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The Chorister, 5 The Young Hunter and the Fawn, . .15 The Traveller's Return, 20 The Spring, 25 Ode 32 To Wagner 35 After a June Night's Storm, ► ... 36 Song for Idlers, ,. 3& Song of the Sailor's Wife 40 The Last Dream, 41 POEMS. I. THE CHORISTER. o < j Twas Easter morn. The sanctuary long Had ope'd its doors to the fast ent'ring throng, Which soon had filled each space where seat was found, And e'en stood ranged, deep-row*d, expectant round. Magnificent assembly! Varied, tho\ Its aspect was, as it was grand in show. For congregated there were gathered all Who in that day saw Freedom's broken thrall ; And many more beside, of every heart. Some to take earnest and some trivial part; For as each one the season's gifts did price. Each came with hearts attuned to sacrifice: Gay Pleasure's priestesses and Fashion's fawn. Who only blessed the day because withdrawn Then was dull Lent's drear mask of penitence. Which forty fretful days the radiance Of their loved deities had hid from view; Enchanting, haughty, sweeping to their pew. Came Beauty, Pride and Wealth, to whom the time Seemed one for joy because spring's gentler clime, Succeeding sombre winter, ope'd fresh ways. THE CHORISTER. By decking out in all soft, rich arrays, To wake new rapture, envyings and awe; While back in shadows, scarce within the door, Stood those who this dark life's worst burdens bear,*— Sorrow and want, — the poor. What did they there ? Surely to them the day brought no great joy ! It freed them not from poverty's annoy, Nor lifted sorrow's burden from their breasts. Save, 'chance, that while the hour they stood as guests In that high house, some gentler spirit of peace — Instilled with music and perfumes that cease Not to rise from the trembling organ reed And the lilies and sweet blooms rich banked* and spread Round chancel and round fane — with subtle charm, Shed o'er their troubled souls a transient calm. There men and youths, from pleasure brief unbound. Passed whispered jests or light-smiled greetings round; There, too, was sneer-lipped Infidelity, Gazing upon the scene with faithless eye And smile of scorn, forgetful that his own High-patterned life is possible alone Because the light of God's benignant law Through ages past hath drawn, and still doth draw, This moth-eyed and weak world into its rays. Lighting the paths to heaven-leading ways ; Forgetting that his wisdom hath upgrown From seed that in dim historied time was sown. In patience planted, by lives for God lived firm. These seeds' rare fruits, of century-ripened term. He plucks, and on their health imbibed grown strong, I. ^ f THE CHORISTER. } Employs health's restless strength to find whence sprung Wide virtue's tree whose bough doth nourish him. With human memory we&k and reason dim — Which are themselves faulty reflections faint From that One Source of Light with which acquaint He strives with crooked vanity to be — He, with eye distance-dimmed, essays to see, And seeinj^, mark and trace with sure descry, Amid the foliage thick-webbed on high. The proper stem and twig and bough and branch. Back to the Root of All from which all launch. So some do seek ; but while the tangled twine Aloft, with 'magined sight and judgment fine, They thread, — following false lines seeming true, And curving courses, which, while they pursue, Seem straight, — their unwatched feet, with faulty stride. And many a 'wildered slip and stumble wide. Lead them through sloughs, 'gainst thorn and bruising rock, Bringing them toil and cruel stab and shock. Till, line all gone, weary, despairing, sick. Lost in the forest of their fancies thick. They hopeless die ; and some of hardier mind. But wiser none, when they at last do find Their search, keen led with all the trusted light Of learning's lamp, with logic'd step aright Fruitless to follow virtue through time's shroud. Turn in presumptuousness of spirit, proud In man's paltry knowledge of five thousand years. And God and Heaven, and all the healthy fears And blessed hopes thereto connect, abjure ; 8 THE CHORISTER. % Declaring that what good doth now inure To child of man, spontaneous did spring, Was fostered, and now fruits in that base ring Of soil, — which of itself ne'er bore but weeds Of folly, or the rank and poison beads Of evil's choking vine, — the human heart. Ah ! ye vain fools who take such haughty part For majesty of man ! Why do ye rend From him his attribute of noblest bend ; And turn on him your ignorant, vandal shears. Clipping his bough of the best bloom it bears, Pure Faith ? — faith, whose essence, whose fairest flower Is sweet belief past human sight's poor power : When Reason faints, Trust bright-eyed still on tower. But oh, my Muse, return to gentler themes ! Sure some beneath those rainbow-tinctured beams That crept and blazed through yon bright sculptured glass. Sure some within those holy doors did pass With proper mind ? — sweet maids of simple way, And boys free, fresh and fair as morn in Ma}** ; The new made widow seeking in her grief For some dim understood, far off relief ; Gray men, still toiled-tossed, longing still for rest ; These, like the poor, came with half ready breast ; And last — ^but oh, how sadly few were they ! Were those who came to worship and to pray ; Whose gentle mien and humble, reverent care, Seemed to ray out a peace upon the air, A tranquil breath, within whose circle small A quiet hush dropped softly upon all. But list ! that hush is spreading, and still spreads ! < THE CHORISTER, The rustling multitude, like barley heads Kissed by day's dying breath, did shift and bow, Trembled, and then hung motionless ; for now, Commencing faint in distant alcoves dim, Rose the first notes of the procession hym". Soft, sweet, yet clear they came ; soft as a bell Sounding on summer eve from some far dell Where peaceful hamlet lies ; clear as a horn Heard wound o'er Alpine vale at wake of morn ; Sweet as the bird of sorrow's tend'rest note, When, pressing to the thorn her gentle throat. She to the stars warbles her song of wor. So woke the strains ; but they did ever gi ow And swell, falling but louder yet to prove, As with slow march th' advancing c ioir did move Thtouiih rrcess'd room and secret cell, u. til The cloister opened, and straightway aid fill The whole grand lofty square such flood '^f song As our dull souls imagine that bright throng Struck forth, which hov'ring o*er Judea's plain. The night-bound shepherds charmed. On trod train. Their robes of sabled snow brushing the crowd Which rearward pressed upon the aisles, while loud And louder, full of every grand and rich Involvement of sweet sound, with every pitch Of harmony's infinite subtleties Which Orpheus-taught musician, from the keys And pipes of organ, from loud tubes of brass. From bow-swept strings, the silver flute's soft pass. And the vocal reed of man, could skillful weld, — With such rich range of music's wealth upswelled m %\ the il lO THE CHORISTER, The mighty anthem, a w;^ve of melody, A rolling torrent of tune, a grand, a free, A glorious peal of praise. Of praise ? That form And fine array of pomp, that finer storm Of harmony, — was all that praise ? Ah no, 'Twas all a mockery ! 'Twas al? a show. Not for God's glory, but for man's delight ! How could that hymn ascend to heaven's height If no hearts bore it there ? And oh, alas ! How many hearts, in all that human mass, Turned heavenward that anthem to upraise ? (And if the heart doth not no lip can praise). For those who sat with silent breathed lungs , But made a mock of praise through other's tongues ; And those who sang, — ^ah ! listless seemed their eyes, Steps dull, and all their manner otherwise Than spirit held ! And why not so ? They did A duty well ; and if at their trained bid. Music bestowed her every precious gift, 'Twas task enough. Then to assume and lift Those strains with soulful service to heaven's gate,. Were meet for those who soft in cushions sate. But they, poor victims of a hungry pride, A flattered ear, a love of ease allied To laziness, or aught that hobbles man, Teth'ring his powers in an oft' cropped span. Each to his little clayey idol clung. Nor sought to rise to free those notes that rung In lingering echoes round the gilded roof, Waiting with heaven-bound hearts to wing aloof — Waiting the chariots that never came. But stay, my hasty mind ! thine is the blame THE CHORISTER. IX Of those who, stubborn beut on censure, do, In blaming many, o*er look the noble few. How knowest thou but that thy travelling sight, In that great throng did miss the secret flight Of some good hearts ? — for ever noblest good Doth hide her head 'neath secrecy's large hood. Perchance that very robed, melodius line Of singers did contain some natures fine With hearts too noble from their tongues to part ; — For turn of manners points not every heart. Yea, e'en among the foremost of the fore. Where no just eye could ever have passed o'er And failed to notice him, there stepped a youth, A boy of rosy years, who, if forsooth Eye ever spake or poised head did hint. Was spirited above the common tint. His brow and reverent eyes were raised to heaven. His useless, well con'd print was never given A glance, but hung loose-clasped by his side ; His soul gave motion to his lips, their tide Of sweetness having that full, tender reach Of sympathy which only souls can teach. Ah, 'twas a sight no stern censorious frown Dare wrinkle on ! 'Twould draw joy's bright tears down From smiling angels' eyes ! But oh ! the sound. When Silence laid her deadening finger round On voice and instrument, till, company By company and chord by chord, did die To dumbness all their notes, save his alone ! Ah, then, and only then, was full made known Their single loveliness : e'en as the lark. 19 THE CHORISTER. H f Singing to coax the bright sun from his dark House of clouds when the June shower is past, But yet while still upon the sinking blast The remnant thunders roll, cannot be heard In all the music her sweet voice hath stirred, Till heaven's tremendous symphony is hushed. Thus, when to silence that great song was crushed. The lad's voice rose, exquisite in relief Upon the stillness. Ah ! if ever grief Could enter heaven, then would it have come in. Led by that strongest, smallest of all sin — That bland and smooth lieutenant Satan sends When other deputies, to gain his ends Of evil, all have ^failed — the subtle, sly. Insidious envy ; for the hosts on high, That faultless, tireless celestial choir, Might well have grieved, envying earth such fire And spirit of true song as that young voice Poured richly forth ; — not that it was more choice In tone, sweeter in accent, or more clear Than song that many a mortal tongue could rear ; Yet in each note such tenderness did dwell. As forced the ear to hark with honeyed spell, While every word such freight of feeling bore. As thrilled the heart and left it yearning sore Within itself for loftier nobleness. Such magic it did hold that it could dress With beauteous images the dullest brain That heard ; could ease of half its guilty pain The blackest heart : and in the arctic soul Could cause love's sun to rise again and roll The icy fogs of selfishness away. THE CHORISTER. Thaw mercy's spring and make its waters play In generous surfeit o*er its melting cup, And at each other virtue's roots warm up The sap of life once more, making them all, From charity's great oak, towering tall, To the sweet violet of pity, bloom Into full loveliness and sweet perfume, Filling a soul, once waste, with verdure rare ; Turning Sahara into Eden fair. Sure these were wonders, wondrous wonders ! Yet, Like many a seeming marvel that doth set Earth's wise to vainly beat high heaven o'er To find its cause, a cause which at the door Of their own vision plain in view doth lie — Too plain, alas, for note of learned eye ! — They were not wrought by the mysterions touch Of any mighty power divine ; not such Their origin ; but their creation came From cause which no divinity could claim. Unless divineness lies in rarity, And whose best might was in simplicity : This was the cause of all, and this alone — A human heart and human soul at one ; For such a heart that young child's breast did bear, And such a soul was dwelling also there. Sweet child ! Sign of promise, emblem of hope For future man, of all his strife the scope And final goal ! God's steward upon ea^th ! Would that thy song's great stream had had a girth Wide as this whirling globe's ; a life and motion Deathless and ceaseless as the beat of ocean ! So might the lips of every human ear IS I i 14 THE CHORISTER, I) V k Be ever plunged deep within its clear, Life-giving waters, drinking in their strength, Till every heart should feel along the length Of all its arteries and veins the thrill Of purging power ; feel the fresh blood fill Each scummed and reeking marsh and stagnant pool, Before its flushing torrent, sweet and cool, Sweeping their filth and heating poisons out. Making each alley, duct and channel spout With sanguine streams full, healthy, rich and bright As the swift rills, that, 'neath the dazzling light Of June's unclouded sun and blue heaven's steeps, Dart from their parent springs' green, moss-lined deeps; Making the heart itself all undefiled. And pulsing pure as heart of little child. Then might at last man, finished, perfect, creep From his outgrown cocoon, his weary sleep In wisdom blind and blinder love complete. And in the perfect love, whose two-fold seat Would be within the heart and in the soul, Making concordant peace in both, a whole From what were former warring parts, commence His happy life ; his fears and griefs fled hence ; His long, self- waged rebellion at an end ; Himself in peace unto himself surrend, His own arch foe no more, but his own friend. 2. THE YOUNG HUNTER AND THE FAWN, Far in a wide and silent forest's shade, Upon a thick and fragrant bed of moss, Whose thousand tiny, sweet and tangled flowers Were stained with blood, that from its wounded breast Did ebb away, a gentle faun did lie; And from its quivering lips and panting side, Its short and painful breath came gasping forth. Blowing sweet incense soft upon the palm Of a young lad, who, in his tender hand, Bore up upon his lap its drooping head, — The author and the pitier of its plight. For 'twas that hand that but a space before Had loosed the deadly dart into that breast Which now lay throbbing 'neath his eye. And yet ' Twas not a wanton hand or cruel eye That there did knee!; for one. in misty dews Of sweet compassion had dimmed its wonted light,. The while the other from the unslung horn Had cast its deadly charges to the wind, And at some sought out spring its hollow curves. Had filled with water cool, the which it now Unto that bleeding breast did softly lave. And while he thus did minister, his tongue, A melancholy sadness sitting there, Did gently thus the double office do Of penitent and mourner: " Thou sweet child,. 11 I i m ft ' I' :1:l i6 THE YOUNG HUNTER AND THE FA1VN. i! i \ \\ '[ Thou dumb infant of the wood! Alas» Poor hapless animal, that life so young, So free, so shy, so fragile as thine own, Should be so rudely spent ! 'Tis pity great, That here, where Nature doth heir store-house make For all her peace and quiet, — even here Must busy man intrude, and with his Coming Bring pain and W6e where neither was before. But yet I am not all without defence. Let those faint, drooping ears hear my poor cause.- Hear with charity, with mercy judge; For charity, widfe as it is, could ne'er Cloak up my huge and hideous fault alone. Nay! turn not up such soft reproachful eyes ! Oh ! I would rather meet the flaming eye Burning above the hungry, armored jaw Of some fierce beast, with stealthy crouching paw And lashing tail, watching me for its prey. Than look into those pure and purple depths That make me feel so like a murderer. Alas, had these dim lights that are mine eyes But burned one half so honest, true and clear. But owned a power one half so far as these Possessed ten minutes past, then would they not Have this unwitting hand so foul betrayed. For when yon thicket cracked, thither they flew; And with their truer judgment all o'er thrown With eager expectation, misled quite By quick imagination's wish, they saw. Not what was there but what they would see there , And bade this foolish, witless hand to shoot Where through the leaves did shine a golden spot, * •>umi 3. THt TRAVELLER'S WETURN. O'er Hampshire's snow-heaped liills the sun Dropped we^ward in bis circHn^g race Unseen, for driving snow-clouds dun Hid, in a pierceleis veil, his face. A youth, amid the gloom and storm. Plodded his heavy, panting way To where, hospitable and warm, A house4ight beamed its neighbor ray. ;l m 'Twas not his home,— long steps beyond Lay that, — ^but ah ! What youth but knows.. Some time in life, a place more fond Than home !-^to such this youth now goes. There dwelt his joys' eternal spring. The very marrow of his mind. To him 6n earth the fairest thing. The woman of all woman-kind. i ' i And there, his trade-forced journey o'er. He thought to lose the world awhile,* Nor see its sights nor hear its roar, — In her sweet voice and tender smile. But ah, when frosts of absence blight. How many tender loves are slain ! THE TMAVBLLSirS XETUXN. Faithful that love whopc Axt and Hght Can feed on fancies ffoniithe A>rain. But \tts^ ^ttgh ied, in fever «unk, For poison with its food had mixed ; Her ears of rumortsxup hadxirunk, And fancy on suspicion iixed. A word, as ligiht as winds t!ii>.t move In June, dropped down on guardless mood. And lo ! the blossams.of iherlove Lay choked in jealousy'^ rank wood. But little recked .that wretched youth What fiends had made her heart their throne ; He dreamed he ^there reigned king in truih, A s she reigned queen within his .own. Thus by surprise his wits were slain, When no kiss did her greeting grace ; But soon surprise gai2« place to .pain, At view of her cold,smilele6S iace. Long he implored and questioned deep. Then vowed his constancy in vain ; She answered, but put not to. sleep With her replies his.gcief orpain. For though her .heart perceived himtrue, Prometheus pride held upper sway And would not let confession's dew Wash, with her stains,^his pangs.away. I I I'i 22 THE TRAVELLER'S RETURN. ■ '■: :| Thus broken beneath an unjust wrong, Pale as a cloud at dawning grey, Too crushed for words, for tears too strong, He stepped to take his homeward way. In vain her parents, 'gainst the storm, Besought him tarry till the day; — SAe gave but in half-hearted form, That half-consent which meaneth nay. He went; and gentle sleep dropped down Upon that house and all within; — On all ? Nay, sleep from one had flown, — That one lay weeping for her sin. Ah, woman, woman! had those eyes But dropped their honey on his heart. Thine now would not give forth those cries, Nor in that restless anguish start. Why shudder at the bitter blast ? Sure not so cold to him the storm As thy cold words remembered last, — Comparison would make it warm. Why damp with ceaseless tears thy bed ? 'Tis useless now to moan and chide; On colder couch than thine his head Hath found a rest to thine denied. Why Heaven implore to haste the day ? No day can ever break again M THE TRAVRLLEICS RETURN, So brightly that its glories may Rid thy heart one hour of pain. It c£ me,— the day, — up smiled the sun And looked abroad ; but swift he drew About him cloudy curtains dun, As to shut shameful sight from view. The mountain-cradled winds awoke And fluttered forth ; but with a cry Of fear their easy flight they broke. And shuddering, moaning, back did fly. The clo- is crept stealthy round heaven's rim. As they did fear to cross its vault And look below; in East, black, dim, A massy mourning pall they halt. Ye fearful elements! well, well May horror halt your flying cars ! On sadder sight dawn never fell, Than yonder lonely hillside bears. See where he lies! cold, still and white As the snow that doth his body cover. But yesterday he stepped full light! This morn a corpse, — last eve a lover! But yet, bright sun! ye gentle wind! Sweet moon, and lesser lamps of heaven! Have pity! oh, to her be kind. Whose life to endless grief is given! n «4 THE TRAVELLEICS MSTVRN. Hide not your beams, nor fi^ver ligfht, Your harps be nevei harsh nor rough! Oh soothe, not sadden, her dark night; Remorse is punishment enough ! 4. THE SPRING. Why, gentle spring, why hide away 'Neath these dark rocks and boulders grey ? Why secret veil thy lovely face Ip this unknown, untrodden place ? It fits thee not, this home of thine, This sunless, sad, rock-walled ravine. Is it because thy modesty Fills thee with fears that thou would'st be Mocked for thy plain simplicity. If that thou came to dwell abroad. Matching thy charms against the hoard Of charming things that Nature spreads O'er breezy hills and sunny meads ? Or dost thou think thy song would seem Too plain, too humble in its theme, To mingle with those joyous lays Glad birds and gladder breezes raise ? If these, or like, the reasons be Why hermit-like thou hidest thee Here in this dungeon spot, — list then : Two green and flowery hills I ken. Bounding a meadow's southern side, Between whose grassy slopes doth hide A sun-kissed, hazel-shaded dell. There thou in a green cup may'st dwell. Moss-lined from bottom to the brim; nil' r, 26 THE SPRING. And round thy bubble-fringdd rim The shy white violet shall bloom, Shedding for thee its rare perfume. . And later, when the summer sun Shall higher in his course have run, The wild-rose will her petals pink Sweetly unfold above thy brink, While ferns their pointed fronds unroll, Stretching athwart to keep thee cool And sheltered from the heat; to you Such welcome will be rendered due As this. But for thyself, thine own Bright face and voice of sweetest tone, 'Twill not be long when thou shalt see What homage will be paid to thee. Phoebus, each morn when he doth rise. With rosy kiss will ope thine eyes. Each night, when Phoebus far is sped, The stars shall watch above thy bed, And make thy face their mirror bright, To see if they their silver light Do proper shed abroad. With day The shepherd lads will foot their way Behind their flocks to those fresh meads Where flows the rill thy full cup feeds; Whose even waters ever keep The pastures green for kine and sheep. And in whose depths their tongues do find A nectar sweeter than the wind That from their gentle nostrils blows. Itself far sweeter than the rose. On pleasant summer holiday, THE SPRING. 27 The roving lads to thee will stray, And prostrate round thy margin thrown, Bend to thy lips their rosy own. To draw the diamond sparkling drink, And round thy mossy cushioned brink Linger delightedly and long. To watch thy bubbling, hear thy song, Or, far down in the crystal deep. Study the patient snail's slow creep; The free and lawless boy to thee Shall thus resign bis sovereignty. The rustic beauty, village bound O'er field, instead of going round By highway, will her path forsake. Some drops in her pink palm to take From thee, and 'twixt her dainty lips Draw in two dainty, dainty sips; And then (for beauty ne'er was known To shut her eyes when near her shone Aught that her beauty might reflect) She will employ thee to detect Some dimple new, or budding grace. Within the blossom of her face. And envious sigh to see in thee Complexion clearer than hath she. But thankful for thy bashful tongue. She will rise and trip along, And leave thee to the birds and bees, That on the bushes and the trees Sit silent perched; for they have come. From busy hive and bough-built home, To learn that glorious art of thee, ^ TJIE SPRING, The art of tuneful harmony; And none so soft, or none so sad, None so loud, nor none so glad, But from tby wide-ranged song may learn Some blithesome trill, or tender turn, To add unto the little store Of sweetness that each knew before. The bee can teach his golden wing A drowsier, sleepier tune to sing, By listening near that mossy rock. Beneath which lazy flows thy brook; The sparrow, when the bubbles break, Can learn a shorter chirp to take; Of soft, low tones an endless store The choice-eared thrush may ponder o'er. Where from thy brimming bowl's low lip. With gentle fall thy waters slip; While for a merry song and gay, A mirth-awakening roundelay, Unto the rising sun to bring, A sole and new sung offering, The lark will close attention give Down where thy laughing brook doth live In a round of pleasure, dancing on Over its pebble bed sloping down. But when all these have taken flight. Scared by the dusky face of night ; When shadows veil day's last red gleam, And starry silence reigns supreme ; Winging her lonesome flight along. Will come the queen of feathered song. Poor Philomel. And she will brood. li> THE SFRING. 99 Itt sad, most meUnchoty mood, Long on some branch of sleeping flowers, As if her wing had lost its powers And never more in air would spread ; And dropping her grief-laden head Upon her breast, her pensive sight, And ears that woe's sad notes delight, In trance of sweetest sadness bind To that dark spot in its mazy wind. Where, over some smooth, rounded stone, Thy silver rill drops with a moan And sigh of sorrow. All these to-morrow May be thy happy joys, sweet spring, If thou to that brigntdell wilt bring Thy lovely flood, leave this dark home Unto that sunny one to come, There 'mid these endless joys to dwell. O seal this fount, this wasted well ! This bubbling cup let silence fill ! And trace a straight and speedy track, By subterranean channels black, To where prepared for thee doth wait A life whose changeless, one estate Is joy and gladness ! Thus long ago a youth made plea Unto a sylvan spring ; but she, Regarding not his earnest tongue. Still bubbled up and flowed along, Filling her rocky house with song And music, smiles and mirth. il 30 THE SPRING. " She mocks ! " lie thought, and he grew wroth ; " She mocks me ! " and in sad offence, He bid a cold adieu and hence His wounded presence took. Long, restless, wandering years passed o'er him ; Then, back returning, spread before him, His youth's remembered home doth range. But oh ! 'twas sadly new and strange ! Nothing was as it was before ; 'Twas not the aspect that it bore Of old, but only the old name, — In name, but not in fact, the same. Where were the paths he once had trod ? Where were the sunny hills whose sod With nodding daisies thick was strown ? Where were the groves he once had known ? Alas ! the ruthless, puffing plough Up-shared those daisied hillsides now ; In the shuddering woods the shrieking saw Surfeits his fanged and cruel jaw ; No flocks to those fields now were driven, No herds at eve lowed up to heaven ; The birds to other groves were fled, The lark did make his dewy bed In other meadows far away ; Nowhere, in all his vision's play. Gleamed one loved, memoried sight. Yet stay ! Out 'twixt two gray and stony walls, A thin stream plashed with gentle falls. : r» saw ; his heart 'gan quicker beat ; •straight his lost and stranger feet, ^ 'i^'^ger helplessly astray, m ^.i THE SPRING^ » Did thither bend their hasty way. And there, oh glad and welcome sight ! Gurgling and bubbling, clear and bright. Gushed up that ancient, steadfast spring.' " Spirit of constancy ! Thou thing Of patient steadfastness ! " he cried, " Through all these years that I have tried To find in pleasure's poison cup Some happiness, or followed up Deluding Fortune's faithless wheel, The woe-begetting gold to feel, Hast thou thus happily dwelt here, Nor known a woe, nor felt a fear. Nor drawn a sigh, nor dropped a tear ? Ah, would in foolish youth I had Thee my good preceptor made ! Then peace and joy might now be mine. Even as now they still are thine." 31 f u ■ 5. ODE. Heavenly akhemist 1 that when calm night Hath driven the fiery Phoebus from the sky, Riseth in East to follow on his flight, Holding thy steady, burnished shield on high. Whereon to gather all his burning beams, Transfusing them of all their fire and heat, Upon the parched earth to pour them back In cool and silver showers, thus, in what seems A soft reproof, making his dark retreat Full of a grace his presence near did lack, — I Why hast thou hid from earth so long away ? Though absence oft* will burnish rusty love, * Twas needless to make thine so long a stay. Grieving me with pretence my love to prove. I do not love the gaudy, flippant day. Bearing upon her gay and careless wings The sights and sounds of folly, strife and sin, The which she doth in ceaseless stream outpay. Turning to nought the earth's most lovely things, Music to moans, peace to a fretful din. But when, low in the rosy western sky, The tender planet, sinking, still doth stay. With the soft light benign of her mild eye To heal earth's wounds and wash its tears away. And make it fit to greet the gentle night; ODE. Then, divine enchantress ! from some hill, Whose dewy slope doth eastward open lie, 'Tis sweet to watch, in heaven's dusky height. Each hollow cloud with silver radiance fill. Giving bright promise of thy drawing nigh. But when, before thy sovereign shining form, These splendid ushers melt unseen away. Then doth it seem as if earth's face did swarm With million of kind elves, who, in thy ray, Could only find a lantern soft enough To light them at their delicate sweet task. As with swift sorcery of magic art They round to smoothness Nature's'rugged rough, Or on her ugly forms bind beauty's mask, And e'en to beauty's self new grace impart. Yon cliff that gloomy frowned an hour ago, Is turned a silvery fair battlement, Topped with its sentry cedars* shining row, And all its cataract banner bright unbent; Where then the lake lay black, forbidding, dark. Ten thousand diamond'ripples light the vale; While from the forest's depths comes forth no more That soft but soul-disturbing]moan, — but hark! Sweet, low, delicious whispers fill the gale, As if each Dryadjlaughed that sighed before. 33 But thou, kind spirit, another land dost light, Than this gross earth more delicate and fine ; For when the eye, the brain's clear pilot bright. Doth lead aloft where thou in heaven dost shine, h" '- 34 ODE. Thou fiirst the wide, unmeasured mind's domain With fancies fair and meditations high; Then Envy, Care, and all the demon horde That harrow up the soul of man to pain, Fly from the field and sheathe their weapons by. And frail Content doth wander safe abroad. 6. TO WAGNER. Not the soft tones to lull a wine-drows'd ear, Or honey drop on tongue of sweet-fed brain; Not the thin strains that school girls like to hear, Dreaming the while in fancied love's mock pain; Nor tripping notes to physic sadness' tear, Nor throbbing ones to make it flow again. Not these the trivial limits of thy skill, Homer of Music! But when thou dost fill The wind-devouring pipe, or touch the string, Then the poor homesick soul wakes with a thrill Of rapture, soaring on thy music's wing From earth, its land of exile dark and chill. To dwell a space in its own realms, and bring Thence joys to make earth's life a happier thing. } 7. AFTER A JUNE NIGHT'S STORM. O what a day of lovely light Dawns forth from out the stormy night! Kind Nature, with her water bowl, Hath washed from the earth each stain and soil. And it shines in splendor bright. From the wood, the myriad-twinkling gleam Shows where the sun's first radiant beam Is caught by each polished, refreshened leaf, As, kissed by the breeze a moment brief. It twists on its slender stem. The cataract from the cliff doth pour Its foaming waters with a roar That seems imprisoned fast to hold The thunder's echoes that pealed and rolled At midnight the heavens o'er; Whilst all the lightnings that lit the night. Seem to have sunk in those waters brighC; Where, each to its seven-fold elements torn. With a hundred hues they now adorn The flood in its tumbling flight. The meadow brook tranquil and bright doth flow Where daisies their smiles to buttercups throw. And each congratulations give, AFTER A JUNE NIGHTS STORM, O'er the joy on such a day to live, On such a day to grow; Where kine, that cowered in^fear 'neath the oak- When the thunder's crash at midnight broke, Knee-deep in clover contented low, Sweefning the breeze with each breath they blow. And for the milk-maid look; Where the lark soars singing from its bed; Where floating butterflies drift o'erhead, And birds from all the bushes sing; Where overjoyed seems each live thing. In the glories round it spread. Fair June ! the days are only thine When Nature thus breathes out her soul divine;. When e'en the saddest mood of man May be changed to joy unmixed with pain. By a draught of her gladdening wine. 37 I' v I 8. SONG FOR IDLERS. A nap in the woods on a soft June day, What lazy joys excel ? How delightfully Nature steals away The senses by her spell ! How soft a couch the mosses make! No canopy so light As ferns that gently wave and shake Their fronds of emerald bright ! And then, for a draught of drowsiness. Can subtlest drug compare With the sight of clouds that lazy press Through the sapphire of the air ? These soft white hands doth Nature lay Over her patient's eyes, And, lo! sink griefs, cares, pains away. And peace, sweet peace, doth rise. How softly now on the senses fall What > ice were harshest tones; The crow's rude cry seems a cuckoo's call, The magpie a honey-bee drones; And soothing is the jay's hoarse screech, As song of nightingale; I . I SONG FOR IDLERS. The squirrels' chattering; in the beech, As crickets at twilight pale. From every voice sweet music flows, And from th« music peace; Till, the mind o'crburdened with repose, All acts of being cease. When Nature such arts as these employs On one in an idle mood, How may one e'er resist the joys Of a nap in a green June wood ! 39 11 9. SONG OF THE SAILOR'S WIFE, Far out, blue Ocean! o'er thy wave, A growing sail I see. O joy! it brings my true-love home, My true-love home to me. No more, when winter's midnight storms Rush furious o'er thy deep. Shall I, in trembling tears and prayers, My sleepless vigil keep. No more, when summer's sunny winds Stoop down to kiss thy face. In disappointed hope shall I This beacon cliff-top pace. My fears this day are laid in grave. My joy, like breaking morn, Doth ever brighter grow as still Yon sail is nearer borne. Kind Ocean, speed yon ship along With all your winds and tide; Till one that now doth tread her deck, Shall tread earth by my side. ■iwi' . i .L iiiN<»ii'ii»«i |. ii ■■!■)#■ . 10. THE LAST DREAM. In a dismal room in a city garret high, Where a lamp, low burning, casts a feeble ray, Death-sick of fever a suffering child doth lie, And a woman, watching, weeps the night away. Sadly she weeps, low bending o'er the form Whose little lamp of life must soon grow dark — That life her love had watched through sun and storm. Her sorrow now beholds whose dimming spark. By day, by night, for many a weary week, Had she thus fostered that beloved life ; But now, to-night, her heart doth well nigh break To see that that dear life, now left, is brief. For 'tis not only fever on that brow. Nor fever's fires that fill those soft sunk eyes ; Nay, the blush that spreads, the fire that glows there now, Doth from a different, deeper source arise. 'Tis death's first, gently-faint, approaching touch — For death hath sweet as well as awful guise : Often it Cometh with a softness such As scarce to show when forth the freed soul files ; Li 42 THE LAST DUE AM. But rare, as now with this young innocent, It comes with brightness, not with shadows dark, A bloom like health's to once pale cheeks is lent, From sunken eyes seems beaming life's bright spark. But why look those bright orbs so fixedly, As if brick walls no longer bound their sight ? Why clasp those little hands so rigidly ? Those parched lips why break in smiles so bright ? *Tis the immortal soul, already fluttering free — Still bound to earth, yet beating heaven's air — That gifts that sight most wendrous things to see. Those listening ears far whisperings to hear. Bright must those visions be, and sweet those sounds. For wakened memories o'er those features fleet ; And list ! that voice rises o'er pain's strait bounds, A fervid, wild, breaks yet ecstatic sweet : 'i ssoms die ; I cannot see the tulip-swing. ** The very rocks do melt away; The trees seem withering where they stand; The sun grows dark! Kind mother pray Come closer, closer hold mine hand. *' But hark! what wondrous sound I hear? A music rapturous, divine, Like voices softly singing near, A thousand voices sweet as thine ! *' Tell me, whence comes this melody, That stills, that drives away my pain ? Ah! happy, happy would I be, If ever thus I might remain! " *' 'Tis only the bells that chime the hour of morn When labor's weary children wake from sleep- in THE LAST DREAM, ^5 Bnt oh! how gladly would my toil be borne, If I that smile on thy dear face could keep! " ** And what is this light that fills mine eyes, So soft, so radiant, so fair; That seems from no place to arise, Yet falleth softly everywhere ? " " *Tis only the light in the East, my child, of the morn- ing. The light we both have «een so oft before — Alas, alas, another day's bright dawning, I fear together we shall see no more ! " " Hush, mother! The voices are dying now, And a sweet, sweet peace doth o'er me creep, And I feel a soft breath on my brow; Hush, for I fain would fall asleep." Alas! no need those trembling lips to hush, No need to beg that sobbing voice be still; The grief that, falling, all but life doth crush. On both had set its silent, silent seal. Full well she knew he felt the eternal morn ; j That from his sleep he would no waking know ; ) The last loved heart that loved her now was gone; That she from thence alone through life must go. Oh saddest thought! No more that attic room. Which scarce the sun for one brief hour could fill. For her with those bright flowers of joy would bloom, Which spring from a child's caress and loving smile. 46 THE LAST DREAM. ^ No I fe to cherish bu, her bleeding own. Than this: to labor for one's life alone ? Thrice^blest the hearts, when pierced by sorrow', Bv^-"'-' '" '!"',' "«"'""• "^y "■><» sweet relief By openmg p,ty-s gates on lives that cling Famnng to them, crushed 'neath the common grief. But when griefs poison entereth the heart Whose safety-valves of love may never ope There s naught but death can e'er relief impa t - What misery when death becomes a hope^ woe, sorrow's elief ion grief. e, art,—