer — But ye do not come again ; How could anything so dear, How could anything so fair, Vanish like the summer rain ? No, no, it cannot be. But ye are still with me ! And yet, ! where art thou, Childhood, with sunny brow And floating hair ? Where art thou hiding now ? I have sought thee everywhere. All among the shrubs and flowers Of those garden-walks of ours — Thou art not there ! When the shadow of Night's wings Hath darkened all the Earth, I listen for thy gambolings Beside the cheerful hearth — Thou art not there ! I listen to the far-off bell, I murmur o'er the little songs Which thou didst love so well, Pleasant memories come in throngs And mine eyes are blurred with tears. But no glimpse of thee appears : 360 "THE DEPARTED. Lonely am I in the AVinter, lonely in the Spring, Summer and harvest bring no trace of thee — Oh ! whither, whither art thou wandering. Thou who didst once so cleave to me ? And love is gone ; — I have seen him come, I have seen him, too, depart, Leaving desolate his home. His bright home in my heart. I am alone ! Cold, cold is his hearth-stone. Wide open stands the door ; The frolic and the gentle one Shall I see no more, no more ? At the fount the bowl is broken, I shall drink it not again, All my longing prayers are spoken. And felt, ah, woe is me, in vain ! Oh, childish hopes and childish fancies, Whither have ye fled away ? I long for you in mournful trances, I long for you by night and day ; Beautiful thoughts that once were mine. Might I but win you back once more, Might ye about my being twine And cluster as ye did of yore ! ! do not let me pray in vain — How good and happy I should be, How free from every shade of pain, If ye would come again to me ! 0, come again ! come, come again ! THE DEPARTED. 361 Hath the sun forgot its brightness, Have the stars forgot to shine. That they bring not their wonted lightness To this weary heart of mine ? *T is not the sun that shone on thee, Happy childhood, long ago — Not the same stars silently Looking on the same bright snow — Not the same that Love and I Together watched in days gone by ! No, not the same, alas for me ! Would God that those who early went To the house dark and low. For whom our mourning heads were bent, For whom our steps were slow ; 0, would that these alone had left us. That Fate of these alone had reft us, Would God indeed that it were so ! Many leaves too soon must wither, Many flowers too soon must die. Many bright ones wandering hither. We know not whence, we know not why. Like the leaves and like the flowers. Vanish, ere the summer hours. That brought them to us, have gone by. for the hopes and for the feelings, Childhood, that I shared with thee — The high resolves, the bright revealings Of the soul's might, which thou gav'st me, Gentle Love, woe worth the day. Woe worth the hour when thou wert born, 862 THE BOBOLINK. Woe worth the day thou fled'st away— A shade across the wind- waved corn — A dewdrop falling from the leaves Chance-shaken in a summer's morn ! "Woe, woe is me ! my sick heart grieves, Companionless and anguish-worn ! I know it well, our manly years Must be baptized in bitter tears ; Full many fountains must run dry That youth has dreamed for long hours by. Choked by convention's siroc blast Or drifting sands of many cares ; Slowly they leave us all at last. And cease their flowing unawares. THE BOBOLINK. Ajs'ACREON" of the meadow, Drunk with the joy of spring ! Beneath the tall pine's voiceful shadow I lie and drink thy jargoning ; My soul is full with melodies, One drop would overflow it. And send the tears into mine eyes — But what car'st thou to know it ? Thy heart is free as mountain air. And of thy lays thou hast no care. Scattering them gayly everywhere, Happy, unconscious poet ! Upon a tuft of meadow grass. While thy loved-one tends the nest, THE BOBOLINK. 363 Thou swayest as the breezes pass, Unburthening thine o'erfull breast Of the crowded songs that fill it. Just as joy may choose to will it. Lord of thy love and libert}. The blithest bird of merry May, Thou turnest thy bright eyes on me. That say as plain as eye can say — x. "Here sit we, here in the summer weather, I and my modest mate together ; Whatever your wise thoughts may be. Under that gloomy old pine tree. We do not value them a feather/' Xow, leaving earth and me benind. Thou beatest up against the wind, Or, floating slowly down before it. Above thy grass-hid nest thou flutterest And thy bridal love-song utterest, Raining showers of music o'er it, Weary never, still thou thrillest. Spring-gladsome lays, As of moss-rimmed water-brooks Murmuring through pebbly nooks In quiet summer days. My heart with happiness thou fillest, I seem again to be a boy AVatching thee, gay, blithesome lover. O'er the bending grass-tops hover. Quivering thy wings for joy. There's something in the apple-blossom, The greening grass and bobolink's song, That wakes again within my bosom 364 THE BOBOLINK. Feelings which have slumbered long. As long, long years ago I wandered, I seem to wander even yet, The hours the idle school-boy squandered. The man would die ere he^d forget. hours that frosty eld deemed wasted, Nodding his gray head toward my books, 1 dearer prize the lore I tasted With you, among the trees and brooks. Than all that I have gained since then From learned books or study-withered men ! Nature, thy soul was one with mine. And, as a sister by a younger brother Is loved, each flowing to the other. Such love for me was thine. Or wert thou not more like a loving mother With sympathy and loving power to heal. Against whose heart my throbbing heart I 'd lay And moan my childish sorrows all away. Till calm and holiness would o'er me steal ^ Was not the golden sunset a dear friend ? Found I no kindness in the silent moon. And the green trees, whose tops did sway and bend. Low singing evermore their pleasant tune ? Felt I no heart in dim and solemn woods — No loved-one's voice in lonely solitudes ; Yes, yes ! unhoodwinked then my spirit's eyes, Blind leaders had not taught me to be wise. Dear hours ! which now again I over-live, Hearing and seeing with the ears and eyes Of childhood, ye were bees, that to the hive Qf my young heart came laden with rich prize^ THE BOBOLINK. 365 Gathered in fields and woods and sunny dells, to be My spirit's food in days more wintery. Yea, yet again ye come ! ye come ! And, like a child once more at home After long sojourning in alien climes, I lie upon my mother's breast. Feeling the blessedness of rest, And dwelling in the light of other times. ye whose living is not LifCy Whose dying is but death. Song, empty toil and petty strife, Bounded with loss of breath ! Go, look on Nature's countenance, Drink in the blessing of her glance ; Look on the sunset, hear the wind. The cataract, the awful thunder ; Go, worship by the sea ; Then, and then only, shall ye find, With ever-growing wonder, Man is not all in all to ye ; Go with a meek and humble soul. Then shall the scales of self unroll From off your eyes — the weary packs Drop from your heavy-laden backs ; And ye shall see. With reverent and hopeful eyes. Glowing with new-born energies. How great a thing it is to be ! 366 SONG. FORGETFULNESS. There 's a haven of sure rest From the loud world's bewildering stress As a bird dreaming on her nest, As dew hid in a rose's breast, As Hesper in the glowing West ; So the heart sleeps In thy calm deeps, Serene Forgetfulness ! No sorrow in that place may be. The noise of life grows less and less : As moss far down within the sea, As, in white lily caves, a bee. As life in a hazy reverie ; So the heart's wave In thy dim cave. Hushes, Forgetfulness ! Duty and care fade far away What toil may be we cannot guess : As a ship anchored in the bay. As a cloud at summer-noon astray, As water-blooms in a breezeless day ; So, 'neath thine eyes. The full heart lies, And dreams, Forgetfulness ! SONG. I. What reck I of the stars, when I May gaze into thine eyes, O'er which the brown hair flowingly Is parted niaidenwise THE POET. 367 From thy pale forehead, calm and bright, Over thy cheeks so rosy white ? II. What care I for the red moon-rise ? Far liefer would I sit And watch the joy within thine eyes Gush up at sight of it ; Thyself my queenly moon shall be, Ruling my heart's deep tides for me ! III. What heed I if the sky be blue ? So are thy holy eyes. And bright with shadows ever new Of changeful sympathies. Which in thy soul's unruffled deep Rest evermore, but never sleep. THE POET. He who hath felt Life's mystery Press on him like thick night. Whose soul hath known no history But struggling after light ; — He who hath seen dim shapes arise In the soundless depths of soul. Which gaze on him with meaning eyes Full of the mighty whole, Yet will no word of healing speak. Although he pray night-long, '* 0, help me, save me ! I am weak. And ye are wondrous strong ! " — 36b THE POET. Who, in the midnight dark and deep. Hath felt a voice of might Come echoing through the halls of sleep From the lone heart of Night, And, starting from his restless bed, Hath watched and wept to know What meant that oracle of dread That stirred his being so ; He who hath felt how strong and great This Godlike soul of man, And looked full in the eyes of Fate, Since Life and Thought began ; The armor of whose moveless trust Knoweth no spot of weakness. Who hath trod fear into the dust Beneath the feet of meekness ; — He who hath calmly borne his cross. Knowing himself the king Of time, nor counted it a loss To learn by suffering ; — And who hath worshipped woman still With a pure soul and lowly, Nor ever hath in deed or will Profaned her temple holy — He is the Poet, him unto The gift of song is given, Whose life is lofty, strong, and true, Who never fell from Heaven ; He is the Poet, from his lips To live forevermore, Majestical as full-sailed ships. The words of Wisdom pour. FLOWERS. 369 FLOWERS. " Hail be thou, holie hearbe, Growing on the ground, All in the mount Calvary First wert thou found ; Thou art good for manie a sore, Thou healest manie a wound, In the name of sweete Jesus I take thee from the ground.'* — Ancient Charm-verse, I. vVhen, from a pleasant ramble, home Fresh-stored with quiet thoughts, I come, I pluck some wayside flower . . And press it in the choicest nook Of a much-loved and oft-read book ; And, when upon its leaves I look In a less happy hour. Dear memory bears me far away Unto her fairy bower. And on her breast my head I lay, While, in a motherly, sweet strain, She sings me gently back again To by-gone feelings, until they Seem children born of yesterday. II. Yes, many a story of past hours I read in these dear withered flowers, And once again I seem to be Lying beneath the old oak tree, 24 37© FLOWERS. And looking up into the sky, Through thick leaves rifted fitfully. Lulled by the rustling of the vine, Or the faint low of far-off kine ; And once again I seem To watch the whirling bubbles flee, Through shade and gleam alternately, Down the vine-bowered stream ; Or 'neath the odorous linden trees. When summer twilight lingers long, To hear the flowing of the breeze And unseen insects' slumberous song. That mingle into one and seem Like dim murmurs of a dream ; Fair faces, too, I seem to see, Smiling from pleasant eyes at me. And voices sweet I hear. That, like remembered melody. Flow through my spirit's ear. A poem every flower is, And every leaf a line. And with delicious memories They fill this heart of mine : No living blossoms are so clear As these dead relics treasured here ; One tells of love, of friendship one, Love's quiet after-sunset time. When the all-dazzling light is gone. And, with the soul's low vesper-chime. O'er half its heaven doth out-flow FLOWERS. 371 A holy calm and steady glow. Some are gay feast-soDg, some are dirges, In some a joy with sorrow merges ; One sings the shadowed woods, and one the roar Of ocean's everlasting surges. Tumbling upon the beach's hard-beat floor, Or sliding backward from the shore To meet the landward waves and slowly plunge once more. flowers of grace, I bless ye all By the dear faces ye recall ! IV. Upon the banks of Life's deep streams Full many a flower grows Which with a wondrous fragrance teems, And in the silent water gleams, And trembles as the water floweth. Many a one the wave upteareth, Washing ever the roots away. And far upon its bosom beareth, To bloom no more in Youth's glad May ; As farther on the river runs. Flowing more deep and strong. Only a few pale, scattered ones Are seen the dreary banks along ; And where those flowers do not grow, The river floweth dark and chill, Its voice is sad, and with its flow Mingles ever a sense of ill ; Then, Poet, thou who gather dost Of Life's best flowers the brightest, 372 FLOWERS. 0, take good heed they be not lost While with the angry flood thou fightest ! V. In the cool grottos of the soul. Whence flows thought's crystal river, Whence songs of joy forever roll To Him who is the Giver — There store thou them, where fresh and green Their leaves and blossoms may be seen, A spring of joy that faileth never ; There store thou them, and they shall be A blessing and a peace to thee, And in their youth and purity Thou shalt be young forever ! Then, with their fragrance rich and rare. Thy living shall be rife. Strength shall be thine thy cross to bear. And they shall be a chaplet fair, Breathing a pure and holy air, To crown thy holy life. VI. Poet ! above all men blest. Take heed that thus thou store them ; Love, Hope, and Faith shall ever rest. Sweet birds (upon how sweet a nest !) Watchfully brooding o'er them. And from those flowers of Paradise Scatter thou many a blessed seed, WHerefrom an offspring may arise FLOWERS. 373 To cheer the hearts and light the eyes Of after-voyagers in their need. They shall not fall on stony ground, But, yielding all their hundred-fold. Shall shed a peacefulness around. Whose strengthening joy may not be told, So shall thy name be blest of all. And thy remembrance never die ; For of that seed shall surely fall In the fair garden of Eternity. Exult then in the nobleness Of this thy work so holy, Yet be not thou one jot the less Humble and meek and lowly. But let thine exultation be The reverence of a bended knee ; And by thy life a poem write. Built strongly day by day — And on the rock of Truth and Right Its deep foundations lay. VII. It is thy DUTY ! Guard it well ! Eor unto thee hath much been given. And thou canst make this life a Hell, Or JacobVladder up to Heaven. Let not thy baptism in Life's wave Make thee like him whom Homer sings — A sleeper in a living grave. Callous and hard to outward things ; But open all thy soul and sense To every blessed influence That from the heart of Nature springs ; 374: THE LOVER. Then shall thy Lif e-fiowers be to thee. When thy best years are told, As much as these have been to me — Yea, more, a thousand-fold ! THE LOVER. I. Go from the world from East to West, Search every land beneath the sky. You cannot find a man so blest, A king so powerful as I, Though you should seek eternally. II. For I a gentle lover be, Sitting at my loved-one's side ; She giveth her whole soul to me Without a wish or thought of pride. And she shall be my cherished bride. III. No show of gaudiness hath she, She doth not flash with jewels rare ; In beautiful simplicity She weareth leafy garlands fair. Or modest flowers in her hair. IV. Sometimes she dons a robe of green. Sometimes a robe of snowy white. TO E. W. G. 375 But, in whatever garb she 's seen, It seems most beautiful and right. And is the loveliest to my sight. V. Not I her lover am alone. Yet unto all she doth suffice. None jealous is, and every one Reads love and truth within her eyes. And deemeth her his own dear prize. VI. And so thou art. Eternal Nature ! Yes, bride of Heaven, so thou art ; Thou wholly loves t every creature. Giving to each no stinted part. But filling every peaceful heart. TO E. W. G. '^Dear Child ! dear happy Girl ! if thou appear Heedless — untouched with awe or serious thought. Thy nature is not therefore less divine : Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year ; And worship'st at the Templets inner shrine, God being with thee when we know it not." — Wordsworth, As through a strip of sunny light A white dove flashes swiftly on, So suddenly before my sight Thou gleamed'st a moment and wert gone ; And yet I long shall bear in mind The pleasant thoughts thou leftist behind. 376 TO E. W. G. Thou mad^st me happy with thine eyes. And happy with thine open smile, And, as I write, sweet memories Come thronging round me all the while ; Thou mad'st me happy with thine eyes — And gentle feelings long forgot Looked up and oped their eyes. Like violets when they see a spot Of summer in the skies. Around thy playful lips did glitter Heat-lightnings of a girlish scorn ; Harmless they were, for nothing bitter In thy dear heart was ever born — That merry heart that could not lie Within its warm nest quietly. But ever from each full, dark eye Was looking kindly night and morn. There was an archness in thine eyes. Born of the gentlest mockeries. And thy light laughter rang as clear As water-drops I loved to hear In days of boyhood, as they fell Tinkling far down the dim, still well ; And with its sound come back once more The feelings of my early years. And half aloud I murmured o'er — ^' Sure I have heard that sound before. It is so pleasant in mine ears." Whenever thou didst look on me I thought of merry birds, And something of spring's melody TO E. W. G. 377 Came to me in thy words ; Thy thoughts did dance and bound along Like happy children in their play. Whose hearts run over into song For gladness of the summer's day ; And mine grew dizzy with the sight. Still feeling lighter and more light. Till, joining hands, they whirled away. As blithe and merrily as they. I bound a larch-twig round with flowers. Which thou didst twine among thy hair. And gladsome were the few, short hours When I was with thee there ; So now that thou art far away. Safe-nestled in thy warmer clime. In memory of a happier day I twine this simple wreath of rhyme. Dost mind how she, whom thou dost love More than in light words may be said. A coronal of amaranth wove About thy duly-sobered head. Which kept itself a moment still That she might have her gentle will ? Thy childlike grace and purity keep forevermore. And as thou art, still strive to be, That on the farther shore Of time's dark waters ye may meet. And she may twine around thy brow A wreath of those bright flowers that grow Where blessed angels set their feet ! 378 ISABEL. ISABEL. As THE leaf upon the tree. Fluttering, gleaming constantly, Such a lightsome thing was she, My gray and gentle Isabel I Her heart was fed with love-springs sweet. And in her face you 'd see it beat To hear the sound of welcome feet — And were not mine so, Isabel ! She knew it not, but she was fair. And like a moonbeam was her hair. That falls where flowing ripples are In summer evenings, Isabel ! Her heart and tongue were scarce apart. Unwittingly her lips would part. And love came gushing from her heart. The woman^s heart of Isabel. So pure her flesh-garb, and like dew. That in her features glimmered through Each working of her spirit true. In wondrous beauty, Isabel ! A sunbeam struggling through thick leaves, A reaper^s song 'mid yellow sheaves. Less gladsome were ; — my spirit grieves To think of thee, mild Isabel ! I know not when I loved thee first ; Not loving, I had been accurst. Yet, having loved, my heart will burst. Longing for thee, dear Isabel ! MUSIC. 379 With silent tears mv cheeks are wet, I would be calm, I would forget. But thy blue eyes gaze on me yet. When stars have risen, Isabel. The winds mourn for thee, Isabel, The flowers expect thee in the dell. Thy gentle spirit loved them well. And I for thy sake, Isabel ! The sunsets seem less lovely now Than when, leaf checkered, on thy brow They fell as lovingly as thou Lingered^st till moon-rise, Isabel ! At dead of night I seem to see Thy fair, pale features constantly Upturned in silent prayer for me. O'er moveless clasped hands, Isabel ! I call thee, thou dost not reply ; The stars gleam coldly on thine eye. As like a dream thou flittest by. And leav'st me weeping, Isabel ! MUSIC. T. I SEEM to lie with drooping eyes, Dreaming sweet dreams. Half longings and half memories. In woods where streams With trembling shades and whirling gleams. Many and bright, In song and light. 380 MUSIC. Are ever, ever flowing ; While the wind, if we list to the rustling grass, Which numbers his footsteps as they pass, Seems scarcely to be blowing ; And the far-heard voice of Spring, From sunny slopes comes wandering. Calling the violets from the sleep, That bound them under the snow-drifts deep. To open their childlike, asking eyes On the new summer's paradise. And mingled with the gurgling waters — As the dreamy witchery Of Achelous' silver-voiced daughters Rose and fell with the heaving sea. Whose great heart swelled with ecstasy — The song of many a floating bird. Winding through the rifted trees. Is dreamily half-heard — A sister stream of melodies Rippled by* the flutterings Of rapture-quivered wings. II. And now beside a cataract I lie, and through my soul. From over me and under. The never-ceasing thunder Arousingly doth roll ; Through the darkness all compact. Through the trackless sea of gloom. Sad and deep T hear it boom ; At intervals the cloud is cracked MUSIC. 381 And a livid flash doth hiss Downward from its floating home, Lighting up the precipice And the never-resting foam With a dim and ghastly glare. Which, for a heart-beat, in the air, Shows the sweeping shrouds Of the midnight clouds And their wildly-scattered hair. III. Now listening to a woman's tone, In a wood I sit alone — Alone because our souls are one ; — All around my heart it flows. Lulling me in deep repose ; I fear to speak, I fear to move. Lest I should break the spell I love — Low and gentle, calm and clear. Into my inmost soul it goes. As if my brother dear, Who is no longer here. Had bended from the sky And murmured in my ear A strain of that high harmony. Which they may sing alone Who worship round the throne. IV. Now in a fairy boat. On the bright waves of song, Pull merrily I float. Merrily float along ; 382 MUSIC. My helm is veered, I care not how, My white sail bellies over me. And bright as gold the ripples be That plash beneath the bow ; Before, behind. They feel the wind. And they are dancing joyonsly — While, faintly heard, along the far-off shore The surf goes plunging with a lingering roar ; Or anchored in a shadowy cove. Entranced with harmonies. Slowly I sink and rise As the slow waves of music move. Y. Now softly dashing. Babbling, plashing. Mazy, dreamy. Faint and streamy. Ripples into ripples melt. Not so strongly heard as felt ; Now rapid and quick. While the heart beats thick. The music^'s silver wavelets crowd, Distinct and clear, but never loud ; And now all solemnly and slow. In mild, deep tones they warble low. Like the glad song of angels, when They sang good will and peace to men ; Now faintly heard and far, As if the spirit's ears Had caught the anthem of a star MUSIC. 383 Chanting with his brother-spheres In the midnight dark and deep. When the body is asleep And wondrous shadows pour in streams From the twofold gate of dreams ; Now onward roll the billows, swelling With a tempest-sound of might. As of voices doom foretelling To the silent ear of Night ; And now a mingled ecstasy Of all sweet sounds it is ; — ! who may tell the agony Of rapture such as this ? VI. I have drunk of the drink of immortals, 1 have drunk of the life-giving wine. And now I may pass the bright portals That open into a realm divine ! I have drunk it through mine ears In the ecstasy of song, When mine eyes would fill with tears That its life were not more long ; I have drunk it through mine eyes In beauty's every shape. And now around my soul it lies. No juice of earthly grape ! Wings ! wings are given to me, I can flutter, I can rise. Like a new life gushing through me Sweep the heavenly harmonies I 384 SONG. SONG. ! I MUST look on that sweet face once more before I die ; God grant that it may lighten up with joy when I draw nigh; God grant that she may look on me as kindly as she seems In the long night, the restless night, i' the sunny land of dreams ! 1 hoped, I thought, she loved me once, and yet, I know not why. There is a coldness in her speech, and a coldness in her eye. Something that in another's look would not seem cold to me. And yet like ice I feel it chill the heart of memory. She does not come to greet me so frankly as she did. And in her utmost openness I feel there 's something hid; She almost seems to shun me, as if she thought that I Might win her gentle heart again to feelings long gone by. I sought the first spring-buds for her, the fairest and the best. And she wore them for their loveliness upon her spot^ less breast, The blood-root and the violet, the frail anemone. She wore them, and alas ! I deemed it was for love of me ! SONG. 385 As flowers in a darksome place stretch forward to the light. So to the memory of her I turn hy day and night ; As flowers in a darksome place grow thin and pale and wan, So is it with my darkened heart, now that her light is gone. The thousand little things that love doth treasure up for aye. And brood upon with moistened eyes when she that 's loved 's away, The word, the look, the smile, the blush, the ribbon that she wore. Each day they grow more dear to me, and pain me more and more. My face I cover with my hands, and bitterly I weep. That the quick-gathering sands of life should choke a love so deep, And that the stream, so pure and bright, must turn it from its track. Or to the heart-springs, whence it rose, roll its full waters back ! As calm as doth the lily float close by the lakelet's brim. So calm and spotless, down time's stream, her peaceful days did swim. And I had longed, and dreamed, and prayed, that closely by her side, Down to a haven still and sure, my happy life might glide. 25 386 lANTHE. But now, alas ! those golden days of youth and hope are o'er, And I must dream those dreams of joy, those guiltless dreams no more ; Yet there is something in my heart that whispers ceaselessly, *' Would God that I might see that face once more before I die ! >y lANTHE. There is a light within her eyes. Like gleams of wandering fire-flies ; From light to shade it leaps and moves Whenever in her soul arise The holy shapes of things she loves ; Fitful it shines and changes ever. Like star-lit ripples on a river. Or summer sunshine on the eaves Of silver-trembling poplar leaves, Where the lingering dew-drops quiver. I may not tell the blessedness Her mild eyes send to mine, The sunset-tinted haziness Of their mysterious shine. The dim and holy mournfulness Of their mellow light divine ; The shadow of the lashes lie Over them so lovingly, That they seem to melt away In a doubtful twilight-gray. lANTHE. 387 While I watch the stars arise In the evening of her eyes, 1 love it, yet I almost dread To think what it foresliadoweth ; And, when I mnse how I have read That such strange light betokened death — Instead of fire-fly gleams, I see "Wild corpse- lights gliding waver ingly. 11.^ With wayward thoughts her eyes are bright. Like shiftings of the northern-light. Hither, thither, swiftly glance they. In a mazy twining dance they, Like ripply lights the sunshine weaves. Thrown backward from a shaken nook. Below some tumbling water-brook. On the overarching platan-leaves, All through her glowing face they flit. And rest in their deep dwelling-place. Those fathomless blue eyes of hers, Till, from her burning soul re-lit. While her upheaving bosom stirs. They stream again across her face And with such hope and glory fill it, Death could not have the heart to chill it. Yet when their wild light fades again, I feel a sudden sense of pain. As if, while yet her eyes were gleaming. And like a shower of sun-lit rain Bright fancies from her face were streaming. Her trembling soul might flit away As swift and suddenly as they. 388 lANTHE. III. A wild, inspired earnestness Her inmost being fills. And eager self-forgetf ulness, That speaks not what it wills, But what unto her soul is given, A living oracle from Heaven, Which scarcely in her breast is born When on her trembling lips it thrills. And, like a burst of golden skies Through storm-clouds on a sudden torn. Like a glory of the morn. Beams marvellously from her eyes. And then, like a Spring-swollen river. Roll the deep waves of her full-hearted thought Crested with sun-lit spray. Her wild lips curve and quiver. And my rapt soul, on the strong tide npcaught, Unwittingly is borne away. Lulled by a dreamful music ever. Far — through the solemn twilight-gray Of hoary woods — through valleys green Which the trailing vine embowers, And where the purple-clustered grapes are seen Deep-glowing through rich clumps of waving flowers- Now over foaming rapids swept And with maddening rapture shook — Now gliding where the water-plants have slept For ages in a moss-rimmed nook — Enwoven by a wild-eyed band Of earth-forgetting dreams, I float to a delicious land lANTHE. 389 By a sunset heaven spanned, And musical with streams ; — Around, the calm, majestic forms And god-like eyes of early Greece I see. Or listen, till my spirit warms, To songs of courtly chivalry. Or weep, unmindful if my tears be seen. For the meek, suffering love of poor Undine. IV. Her thoughts are never memories, But ever changeful, ever new, Fresh and beautiful as dew That in a dell at noontide lies. Or, at the close of summer day. The pleasant breath of new-mown hay : Swiftly they come and pass As golden birds across the sun, As light-gleams on tall meadow-grass Which the wind just breathes upon. And when she speaks, her eyes I see Down-gushing through their silken lattices. Like stars that quiver tremblingly Through leafy branches of the trees. And her pale cheeks do flush and glow With speaking flashes bright and rare As crimson North-lights on new-fallen snow. From out the veiling of her hair — Her careless hair that scatters down On either side her eyes, A waterfall leaf-tinged with brown And lit with the sunrise. 390 lANTHE. V. When first I saw her, not of earth, But heavenly both in grief and mirth, I thought her ; she did seem As fair and full of mystery, As bodiless, as forms we see In the rememberings of a dream ; A moon-lit mist, a strange, dim light. Circled her spirit from my sight ; — Each day more beautiful she grew. More earthly every day. Yet that mysterious, moony hue Faded not all away ; She has a sister's sympathy With all the wanderers of the sky, But most I 've seen her bosom stir When moonlight round her fell. For the mild moon it loveth her, She loveth it as well. And of their love perchance this grace Was born into her wondrous face. I cannot tell how it may be. For both, methinks, can scarce be true. Still, as she earthly grew to me. She grew more heavenly too ; She seems one born in Heaven With earthly feelings. For, while unto her soul are given More pure revealings Of holiest love and truth, Yet is the mildness of her eyes Made up of quickest sympathies. Of kindliness and ruth j lANTHE. 391 So, though some shade of awe doth stir Our souls for one so far above us. We feel secure that she will love us, And cannot keep from loving her. She is a poem, which to me In speech and look is written bright, And to her life's rich harmony Doth ever sing itself aright ; Dear, glorious creature ! With eyes so dewy bright, And tenderest feeling Itself revealing In every look and feature. Welcome as a homestead light To one long-wandering in a clouded night ; 0, lovelier for her woman's weakness. Which yet is strongly mailed In armor of courageous meekness And faith that never failed ! VI. Early and late, at her soul's gate. Sits Chastity in warderwise, 'No thoughts unchallenged, small or great. Go thence into her eyes ; Nor may a low, unworthy thought Beyond that virgin warder win. Nor one, whose password is not '' oughts" May go without or enter in. I call her, seeing those pure eyes. The Eve of a new Paradise, Which she by gentle word and deed. And look no less, doth still create !92 LOVE'S ALTAR. About her, for her great thoughts breed A calm that lifts us from our fallen state, 'And makes us while with her both good and great- Nor is their memory wanting in our need : With stronger loving, every hour, Turneth my heart to this frail flower, Which, thoughtless of the world, hath grown To beauty and meek gentleness. Here in a fair world of its own — By woman's instinct trained alone — A lily fair which God did bless, And which from Nature's heart did draw Love, wisdom, peace, and Heaven's perfect law. LOVE'S ALTAR. I. I BUILT an altar in my soul, I build ed it to one alone ; And ever silently I stole. In happy days of long-agone. To make rich offerings to that o:n"E. II. 'T was garlanded with purest thought. And crowned with fancy's flowers bright. With choicest gems 't was all inwrought Of truth and feeling ; in my sight It seemed a spot of cloudless light. III. Yet when I made my offering there. Like Cain's, the incense would not rise ; IViY LOVE. 393 Back on ray heart down-sank the prayer. And altar-stone and sacrifice Grew hateful in my tear-dimmed eyes. IV. O'er-grown with age's mosses green, The little altar firmly stands ; It is not, as it once hath been, A selfish shrine ; — these time-taught hands Bring incense now from many lands. Y. Knowledge doth only widen love ; The stream, that lone and narrow rose. Doth, deepening ever, onward move. And with an even current flows Calmer and calmer to the close. VI. The love, that in those early days Girt round my spirit like a wall, Hath faded like a morning haze. And flames, unpent by self's mean thrall. Rise clearly to the perfect all. MY LOVE. I. Not as all other women are Is she that to my soul is dear ; Her glorious fancies come from far Beneath the silver evening-star, And yet her heart is ever near. 394 MY LOVE. II. Great feelings hath she of her own Which lesser souls may never know ; God giveth them to her alone. And sweet they are as any tone Wherewith the wind may choose to blow. III. Yet in herself she dwelleth not. Although no home were half so fair, No simplest duty is forgot. Life hath no dim and lowly spot That doth not in her sunshine share. IV. She doeth little kindnesses. Which most leave undone, or despise. For naught that sets one heart at ease. And giveth happiness or peace, Is low-esteemed in her eyes. V. She hath no scorn of common things, And, though she seem of other birth, Kound us her heart entwines and clings. And patiently she folds her wings To tread the humble paths of earth. Yi. Blessing she is : God made her so, And deeds of week-day holiness Fall from her noiseless as the snow. Nor hath she ever chanced to know That aught were easier than to bless. MY LOVE. 395 VII. She is most fair, and thereunto Her life doth rightly harmonize ; Feeling or thought that was not true Ne'er made less beautiful the blue Unclouded heaven of her eyes. VIII. On Nature she doth muse and brood With such a still and love-clear eye — She is so gentle and so good — The very flowers in the wood Do bless her with their sympathy. IX. She is a woman : one in whom The spring-time of her childish years Hath never lost its fresh perfume. Though knowing well that life hath room For many blights and many tears. X. And youth in her a home will find, Where he may dwell eternally ; Her soul is not of that weak kind Which better love the life behind Than that which is, or is to be. XI. I love her with a love as still As a broad river's peaceful might. Which, by high tower and lowly mill. Goes wandering at its own will. And yet doth ever flow aright. 396 WITH A. PRESSED FLOWER. XII. And, on its fall, deep breast serene, Like quiet isles my duties lie ; It flows around them and between, And makes them fresh and fair and green. Sweet homes wherein to live and die. WITH A PRESSED FLOWER. This little flower from afar Hath come from other lands to thine ; For, once, its white and drooping star Could see its shadow in the Rhine. Perchance some fair-haired German maid Hath plucked one from the self-same stalk. And numbered over, half afraid, Its petals in her evening walk. '^ He loves me, loves me not," she cries ; '^ He loves me more than earth or Heaven," And then glad tears have filled her eyes To find the number was uneven. So, Love, my heart doth wander forth To farthest lands beyond the sea. And search the fairest spots of earth To find sweet flowers of thought for thee. A type this tiny blossom is Of what my heart doth every day. Seeking for pleasant fantasies To brood upon when thou 'rt away. IMPARTIALITY. 397 And thou must count its petals well, Because it is a gift from me ; And the last one of all shall tell Something F ve often told to thee. But here at home, where we were born, Thou wilt find flowers just as true, Down bending every summer morn With freshness of New England dew. For Nature, ever right in love. Hath given them the same sweet tongue. Whether with German skies above. Or here our granite rocks among. IMPARTIALITY. I. I CANNOT say a scene is fair Because it is beloved of thee. But I shall love to linger there. For sake of thy dear memory ; I would not be so coldly just As to love only what I must. II. I cannot say a thought is good Because thou foundest joy in it ; Each soul must choose its proper food Which Nature hath decreed most fit ; But I shall ever deem it so Because it made thy heart o'erflow. 398 BELLEROPHON. III. I love thee for that thon art fair ; And thau +^^hr spirit joys in aught Createth a n^w beauty there, With thine own dearest image fraught ; And love, for others' sake that springs. Gives half their charm to lovely things. BELLEROPHON. DEDICATED TO MY FRIEND, JOHN F. HEATH. I. I FEEL the bandages unroll That bound my inward seeing ; Freed are the bright wings of my soul. Types of my god-like being ; High thoughts are swelling in my heart And rushing through my brain ; May I never more lose part In my souFs realm again I All things fair, where'er they be. In earth or air, in sky or sea, I have loved them all, and taken All within my throbbing breast ; No more my spirit can be shaken From its calm and kingly rest ! Love hath shed its light around me, Love hath pierced the shades that bound me ; Mine eyes are opened, I can see The universe's mystery. The mighty heart and core Of After and Before I seC;, and I am weak no more ! BELLEROPHON. 399 II. Upward ! upward evermore. To Heaven's open gate I soar ! ■" Little thoughts are far behina me, Which, when custom weaves together, All the nobler man can tether — Cobwebs now no more can bind me ! Now fold thy wings a little while. My tranced soul, and lie At rest on this Calypso-isle That floats in mellow sky, A thousand isles with gentle motion Eock upon the sunset ocean ; ^ A thousand isles of thousand hues. How bright ! how beautiful ! how rare ! Into my spirit they infuse A purer, a diviner air ; The earth is growing dimmer. And now the last faint glimmer Hath faded from the hill ; But in my higher atmosphere The sun-light streameth red and clear. Fringing the islets still ; — Love lifts us to the sun-light. Though the whole world would be dark ; Love, wide Love, is the one light. All else is but a fading spark ; Love is the nectar which doth fill Our soul's cup even to overflowing. And, warming heart, and thought, and will. Doth lie within us mildly glowing. From its own centre raying out Beauty and Truth on all without. 400 BELLEROPHON III. Each on his golden throne. Full royally, alone, I see the stars above me. With sceptre and with diadem ; Mildly they look down and love me. For I have ever yet loved them ; I see their ever-sleepless eyes Watching the growth of destinies ; Calm, sedate. The eyes of Fate, They wink not, nor do roll, But search the depths of soul — And in those mighty depths they see The germs of all Futurity, Waiting but the fitting time To burst and ripen into prime. As in the womb of mother Earth The seeds of plants and forests lie Age upon age and never die — So in the souls of all men wait, Undyingly the seeds of Fate ; Chance breaks the clod and forth they spring, Filling blind men with wondering. Eternal stars ! with holy awe. As if a present God I saw, I look into those mighty eyes And see great destinies arise. As in those of mortal men Feelings glow and fade again ! All things below, all things above. Are open to the eyes of Love. BELLEROPHON. ^ 40I IV. 26 Of Knowledge Love is master-key. Knowledge of Beauty ; passing dear Is each to each, and mutually Each one doth make the other clear ; Beauty is Love, and what we love Straightway is beautiful. So is the circle round and full. And so dear Love doth live and move And have his being. Finding his proper food By sure inseeing. In all things pure and good. Which he at will doth cull. Like a joyous butterfly Hiving in the sunny bowers Of the souFs fairest flowers. Or, between the earth and sky, Wandering at liberty For happy, happy hours ! V. The thoughts of Love are Poesy, As this fair earth and all we see Are the thoughts of Deity — And Love is ours by our birthright ! He hath cleared mine inward sight ; Glorious shapes with glorious eyes Round about my spirit glance. Shedding a mild and golden light On the shadowy face of Night ; To unearthly melodies. Hand in hand, they weave their dancej 4:02 SOMETHING NATURAL. While a deep, ambrosial lustre From their rounded limbs doth shine. Through many a rich and golden cluster Of streaming hair divine. In our gross and earthly hours We cannot see the Love-given powers Which ever round the soul await To do its sovereign will, When, in its moments calm and still. It re-assumes its royal state, Nor longer sits with eyes downcast, A beggar, dreaming of the past, At its ovi^n palace-gate. VI. I too am a Maker and a Poet ; Through my whole soul I feel it and know it ; My veins are fired with ecstasy ! All-mother Earth Did ne'er give birth To one who shall be matched with me ; The lustre of my coronal Shall cast a dimness over all. — Alas ! alas ! what have I spoken ? My strong, my eagle wings are broken. And back again to earth I fall ! SOMETHING NATUKAL. I. Whei^ first I saw thy soul-deep eyes. My heart yearned to thee instantly. Strange longing in my soul did rise ; THE SIRENS. 403 I cannot tell the reason why, But I must love thee till I die. II. The sight of thee hath well-nigh grown As needful to me as the light ; I am unrestful when alone. And my heart doth not beat aright Except it dwell within thy sight. III. And yet — and yet — selfish love ! I am not happy even with thee ; I see thee in thy brightness move. And cannot well contented be, Save thou should^st shine alone for me. IV. We should love beauty even as flowers For all, 't is said, they bud and blow. They are the world's as well as ours — But thou — alas ! God made thee grow So fair, I cannot love thee so ! THE SIRENS. The sea is lonely, the sea Is dreary. The sea is restless and uneasy ; Thou seekest quiet, thou art weary. Wandering thou knowest not whither ; — Our little isle is green and breezy. Come and rest thee ! come hither. 404 THE SIRENS. Come to this peaceful home of ours, Where evermore The low west- wind creeps panting up the shore To be at rest among the flowers ; Full of rest, the green moss lifts. As the dark waves of the sea Draw in and out of rocky rifts, Calling solemnly to thee. With voices deep and hollow — To the shore Follow ! follow ! To be at rest for evermore ! For evermore ! Look how the gray, old Ocean From the depths of his heart rejoices, Heaving with a gentle motion, When he hears our restful voices ; List how he sings in an undertone. Chiming with our melody ; And all sweet sounds of earth and air Melt into one low voice alone. That murmurs over the weary sea — And seems to sing from everywhere — '' Here mayest thou harbor peacefully. Here mayest thou rest from the aching oar ; Turn thy curved prow ashore, And in our green isle rest for evermore ! For evermore ! And echo half wakes in the wooded hill. And, to her heart so calm and deep. Murmurs over in her sleep, Doubtfully pausing and murmuring still, THE SIRENS. 405 *^ Evermore ! " Thus, on Life's weary sea, Heareth the marinere Voices sweet, from far and near. Ever singing low and clear, Ever singing longingly. Is it not better here to be, Than to be toiling late and soon ? In the dreary night to see Nothing but the blood-red moon Go up and down into the sea ; Or, in the loneliness of day. To see the still seals only. Solemnly lift their faces gray. Making it yet more lonely ? Is it not better, than to hear Only the sliding of the wave Beneath the plank, and feel so near A cold and lonely grave, A restless grave, where thou shalt lie Even in death unquietly ? Look down beneath thy wave-worn bark. Lean over the side and see The leaden eye of the side-long shark Upturned patiently, Ever waiting there for thee : Look down and see those shapeless forms. Which ever keep their dreamless sleep Far down within the gloomy deep. And only stir themselves in storms. Rising like islands from beneath. And snorting through the angry spray, 406 'THE SIRENS. As the frail vessel perisheth In the whirls of their unwieldy play ; Look down ! Look down ! Upon the seaweed, slimy and dark. That waves its arms so lank and brown, Beckoning for thee ! Look down beneath thy wave-worn bark Into the cold depth of the sea ! Look down ! Look down ! Thus, on Life's lonely sea, Heareth the marinere Voices sad, from far and near. Ever singing full of fear. Ever singing drearfully, Here all is pleasant as a dream ; The wind scarce shaketh down the dew. The green grass floweth like a stream Into the ocean's blue : Listen ! listen ! Here is a gush of many streams. A song of many birds, And every wish and longing seems Lulled to a numbered flow of words — Listen ! listen ! Here ever hum the golden bees Underneath full- blossomed trees. At once with glowing fruit and flower crowned ; — The sand is so smooth, the yellow sand. That thy keel will not grate, as it touches the land ; All around, with a slumberous sound. The singing waves slide up the strand. And there, where the smooth wet pebbles be, A FEELING- 407 The waters gurgle longingly. As if they fain would seek the shore, To be at rest from the ceaseless roar. To be at rest for evermore — For evermore. Thus, on Life's gloomy sea, Heareth the marinere Voices sweet, far and near. Ever singing in his ear, Here is rest and peace for thee ! " Nantasket, July, 1840. A FEELING. The flowers and the grass to me Are eloquent reproachfully ; For would they wave so pleasantly Or look so fresh and fair, If a man, cunning, hollow, mean. Or one is anywise unclean. Were looking on them there ? No ; he hath grown so foolish- wise He cannot see with childhood's eyes ; He hath forgot that purity And lowliness which are the key Of Nature's mysteries ; No ; he hath wandered off so long From his own place of birth. That he hath lost his mother-tongue. And, like one come from far-off lands, Forgetting and forgot, he stands Beside his mother's hearth. 408 THE BEGGAR. THE BEGGAR. A Beggar through the world am I, From place to place I wander by ; — Fill up my pilgrim's scrip for me. For Christ's sweet sake and charity ! A little of thy steadfastness, Eounded with leafy gracefulness, Old oak, give me — That the world's blasts may round me blow, And I yield gently to and fro, While my stout-hearted trunk below And firm-set roots unmoved be. Some of thy stern, unyielding might. Enduring still through day and night Rude tempest-shock and withering blight — That I may keep at bay The changeful April sky of chance And the strong tide of circumstance — Give me, old granite gray. Some of thy mournf ulness serene, Some of thy never-dying green. Put in this scrip of mine — That grief may fall like snowflakes light. And deck me in a robe of white. Ready to be an angel bright — sweetly-mournful pine. A little of thy merriment. Of thy sparkling, light content. Give me my cheerful brook — SERENADE. 409 That I may still be full of glee And gladsomeness, wherever I be, Though fickle fate hath prisoned me In some neglected nook. Ye have been very kind and good To me, since Pve been in the wood ; Ye have gone nigh to fill my heart ; But good-by, kind friends, every one, I 've far to go ere set of sun ; Of all good things I would have part. The day was high ere I could start, And so my journey 's scarce begun. Heaven help me ! how could I forget To beg of thee, dear violet ! Some of thy modesty, That flowers here as well, unseen. As if before the world thou^dst been, give, to strengthen me. SERENADE. From the close-shut windows gleams no spark, The night is chilly, the night is dark. The poplars shiver, the pine-trees moan. My hair by the autumn breeze is blown. Under thy window I sing alone. Alone, alone, ah woe ! alone ! The darkness is pressing coldly around. The windows shake with a lonely sound. The stars are hid and the night is drear. The heart of silence throbs in thine ear. 410 IRENE. In thy chamber thou sittest alone. Alone, alone, ah woe ! alone ! The world is happy, the world is wide. Kind hearts are beating on every side ; Ah, why should we lie so curled Alone in the shell of this great world ? Why should we any more be alone ? Alone, alone, ah woe ! alone ! ! 't is a bitter and dreary word. The saddest by man's ear ever heard ; We each are young, we each have a heart. Why stand we ever coldly apart ? Must we forever, then, be alone ? Alone, alone, ah woe ! alone ! IRENE. Hers is a spirit deep and crystal-clear ; Calmly beneath her earnest face it lies. Free without boldness, meek without a fear. Quicker to look than speak its sympathies ; Far down into her large and patient eyes I gaze, deep-drinking of the infinite, As, in the mid-watch of a clear, still night, I look into the fathomless blue skies. So circled lives she with Love's holy light. That from the shade of self she walketh free ; The garden of her soul still keepeth she An Eden where the snake did never enter ; She hath a natural, wise sincerity. IRENE. 411 A simple truthfulness, and these have lent her A dignity as moveless as the centre ; So that no influence of earth can stir Her steadfast courage, or can take away The holy peacefulness, which, night and day. Unto her queenly soul doth minister. Most gentle is she ; her large charity (An all unwitting, childlike gift in her) Not freer is to give than meek to bear ; And, though herself not unacquaint with care. Hath in her heart wide room for all that be — Her heart that hath no secrets of its own. But open is as eglantine full-blown. Cloudless forever is her brow serene. Speaking calm hope and trust within her, whence Welleth a noiseless spring of patience That keepeth all her life so fresh, so green And full of holiness, that every look. The greatness of her woman's soul revealing. Unto me bringeth blessing, and a feeling As when I read in God's own holy book. A graciousness in giving that doth make The small 'st gift greatest, and a sense most meek Of worthiness, that doth not fear to take From others, but which always fears to speak Its thanks in utterance, for the giver's sake ; — The deep religion of a thankful heart, Which rests instinctively with Heaven's law With a full peace, that never can depart From its own steadfastness ; — a holy awe For holy things, not those which men call holy, 4:12 IRENE. But such are as revealed to the eyes Of a true woman's soul bent down and lowly Before the face of daily mysteries ; — A love that blossoms soon, but ripens slowly To the full goldenness of fruitful prime. Enduring with a firmness that defies All shallow tricks of circumstance and time, By a sure insight knowing where to cling, And where it clingeth never withering — These are Irene's dowry — which no fate Can shake from their serene, deep-builded state. In-seeing sympathy is hers, which chasteneth No less than loveth, scorning to be bound "With fear of blame, and yet which ever hasteneth To pour the balm of kind looks on the wound. If they be wounds which such sweet teaching makes. Giving itself a pang for others' sakes ; No want of faith, that chills with side-long eye. Hath she ; no jealousy, no Levite pride That passeth by upon the other side ; For in her soul there never dwelt a lie. Eight from the hand of God her spirit came Unstained, and she hath ne'er forgotten whence It came, nor wandered far from thence. But laboreth to keep her still the same. Near to her place of birth, that she may not Soil her white raiment with an earthly spot. Yet sets she not her soul so steadily Above, that she forgets her ties to earth. But her whole thought would almost seem to be How to make glad one lowly human hearth ; THE LOST CHILD. 413 For with a gentle courage she doth strive In thought and word and feeling so to live As to make earth next Heaven ; and her heart Herein doth show its most exceeding worth. That, bearing in our frailty her just part, She hath not shrunk from evils of this life. But hath gone calmly forth into the strife. And all its sins and sorrows hath withstood With lofty strength of patient womanhood : For this I love her great soul more than all, That, being bound, like us, with earthly thrall. She walks so bright and Heaven-wise therein — Too wise, too meek, too womanly to sin. Exceeding pleasant to mine eyes is she ; Like a lone star through riven storm-clouds seen By sailors, tempest-tost upon the sea. Telling of rest and peaceful heavens nigh. Unto my soul her star-like soul hath been. Her sight as full of hope and calm to me ; — For she unto herself hath builded high A home serene, wherein to lay her head, Earth^s noblest thing — a Woman perfected. THE LOST CHILD. I. I WANDERED down the sunny glade And ever mused, my love, of thee ; My thoughts, like little children, played, As gayly and as guilelessly. 414: THE CHURCH. II. If any chanced to go astray, Moaning in fear of coming harms, Hope brought the wanderer back alway. Safe nestled in her snowy arms. III. From that soft nest the happy one Looked up at me and calmly smiled ; Its hair shone golden in the sun. And made it seem a heavenly child. IV. Dear Hope's blue eyes smiled mildly down. And blest it with a love so deep, That, like a nursling of her own. It clasped her neck and fell asleep. THE CHURCH. I. I LOVE the rites of England's chnrch ; I love to hear and see The priest and people reading slow The solemn Litany ; I love to hear the glorious swell Of chanted psalm and prayer. And the deep organ's bursting heart. Throb through the shivering air. II. Chants, that a thousand years have heard, I love to hear again. For visions of the olden time Are wakened by the strain ; THE CHURCH. 415 With gorgeous hues the window-glass Seems suddenly to glow, And rich and red the streams of light Down through the chancel flow. III. And then I murmur, '^ Surely God Delighteth here to dwell ; This is the temple of his Son Whom he doth love so well ; " But, when I hear the creed which saith. This church alone is His, I feel within my soul that He Hath purer shrines than this. IV. For his is not the builded church. Nor organ-shaken dome ; In every thing that lovely is He loves and hath his home ; And most in soul that loveth well All things which he hath made. Knowing no creed but simple faith That may not be gainsaid. V. His church is universal Love, And whoso dwells therein Shall need no customed sacrifice To vi^ash away his sin ; And music in its aisles shall swell. Of lives upright and true. Sweet as dreamed sounds of angel-harps Down-(]^uivering through the blue. 41 :V THE UNLOVELY. VI. They shall not ask a litany, The souls that worship there, But every look shall be a hymn. And every word a prayer ; Their service shall be written bright In calm and holy eyes. And every day from fragrant hearts Fit incense shall arise. THE UNLOVELY. The pretty things that others wear Look strange and out of place on me, I never seem dressed tastefully. Because I am not fair ; And, when I would most pleasing seem. And deck myself with joyful care, I find it is an idle dream. Because I am not fair. If I put roses in my hair. They bloom as if in mockery ; Nature denies her sympathy. Because 1 am not fair ; Alas ! I have a warm, true heart. But when I show it people stare ; I must forever dwell apart. Because I am not fair. I am least happy being where The hearts of others are most light. And strive to keep me out of sight. Because I am not fair j THE UNLOVELY. 417 The glad ones often give a glance, As I am sitting lonely there, Tliat asks me why I do not dance — Because I am not fair. And if to smile on them I dare. For that my heart with love runs o'er. They say : ^^ What is she laughing for ? " Because I am not fair ; Love scorned or misinterpreted — It is the hardest thing to bear ; I often wish that I were dead. Because 1 am not fair. In joy or grief I must not share, For neither smiles nor tears on me Will ever look becomingly. Because I am not fair ; Whole days I sit alone and cry, And in my grave I wish I were — Yet none will weep me if I die, Because I am not fair. My grave will be so lone and bare, I fear to think of those dark hours. For none will plant it o'er with flowers, Because I am not fair ; They will not in the summer come And speak kind words above me there ; To me the grave will be no home, Because I am not fair, 27 418 LOVE-SONG. LOVE-SONG. Nearer to thy mother-heart. Simple Nature, press me, Let me know thee as thou art. Fill my soul and bless me ! I have loved thee long and well, I have loved thee heartily ; Shall I never with thee dwell. Never be at one with thee ? Inward, inward to thy heart, Kindly Nature, take me. Lovely even as thou art. Full of loving make me ! Thou knowest naught of dead-cold forms, Knowest naught of littleness, Lifeful Truth thy being warms. Majesty and earnestness. Homeward, homeward to thy heart. Dearest Nature, call me ; Let no halfness, no mean part. Any longer thrall me ! I will be thy lover true, I will be a faithful soul, Then circle me, then look me through. Fill me with the mighty Whole. SONG. 419 SONG. All things are sad : — I go and ask of Memory, That she tell sweet tales to me To make me glad ; And she takes me by the hand, Leadeth to old places, Showeth the old faces In her hazy mirage-land ; 0, her voice is sweet and low. And her eyes are fresh to mine As the dew Gleaming through The half-unfolded Eglantine, Long ago, long ago ! But I feel that I am only Yet more sad, and yet more lonely ! Then I turn to blue-eyed Hope, And beg of her that she will ope Her golden gates for me ; She is fair and full of grace. But she hath the form and face Of her mother Memory ; Clear as air her glad voice ringeth, Joyous are the songs she singeth. Yet I hear them mournfully ; — They are songs her mother taught her. Crooning to her infant daughter. As she lay upon her knee. Many little ones she bore me. Woe is me ! in by-^one hours. 420 SONG. Who danced along and sang before me. Scattering my way with flowers ; One by one They are gone, And their silent graves are seen. Shining fresh with mosses green. Where the rising sunbeams slope O'er the dewy land of Hope. But, when sweet Memory faileth, And Hope looks strange and cold ; When youth no more availeth, And Grief grows over bold ; — When softest winds are dreary. And summer sunlight weary, And sweetest things uncheery We know not why : — When the crown of our desires Weighs upon the brow and tires. And we would die, Die for, ah ! we know not what, Something we seem to have forgot. Something we had, and now have not ; — When the present is a weight And the future seems our foe, And with shrinking eyes we wait, As one who dreads a sudden blow In the dark, he knows not whence ; — When Love at last his bright eye closes, And the bloom upon his face, That lends him such a living grace. Is a shadow from the roses Wherewith we have decked his bier. } A LOVE-DREAM. 421 Because he once was passing dear ;^ "When we feel a leaden sense Of nothingness and impotence, Till we grow mad — Then the body saith, " There's but one true faith ; All things are sad ! " A LOVE-DREAM. Pleasant thoughts come wandering. When thou art far, from thee to me ; On their silver wings they bring A very peaceful ecstasy, A feeling of eternal spring ; So that Winter half forgets Everything but that thou art. And, in his bewildered heart, Dreameth of the violets. Or those bluer flowers that ope. Flowers of steadfast love and hope. Watered by the living wells. Of memories dear, and dearer prophecies^ When young spring forever dwells In the sunshine of thine eyes. I have most holy dreams of thee. All night I have such dreams ; And, when I awake, reality No whit the darker seems ; Through the twin gates of Hope and Memory They pour in crystal streams From out an angel's calmed eyes. 422 A LOVE-DREAM. Who, from twilight till sunrise, Far away in the upper deep, Poised upon his shining wings, Over us his watch doth keep, And, as he watcheth, ever sings. Through the still night I hear him sing, Down-looking on onr sleep ; I hear his clear, clear harp-strings ring, And, as the golden notes take wing, Gently dow-nv^ard hovering. For very joy I weep ; He singeth songs of holy Love, That quiver through the depths afar. Where the blessed spirits are, And lingeringly from above Shower till the morning star His silver shield hath buckled on And sentinels the dawn alone, Quivering his gleamy spear Through the dusky atmosphere. Almost, my love, I fear the morn. When that blessed voice shall cease. Lest it should leave me quite forlorn, Stript of my snowy robe of peace ; And yet the bright reality Is fairer than all dreams can be, For, through my spirit, all day long. Ring echoes of that angel-song In melodious thoughts of thee ; And well I know it cannot die Till eternal morn shall break. FOURTH OF JULY ODE. 423 For, throngli life's slumber, thou and I Will keep it for each other's sake, And it shall not be silent when we wake. FOURTH OF JULY ODE. I. Our fathers fought for Liberty, They struggled long and well. History of their deeds can tell — But did they leave us free ? II. Are we free from vanity. Free from pride, and free from self. Free from love of power and pelf. From everything that ^s beggarly ? III. Are we free from stubborn will. From low hate and malice small. From opinion's tyrant thrall ? Are none of us our own slaves still ? IV. Are we free to speak our thought. To be happy, and be poor. Free to enter Heaven's door. To live and labor as we ought ? V. Are we then made free at last From the fear of what men say, Free to reverence To-day, Free from the slavery of the Past ? 424 SPHINX. VI. Our fathers fought for liberty, They struggled long and well. History of their deeds can tell- But ourselves must set us free. SPHINX. I. Why mourn we for the golden prime When our young souls tvere kingly, strong, and true ? The soul is greater than all time. It changes not, but yet is ever new. II. But that the soul is noble, we Could never know what nobleness had been ; Be what ye dream ! and earth shall see A greater greatness than she e^er hath seen. III. The flower pines not to be fair. It never askeLh to be sweet and dear. But gives itself to sun and air, And so is fresh and full from year to year. IV. Nothing in Nature weeps its lot. Nothing, save man, abides in memory. Forgetful that the Past is what Ourselves may choose the coming time to be. I SPHINX. 425 V. All things are circular ; the Past Was given us to make the Future great ; And the void Future shall at last Be the strong rudder of an after fate. VI. We sit beside the Sphinx of Life, We gaze into its void, unanswering eyes. And spend ourselves in idle strife To read the riddle of their mysteries. YII. Arise ! be earnest and be strong ! The Sphinx's eyes shall suddenly grow clear, And speak as phiin to thee ere long, As the dear maiden's who holds thee most dear. VIII. The meaning of all things in us — Yea, in the lives we give our souls — doth lie ; Make, then, their meaning glorious By such a life as need not fear to die ! IX. There is no heart-beat in the day. Which bears a record of the smallest deed. But holds within its faith alway That which in doubt we vainly strive to read. X. One seed contains another seed, And that a third, and so for evermore ; And promise of as great a deed Lies folded in the deed that went before. 426 ''GOE, LITTLE BOOKE." XI. So ask not fitting space or time. Yet could not dream of things which could not be ; Each day shall make the next sublime, And Time be swallowed in Eternity. XII. God bless the Present ! it is all ; It has been Future, and it shall be Past ; Awake and live ! thy strength recall. And in one trinity unite them fast. XIII. Action and Life — lo ! here the key Of all on earth that seemeth dark and wrong ; Win this — and, with it, freely ye May enter that bright realm for which ye long. XIV. Then all these bitter questionings Shall with a full and blessed answer meet ; Past worlds, whereof the Poet sings, Shall be the earth beneath his snow-white fleet. '^ GOE, LITTLE BOOKE ! '' Go, LITTLE book ! the world is wide, There's room and verge enough for thee ; For thou hast learned that only pride Lacketh fit opportunity, "Which comes unbid to modesty. **GOE, LITTLE BOOKE." 427 Go ! win thy way with gentleness : I send thee forth, my first-born child. Quite, quite alone, to face the stress Of fickle skies and pathways wild. Where few can keep them undefiled. Thou earnest from a poet^s heart, A warm, still home, and full of rest ; Far from the pleasant eyes thou art Of those who know and love thee best. And by whose hearthstones thou wert blest. Go ! knock thou softly at the door Where any gentle spirits bin. Tell them thy tender feet are sore. Wandering so far from all thy kin, And ask if thou may enter in. Beg thou a cup-full from the spring Of Charity, in Christ's dear name ; Few will deny so small a thing, Nor ask unkindly if thou came Of one whose life might do thee shame. We all are prone to go astray. Our hopes are bright, our lives are dim ; But thou art pure, and if they say, ** We know thy father, and our whim He pleases not," — plead thou for him. For many are by whom all truth. That speaks not in their mother-tongue. Is stoned to death with hands unruth. Or hath its patient spirit wrung Cold words and colder looks among. 428 "GOE, LITTLE BOOKE." Yet fear uot ! for skies are fair To all whose souls are fair within ; Thou wilt find shelter everywhere "With those to whom a different skin Is not a damning proof of sin. But, if all others are unkind, There's one heart whither thou canst fly For shelter from the biting wind ; And, in that home of purity, It were no bitter thing to die. SONNETS. I. DISAPPOINTMENT. I PRAY thee call not tliis society ; 1 asked for bread, thou givest me a stone ; I am an hungered, and I find not one To give me meat, to joy or grieve with me ; I find not here what I went out to see — Souls of true men, of women who can move The deeper, better part of us to love. Souls that can hold with mine communion free. Alas ! must then these hopes, these longings high. This yearning of the soul for brotherhood. And all that makes us pure, and wise, and good, Come broken-hearted, home again to die ? No, Hope is left, and prays with bended head, '' Give us this day, God, our daily bread \" II. Great human nature, whither art thou fled ? Are these things creeping forth and back agen, These hollow formalists and echoes, men ? Art thou. entombed with the mighty dead ? In God's name, no ! not yet hath all been said. Or done, or longed for, that is truly great ; ^ 429 430 SONNETS. These pitiful dried crusts will never sate Natures for which pure Truth is daily bread ; We were not meant to plod along the earth. Strange to ourselves and to our fellows strange ; We were not meant to struggle from our birth. To skulk and creep^ and in mean pathways range ; Act ! with stern truth, large faith, and loving will I Up and be doing ! God is with us still. III. TO A FRIEKD. Oi^E strip of bark may feed the broken tree. Giving to some few limbs a sickly green ; And one light shower on the hills, I ween. May keep the spring from drying utterly. Thus seemeth it with these our hearts to be ; Hope is the strip of bark, the shower of rain. And so they are not wholly crushed with pain. But live and linger on, for sadder sight to see ; Much do they err, who tell us that the heart May not be broken ; what, then, can we call A broken heart, if this may not be so. This death in life, when, shrouded in its pall. Shunning and shunned, it dwelleth all apart. Its power, its love, its sympathy laid low ? IV. So may it be, but let it not be so, 0, let it not be so with thee, my friend ; Be of good courage, bear up to the end. And on thine after way rejoicing go ! We all must suffer, if we aught Avould know ; Life is a teacher stern, and wisdom's crown SONNNTS. 431 Is oft a crown of thorns, whence, trickling down, Blood, mixed with tears, blinding her eyes doth flow ; But Time, a gentle nurse, shall wipe away This bloody sweat, and thou shalt find on earth. That woman is not all in all to Love, But, living by a new and second birth. Thy soul shall see all things below, above. Grow bright and brighter to the perfect day. V. CHILD of Nature ! most meek and free. Most gentle spirit of true nobleness ! Thou doest not a worthy deed the less Because the world may not its greatness see ; What were a thousand triumphings to thee. Who, in thyself, art as a perfect sphere Wrapt in a bright and natural atmosphere Of mighty-souledness and majesty ? Thy soul is not too high for lowly things. Feels not its strength seeing its brother weak, Not for itself unto itself is dear. But for that it may guide the wanderings Of fellow-men, and to their spirits speak The lofty faith of heart that knows no fear. VI. '' For this true nobleness I seek in vain. In woman and in man I find it not, I almost weary of my earthly lot, My life-springs are dried up with burning pain/'— Thou find'st it not ? I pray thee look again. Look i7iivard through the depths of thine own soul ; How is it with thee ? Art thou sound and whole ? Doth narrow search show thee no earthly stain ? 432 SONNETS. Be noble ! and the nobleness that lies In other men, sleeping but never dead, "Will rise in majesty to meet thine own ; Then wilt thou see it gleam in many eyes, Then will pure light around thy path be shed. And thou wilt nevermore be sad and lone. VII. TO Deem it no Sodom-fruit of vanity, Or fickle fantasy of unripe youth Which ever takes the fairest shows for truth. That I should wish my verse beloved of thee ; ^T is love's deep thirst which may not quenched be There is a gulf of longing and unrest, A wild love-craving not to be represt, Whereto, in all our hearts, as to the sea, The streams of feeling do for ever flow. Therefore it is that thy well-meted praise Falleth so shower-like and fresh on me, Filling those springs which else had sunk full low. Lost in the dreary desert-sands of woe, Or parched by passion's fierce and withering blaze. VIII. Might I but be beloved, and, most fair And perfect-ordered soul, beloved of thee. How should I feel a cloud of earthly care. If thy blue eyes were ever clear to me ? O woman's Jove ! flower most bright and rare ! That blossom'st brightest in extremest need. Woe, woe is me ! that thy so precious seed Is ever sown by Fancy's changeful air. SONNETS. 433 And grows sometimes in poor and barren hearts. Who can be little even in the light Of thy meek holiness — while souls more great Are left to wander in a starless night, Praying unheard — and yet the hardest parts Befit those best who best can cope with Fate. IX. Why should we ever weary of this life ? Our souls should widen ever, not contract. Grow stronger, and not harder, in the strife, Filling each moment with a noble act ; If we live thus, of vigor all compact, Doing our duty to our fellow-men, And striving rather to exalt our race Than our poor selves, with earnest hand or pen We shall erect our names a dwelling-place Which not all ages shall cast down agen ; Offspring of Time shall then be born each hour. Which, as of old, earth lovingly shall guard, To live forever in youth's perfect flower. And guide her future children Heavenward. X. GREEK MOUNTAIN'S. Ye mountains, that far off lift up your heads. Seen dimly through their canopies of blue. The shade of my unrestful spirit sheds Distance-created beauty over you ; I am not well content with this far view ; How may I know what foot of loved-one treads Your rocks moss-grown and sun-dried torrent beds ? We should love all things better, if we knew 28 ^34 SONNETS. What claims the meanest have upon our hearts : Perchance even now some eye, that would be bright To meet my own, looks on your mist-robed forms ; Perchance your grandeur a deep joy imparts To souls that have encircled mine with light — brother-heart, with thee my spirit warms ! XI. My friend, adown Life's valley, hand in hand, With grateful change of grave and merry speech Or song, our hearts unlocking each to each. We '11 journey onward to the silent land ; And when stern Death shall loose that loving band. Taking in his cold hand a hand of ours. The one shall strew the other's grave with flowers, Nor shall his heart a moment be unmanned. My friend and brother ! if thou goest first. Wilt thou no more re-visit me below ? Yea, when my heart seems happy, causelessly And swells, not dreaming why, as it would burst With joy unspeakable — my soul shall know That thou, unseen, art bending over me. XII. Verse cannot say how beautiful thou art. How glorious the calmness of thine eyes. Full of unconquerable energies. Telling that thou hast acted well thy part. No doubt or fear thy steady faith can start. No thought of evil dare come nigh to thee. Who hast the courage meek of purity. The self-stayed greatness of a loving heart. Strong with serene, enduring fortitude ; Where'er tjiou art, that seems thy fitting plaet. SONNETS. 48g For not of forms, but Nature, art thou child ; And lowest things put on a noble grace When touched by ye, patient, Ruth-like, mild And spotless hands of earnest womanhood. XIII. The soul would fain its loving kindness tell, But custom hangs like lead upon the tongue ; The heart is brimful, hollow crowds among. When it finds one whose life and thought are well ; Up to the eyes its gushing love doth swell, The angel cometh and the waters move. Yet it is fearful still to say " I love,*^ And words come grating as a jangled bell. might we only speak but what we feel, Might the tongue pay but what the heart doth owe, Not Heaven's great thunder, when, deep peal on peal. It shakes the earth, could rouse our spirits so, Or to the soul such majesty reveal, As two short words half -spoken faint and low ! XIV. 1 SAW a gate : a harsh voice spake and said, *' This is the gate of Life ; " above was writ, *' Leave hope behind, all ye who enter it ;'' Then shrank my heart within itself for dread ; But, softer than the summer rain is shed, Words dropt upon my soul, and they did say, *' Fear nothing, Faith shall save thee, watch and pray ! " So, without fear I lifted up my head, And lo ! that writing was not, one fair word Was carven in its stead, and it was ^' Love." 436 SONNETS. Then rained once more those sweet tones from above With healing on their wings : I humbly heard, ^' I am the Life, ask and it shall be given ! I am the way, by me ye enter Heaven ! " XV. I WOULD not have this perfect love of ours Grow from a single root, a single stem. Bearing no goodly fruit, but only flowers That idly hide Lifers iron diadem : It should grow alway like that Eastern tree Whose limbs take root and spread forth constantly ; That love for one, from which there doth not spring Wide love for all, is but a worthless thing. Not in another world, as poets prate. Dwell we apart, above the tide of things. High floating o'er earth's clouds on faery wings ; But onr pure love doth ever elevate Into a holy bond of brotherhood All earthly things, making them pure and good. XVI. To the dark, narrow house where loved ones go. Whence no steps outward turn, whose silent door None but the sexton knocks at any more, Are they not sometimes with us yet below ? The longings of the soul would tell us so ; Although, so pure and flne their being's essence. Our bodily eyes are witless of their presence. Yet not within the tomb their spirits glow, Like wizard lamps pent up, but whensoever With great thoughts worthy of their high behests Our souls are filled, those bright ones with us be. As, in the patriarch's tent, his angel guests ; — SONNETS. 437 let us live so worthily, that never We may be far from that blest company. XVII. 1 FAIN" vv^oiild give to thee the loveliest things, For lovely things belong to thee of right. And thou hast been as peaceful to my sight, As the still thoughts that summer twilight brings ; Beneath the shadow of thine angel wings let me live ! let me rest in thee. Growing to thee more and more utterly. Upbearing and upborne, till outward things Are only as they share in thee a part ! Look kindly on me, let thy holy eyes Bless me from the deep fulness of thy heart ; So shall my soul in its right strength arise. And nevermore shall pine and shrink and start. Safe-sheltered in thy full-souled sympathies. XVIII. Much I had mused of Love, and in my soul There was one chamber where I dared not look, So much its dark and dreary voidness shook My spirit, feeling that I was not whole : All my deep longings flowed toward one goal For long, long years, but were not answered. Till Hope was drooping, Faith well-nigh stone-dead. And I was still a blind, earth-delving mole ; Yet did I know that God was wise and good, And would fulfil my being late or soon ; Nor was such thought in vain, for, seeing thee. Great Love rose up, as, o'er a black pine wood, Round, bright, and clear, upstarteth the full moon, Filling my soul with glory utterly. 438 SONNETS. XIX. Sayest thou, most beautiful, that thou wilt wear Flowers and leafy crowns when thou art old, And that thy heart shall never grow so cold But they shall love to wreath thy silvered hair And into age's snows the hope of spring-tide bear ? 0, in thy childlike wisdom's moveless hold Dwell ever ! still the blessings manifold Of purity, of peace, and untaught care For other's hearts, around thy pathway shed. And thou shalt have a crown of deathless flowers To glorify and guard thy blessed head And give their freshness to thy life's last hours ; And, when the Bridegroom calleth, they shall be A wedding-garment white as snow for thee. XX. Poet ! who sittest in thy pleasant room, Warming thy heart with idle thoughts of love, And of a holy life that leads above, Striving to keep life's spring-flowers still in bloom. And lingering to snuff their fresh perfume — 0, there were other duties meant for thee. Than to sit down in peacefulness and Be ! 0, there are brother-hearts that dwell in gloom. Souls loathsome, foul, and black with daily sin, So crusted o'er with baseness, that no ray Of heaven's blessed light may enter in ! Come down, then, to the hot and dusty way. And lead them back to hope and peace again — For, save in Act, thy Love is all in vain. SONNETS. 439 XXI. *' NO MORE BUT SO ? ^' No more but so ? Only with uncold looks. And with a hand not laggard to clasp mine, Think'st thou to pay what debt of love is thine ? No more but so ? Like gushing water- orooKs, Freshening and making green the dimmest nooks Of thy friend^s soul thy kindliness should flow ; But, if ^t is bounded by not saying " no,'' I can find more of friendship in my books, All lifeless though they be, and more, far more In every simplest moss, or flower, or tree ; Open to me thy heart of hearts^ deep core. Or never say that I am dear to thee ; Call me not Friend, if thou keep close the door That leads into thine inmost sympathy. XXII. TO A VOICE HEARD IN" MOUNT AUBURN. Like the low warblings of a leaf -hid bird. Thy voice came to me through the screening trees. Singing the simplest, long-known melodies ; I had no glimpse of thee, and yet I heard And blest thee for each clearly-carolled word ; I longed to thank thee, and my heart would frame Mary or Ruth, some sisterly, sweet name For thee, yet could I not my lips have stirred ; I knew that thou wert lovely, that thine eyes Were blue and downcast, and methought large tears. Unknown to thee, up to their lids must rise With half-sad memories of other years, 440 SONNETS. As to thyself alone thou sangest o'er Words that to childhood seemed to say ''No More!" XXIII. ON" READING SPENSER AGAIN. Dear, gentle Spenser ! thou my soul dost lead, A little child again, through Fairy land, By many a bower and stream of golden sand. And many a sunny plain whose light doth breed A sunshine in my happy heart, and feed My fancy with sweet visions ; I become A knight, and with my charmed arms would roam To seek for fame in many a wondrous deed Of high emprise — for I have seen the light Of Una's angel's face, the golden hair ^ And backward eyes of startled Florimel ; i And, for their holy sake, I would outdare A host of cruel Paynims in the fight, Or Archimage and all the powers of Hell. XXIV. Light of mine eyes ! with thy so trusting look. And thy sweet smile of charity and love. That from a treasure well u plaid above, And from a hope in Christ its blessing took ; Light of my heart ! which, when it could not brook The coldness of another's sympathy. Finds ever a deep peace and stay in thee. Warm as the sunshine of a mossy nook ; Light of my soul ! who, by thy saintliness And faith that acts itself in daily life. Canst raise me above weakness, and canst bless The hardest thraldom of my earthly strife — SONNETS. 441 I dare not say how much thon art to me Even to myself — and 0, far less to thee ! XXV. Silent as one who treads on new-fallen snow. Love came upon me ere I was aware ; Not light of heart, for there was troublous care Upon his eyelids, drooping them full low. As with sad memory of a healed woe ; The cold rain shivered in his golden hair. As if an outcast lot had been his share, And he seemed doubtful whither he should go : Then he fell on my neck, and, in my breast Hiding his face, awhile sobbed bitterly. As half in grief to be so long distrest. And half in joy at his security — At last, uplooking from his place of rest. His eyes shone blessedness and hope on me. XXYI. A GENTLENESS that grows of steady faith ; A joy that sheds its sunshine everywhere ; A humble strength and readiness to bear Those burthens which strict duty everlay'th Upon our soals ; — which unto sorrow saith, ^' Here is no soil for thee to strike thy roots, Here only grow those sweet and precious fruits ; Which ripen for the soul that well obey^th ; A patience which the world can neither give Nor take away ; a courage strong and high, That dares in simple usefulness to live. And without one sad look behind to die 442 SONNETS. When that day comes ; — these tell me that our lovt Is building for itself a home above. XXVII. When the glad soul is full to overflow, Unto the tongue all power it denies. And only trusts its secret to the eyes ; For, by an inborn wisdom, it doth know There is no other eloquence but so ; And, when the tongue's weak utterance doth suffice. Prisoned within the body's cell it lies, Remembering in tears its exiled woe : That word w^hich all mankind so long to hear. Which bears the spirit back to whence it came, Maketh the sullen clay as crystal clear. And will not be enclouded in a name ; It is a truth which we can feel and see But is as boundless as Eternity. XXVIII. TO THE EVENING-STAR. When we have once said lowly '^Evening-Star!'' Words give no more — for, in thy silver pride. Thou shinest as nought else can shine beside ; The thick smoke, coiling round the sooty bar Forever, and the customed lamp-light mar The stillness of my thought — seeing things glide So samely : — then I ope my windows wide. And gaze in peace to where thou shin'sfc afar. The wind that comes across the faint-white snow So freshly, and the river dimly seen, Seem like new things that never had been so SONNETS. 443 Before ; and thou art bright as thou hast been Since thy white rays put sweetness in the eyeis Of the first souls that loved in Paradise. XXIX. EEADIKG. As one who on some well-known landscape looks. Be it alone, or with some dear friend nigh. Each day beholdeth fresh variety, New harmonies of hills, and trees, and brooks — So is it with the worthiest choice of books. And oftenest read : if thou no meaning spy. Deem there is meaning wanting in thine eyes ; We are so lured from judgment by the crooks And winding ways of covert fantasy. Or turned unwittingly down beaten tracks Of our foregone conclusions, that we see. In our own want, the writer's misdeemed lacks : It is with true books as with Nature, each New day of living doth new insight teach, XXX. TO , AFTER A SNOW-STORM. Blue as thine eyes the river gently flows Between his banks, which, far as eye can see. Are whiter than aught else on earth may be, Save mmost thoughts that in thy soul repose ; The trees, all crystalled by the melted snows, Sparkle with gems and silver, such as we In childhood saw 'mong groves of Faerie, And the dear skies are sunuy-blue as those ; 444 SONNETS. Still as thy heart, when next mine own it lies In love's full safety, is the bracing air ; The earth is all enwrapt with draperies Snow-white as that pure love might choose to wear — for one moment's look into thine eyes, To share the joy such scene would kindle there ! SONNETS ON NAMES. I. EDITH. A Lily with its frail cup filled with dew, Down-bending modestly, snow-white and pale. Shedding faint fragrance round its native vale. Minds me of thee, Sweet Edith, mild and true, And of thy eyes so innocent and blue, Thy heart is fearful as a startled hare. Yet hath in it a fortitude to bear For Love's sake, and a gentle faith which grew Of Love : need of a stay whereon to lean, Felt in thyself, hath taught thee to uphold And comfort others, and to give, unseen. The kindness thy still love cannot withhold . Maiden, I would my sister thou hadst been. That round thee I my guarding arms might fold. II. ROSE. My ever-lightsome, ever-laughing Rose, Who always speakest first and thinkest last. Thy full voice is as clear as bugle-blast ; Right from the ear down to the heart it goes And says, '^ I'm beautiful ! as who but knows ?^ Thy name reminds me of old romping days, 445 446 SONNETS ON NAMES. Of kisses stolen in dark passage-ways. Or in the parlor, if the mother-nose Gave sign of drowsy watch. I wonder where Are gone thy tokens, given with a glance So full of everlasting love till morrow. Or a day's endless grieving for the dance Last night denied, backed with a lock of hair. That spake of broken hearts and deadly sorrow III. MAKY. Dark hair, dark eyes — not too dark to be deep And fnll of feeling, yet enongh to glow "With fire when angered ; feelings never slow. But which seem rather watching to forthleap From her full breast ; a gently-flowing sweep Of words in common talk, a torrent-rush. Whenever through her soul swift feelings gush, A heart less ready to be gay than weep, Yet cheerful ever ; a calm matron-smile. That bids God bless you ; a chaste simpleness. With somewhat, too, of '^^ proper pride,'* in dress This portrait to my mind's eye came, the while I thought of thee, the well-grown woman Mary, Whilome a gold-haired, laughing little fairy. IV. CAROLINE. A STAIDNESS sobers o'er her pretty face. Which something but ill-hidden in her eyes, And a quaint look about her lips denies ; A lingering love of girlhood you can trace SONNETS ON NAMES. U7 In her checked hiugh and half-restrained pace ; And, when she bears herself most womanly, It seems as if a watchful mother's eye Kept down with sobering glance her childish grace : Yet oftentimes her nature gushes free As water long held back by little hands. Within a pump, and let forth suddenly. Until, her task remembering, she stands A moment silent, smiling doubtfully. Then laughs aloud and scorns her hated bands. V. ANKE. There is a pensiveness in quiet Anne, A mournful drooping of the full gray eye. As if she had shook hands with misery, And known some care since her short life began ; Her cheek is seriously pale, nigh wan. And, though of cheerfulness there is no lack, You feel as if she must be dressed in black ; Yet is she not of those who, all they can. Strive to be gay, and striving, seem most sad — Hers is not grief, but silent soberness ; You would be startled if you saw her glad. And startled if you saw her weep, no less ; She walks through life, as, on the Sabbath day. She decorously glides to church to pray. THE END. A. L. BURrS PUBLICATIONS For Young People BY POPULAR WRITERS, 52-58 Duane Street, New York. Bonnie Prince Charlie : A Tale of Fontenoy and Culloden. By G. A. Henty. With 13 full-page Illustrations by GORDON Browne. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. The adventures of the son of a Scotch officer in Fr^-nch service. The boy, brought up by a Glasgow bailie, is a rested for aiding a Jacobite agent, escapes, is wrecked on the French coast, reaches Paris, and serves with the French army at Dettingen. He kills his father's foe in a duel, and escaping to the coast, shares the adventures of Prince Charlie, but finally settles happily in Scot- land. " Ronald, the hero, is very like the hero of * Quentin Durward.' The lad's journey across France, and his hairbreadth escapes, make up as good a nar- rative of the kind as we have ever read. For freshness of treatment and variety of incident Mr. Henty has surpassed himself.'' — Spectator. With Clive in India; or, the Beginnings of an Empire. By G. A. Henty. With 12 full-page Illustrations by Gordon Browne. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. The period between the landing of Clive as a young writer in India and the close of his career was critical and eventful in the extreme. At its commencement the English were traders existing on sufferance of the native princes. At its close they were masters of Bengal and >f the greater part of Southern India. The author has given a full and accurate account of the events of that stirring time, and battles and sieges follow each other in rapid succession, while he combines with his narrative a tale of daring and adven- ture, which gives a lifelike interest to the volume. " He has taken a period of Indian Listory of the most vital importance, and he has embroidered on the historical facts a story which of itself is deeply interesting. Young people assuredly will be delighted with the volume. " — Scotsvian. The Lion of the North : A Tale of Gustavus Adolphus and the Wars of Religion. By G. A. Henty. With full-page Illus- trations by John Schonberg. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. In this story Mr. Hen y gives the history of the first i art of the Thirty Years' War. The issue had its importance, which has ex- tended to the present day, as it established religious freedom in Germany. The army of the chivalrous king of Sweden was largely composed of Scotchmen, and among these was the hero of the story. " The tale is a clever and instructive piece of history, and as boys may be trusted tp rea4 it conscientiously, they can hardly fail to be profited."— riwie* A. L. BURT'S PUBLICATIONS. The Dragon and the Raven; or, The Days of King Alfred. By G. A. Henty. With full-page Illustrations by C. J. Stani- LAND, R.I. 12mo, cloth, price |1. 00. In this story the author gives an account of the fierce struggle between Saxon and Dane for supremacy in England, and presents a vivid picture of the misery and ruin to which the country was reduced by the ravages of the sea-wolves. The hero, a young Saxon thane, takes part in all the battles fought by King Alfred. He is driven from his home, takes to the sea and resists the Danes on their own element, and being pursued by them up the Seine, is present at the long and desperate siege of Paris. " Treated in a manner most attractive to the boyish reader.''^— Athenceum. The Young Carthaginian : A Story of the Times of Hannibal. By G. A. Henty. With full-page Illustrations by C. J. Stani- LAND, R.I. 13mo, cloth, price $1.00. Boys reading the history of the Punic Wars have seldom a keen appreciation of the merits of the contest. That it was at first a struggle for empire, and afterward for existence on the part of Carthage, that Hannibal vv^as a great and skillful general, that he defeated the Romans at Trebia, Lake Trasimenus, and Cannae, and all but took Rome, represents pretty nearly the sum total of their knowledge. To let them know more about this momentous struggle for the empire of the world Mr. Henty has written this story, which not only gives in graphic style a brilliant descrip- tion of a most interesting period of history, but is a tale of ex- citing adventure sure to secure the interest of the reader. " Well constructed and vividly told. From first to last nothing stays the interest of the narrative. It bears us along as on a Jstream whose current varies in direction, but never loses its force." — Saturday Review. In Freedom's Cause : A Story of Wallace and Bruce. ByG. A. Henty. With full-page Illustrations by Gordon Browne. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. In this story the author relates the stirring tale of the Scottish War of Independence. The extraordinary valor and personal prowess of Wallace and Bruce rival the deeds of the mythical heroes of chivalry, and indeed at one time Wallace was ranked with these legendary personages. The researches of modern historians have shown, however, that he was a living, breathing man — and a valiant champion. The hero of the tale fought under both Wallace and Bruce, and while the strictest historical accuracy has been maintained with respect to public events, the work is full of "hairbreadth 'scapes " and wild adventure. " It is written in the author's best style. Full of the wildest and most re- markable achievements, it is a tale of great interest, which a boy, once he has begun it, will not willingly put on one side.'"— 27ie Schoolmaster. A. L. BURT'S PUBLICATIONS. With Lee in Virginia : A Story of the American Civil War. By G. A. Henty. With full-page Illustrations by Gordon Browne. 12ino, cloth, price $1.00. The story of a young Virginian planter, who, after bravely proving his sympathy with the slaves of brutal masters, serves with no less courage and enthusiasm under Lee and Jackson through the most exciting events of the struggle. He has many hairbreadth escapes, is seveial times wounded and twice taken prisoner; but his courage and readiness and, in two cases, the devotion of a black servant and of a runaway slave whom he had assisted, bring him safely through all difficulties. " One of the best stories for lads which Mr. Henty has yet written. The picture is full of Ufa and color, and the stirring and romantic incidents are skillfully blended with the personal interest and charm of the story." — Standard. By England's Aid ; or. The Freeing of the Netherlands (1585- 1604). By G. A. Henty. With full-page Illustrations by Alfred Pearse, and Maps. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. The story of two English lads who go to Holland as pages in the service of one of " the fighting Veres." After many adven- tures by sea and land, one of the lads finds himself on board a Spanish ship at the time of the defeat of the Armada, and escapes only to fall into the hands of the Corsairs. He is successful in getting back to Spain under the protection of a wealthy merchant, and regains his native country after the capture of Cadiz. " It is an admirable book for youngsters. It overflows with stirrirg inci- dent and exciting adventure, and the color of the era and of the sc^ne are finely reproduced. The illustrations add to its attractiveness."— Posfon Gazette. By Right of Conquest ; or, With Cortez in Mexico. By G. A. Henty. With full-page Illustrations by W. S. Stagey, and Two Maps. 13mo, cloth, price $1.50. The conquest of Mexico by a small band of resolute men under the magnificent leadership of Cortez is always rightly ranked among the most romantic and daring exploits in history. With this as the groundwork of his story Mr. Henty has interwoven the adventures of an English youth, Roger Hawkshaw, the sole sur- vivor of the good ship Swan, which had sailed from a Devon port to challenge the mercantile supremacy o*" the Spaniards in the New World. He is beset by many perils among the natives, but is saved by his own judgment and strength, and by the devotion of an Aztec princess. At last by a ruse he obtains the protection of the Spaniards, and after the fall of Mexico he succeeds in re- gaining his native shore, with a fortune and a charming Aztec bride. " ' By Right of Conquest ' is the nearest approach to a perfectly successful historical tale that Mr. Henty has yet published."— ^icademy. A. L. BURT'S PUBLICATIONS. In the Reign of Terror : The Adventures of a Westminster Boy. By G. A. Henty. With full-page Illustrations by J. Sch6n- BERG. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. Harry Sandwith, a Westminster boy, becomes a resident at the chateau of a French marquis, and afttr various adventures accom- panies the family to Paris at the crisis of the Revolution. Im- prisonment and death reduce their number, and the hero finds himself beset by perils vs^ith the three young daughters of the house in his charge. After hairbreadth escapes they reach Nan- tes. There the ^irls are condemned to death in the coffin-ships, but are saved by the unfailing courage of their boy protector. " Harry Sandwith, the Westminster boy, may fairly be said to beat Mr. Henty's record. His adventures will delight boys by the audacity and peril they depict. . . . The story is one of Mr. Henty 's best.'"— ^Saturday Review. With Wolfe in Canada ; or. The Winning of a C^ontinent. By G. A. Henty. With full -page Illustrations by Gordon Browne. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. In the present volume Mr. Henty gives an account of the strug- gle between Britain and France for supremacy in the North American continent. On the issue of this war depended not only the d