A c — o A ^ ^^^^ M c o — ^^— m ~^~""XI o -r 1 ^^^^™ m en 3 r> ^^^^s z 8 i~ 7 ^^^S c ^^S— > 8 ^^BjjB -< 7 ^^^^E -n > 6 Jir«v»ar I, 1847. A LIST OF BOOKS RECENTLY PU3LISHED BY WILLIAM D. TICKNOR & COMPANY, Corner of OTasIjfnjjton auto Sctjool Streets, BOSTON. LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. LONGFELLOW'S VOICES OF THE NIGHT. A New Edition. In one volume, lGmo, price 75 cents. ii. LONGFELLOW'S BALLADS and Other Poems. A New Edition. In one volume, lGmo, price 75 cents, in. LONGFELLOW'S SPANISH STUDENT. A Play in Three Acts. A New Edition. In one volume, lGmo. Price 75 cents. IV. LONGFELLOW'S BELFRY OF BRUGES and OTHER POEMS. A New Edition. In one volume, lGmo. Price 75cents. v. THE WAIF. A Collection of Poems. Edited by Long- fellow A New Edition. In one volume, lGmo. Price 75 cents. LONGP2LLOWS PROSE WORKS. LONGFELLOW'S OUTRE MER. A Pilgrimage Beyond the Sea. A New Edition. In one volume, 16mo. Price $1.00. a. LONGFELLOW'S HYPERION. A Romance. A New Edition. In one volume, lGmo. Price $1.00. A LIST OF BOOKS RECENTLY PUBLISHED POETRY. ALFRED TENNYSON. Poems. In two volumes, J6mo, price $1.50. II. BARRY CORNWALL. English Songs and other Small Poems. In one volume, 16mo, piice 75 cents. WILLIAM MOTHERWELL. Poems Narrative and Lyrical. In one volume, 16mo, price 56 cents. IV. MINSTRELSY : ANCIENT and MODERN. With an HISTORICAL INTRODUCTION and NOTES. By William Motherwell. In two volumes, lGmo, price $1.50. LEIGH HUNT. Story of Rimini, and other Poems. In one volume, 16mo, price 50 cents. VI. RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES. Poems of Many Years. In one volume, lGmo, price 75 cents. VII. THE ISLAND BRIDE and OTHER POEMS. By J. F. Colman. In one volume, 16mo. vm. SONGS OF OUR LAND and OTHER POEMS. By Mary E. Hewitt. One volume, 16mo, price 75 cents. IX. REJECTED ADDRESSES. From the 19th London Edition. Carefully Revised. With AN ORIGINAL PREFACE and NOTES. By Horace and James Smith. In one volume, lGmo, price 50 cents. x. LAYS OF MY HOME and OTHER POEMS. By John G. Whittier. 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With nninerous Additions to the Introduction. By Francis Alger. With numerous Engravings. One volume, octavo, price $3.00. THE USE OF THE BLOWPIPE IN CHEMISTRY AND MINERALOGY. By J. J. Berzelws. Translated from the 4th Enlarged and Corrected Edition, by J. D. Whitney. With Plates. In one volume, 12mo, price $1.25. A BRIEF PRACTICAL TREATISE on MORTARS IN BUILDING. With an account of the Processes employed on the Public Works in Boston Harbor. By Lieut. William H. Wright, U. S. Corps of Engineers. With Plates. In one volume, 12mo, price $1.00. IX. A PRACTICAL TREATISE on the CULTIVATION OF THE GRAPE VINE ON OPEN WALLS. To which is added, a Descriptive Account of an Improved Method of Planting and Managing the Roots of Grape Vines. With Plates. In one vol- ume, 12mo, price 62 cents AMERICAN FACTORIES and THEIR FEMALE OPERATIVES. By Rev. William Scoresbv, D. D., Vicar of Brad- ford, Yorkshire, England. One volume, 16mo, price 25 cents. 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CAMBRIDGE: METCALP AND COMPANY, PRINTEUS TO THE UNIVERSITY. CONTENTS. Proem PACE HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. ix The Song of the Forge A Song .... Why thus longing? The Monks of Old . Hymn to the Flowers Why are they shut ? Afar in the desert The Camp Song . Autumn Lament of the Irish Emigrant . He standeth at the door kulnasatz, my reindeer . Sonnet on Autumn . April Song The Awakening of Endymion . The Lily of Nithsdale . To the Mocking-bird . Church-bells heard at Evening The Death-bed .... anonymous. thomas carew. anonymous. q. p. r. jamf.s. horace smith. horace smith. thomas pringle. robert browning. p. b. shelley. john mai ( oh. mrs. blackwood. . A. C. COXE. LAPLAND SONG. ANONYMOUS. ANONYMOUS. . SAMUEL DANIEL. ANONYMOUS. ANONYMOUS. ANONYMOUS. ANONYMOUS. THOMAS HOOD. 1 6 9 11 14 18 22 27 30 32 34 38 40 42 43 46 48 53 55 56 58 CONTENTS. The Evening Hour . Love .... Night among the Alps They are all gone To a Lady Each in All The Lover to the Glowworms andrew marvel. Hymn of the Church-yard Dirge in Autumn The Drop of Dew Wishes .... To Althea, from Prison . Death of a Child . Human Pride To Lucasta Where are the dead ? A Christmas Hymn . No MORE .... To Daffodils To Primroses To Blossoms The Grasshopper Sweet Phosphor, bring the day francis o.uarles. The Bridge of Sighs . . . thomas hood. The Antique Sepulchre . . mrs. hemans. Et EXALTAVIT HUMILES . WILLIAM HABINGTON. Lines to a Withered Leaf . . jones very. Song for August . . Harriet martineau. The Indian Burying-ground . philip freneau. MRS. C B. WILSON. . ANONYMOUS. JAMES MONTGOMERY. . HENRY VAUGHAN. ANONYMOUS. R. W. EMERSON. JOHN BETHUNE. W. G. CLARK. . ANDREW MARVEL. RICHARD CRASHAW. RICHARD LOVELACE. . JOHN PIERPONT. . ANDREW MARVEL. RICHARD LOVELACE. . ANONYMOUS. ALFRED DOMMETT. MRS. HEMANS. ROBERT HERRICK. . ROBERT HERRICK. ROBERT HERRICK. RICHARD LOVELACE. 60 62 65 69 71 73 76 78 81 84 87 91 93 97 101 103 108 111 114 116 118 120 123 126 132 136 139 141 143 PROEM PROEM The day is done, and the darkness Falls from the wings of Night, As a feather is wafted downward From an eagle in his flight. I see the lights of the village Gleam through the rain and the mist, And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me, That my soul cannot resist ; A feeling of sadness and longing, That is not akin to pain, And resembles sorrow onlv As the mist resembles the rain. PROEM. Come, read to me some poem, Some simple and heai'tfelt lay, That shall soothe this restless feeling, And banish the thoughts of day. Not from the grand old masters, Not from the bards sublime, Whose distant footsteps echo Through the corridors of time. For, like strains of martial music, Their mighty thoughts suggest Life's endless toil and endeavour ; And to-night I long for rest. Read from some humbler poet, Whose songs gushed from his heart, As showers from the clouds of summer, Or tears from the eyelids start ; Who through long days of labor, And nights devoid of ease, Still heard in his soul the music Of wonderful melodies. PROEM. XI Such songs have power to quiet The restless pulse of care, And come like the benediction That follows after prayer. Then read from the treasured volume The poem of thy choice, And lend to the rhyme of the poet The beauty of thy voice. And the night shall be filled with music, And the cares, that infest the day, Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs, And as silently steal away. HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. Cambridge, December, 1844. THE WAIF. THE SONG OF THE FORGE. Clang, clang ! the massive anvils ring • Clang, clang ! a hundred hammers swing ; Like the thunder-rattle of a tropic sky ; The mighty blows still multiply ; Clang, clang ! Say, brothers of the dusky brow, What are your strong arms forging now ? l THE WAIF. Clang, clang ! — We forge the coulter now, — The coulter of the kindly plough ; Sweet Mary mother, bless our toil ! May its broad furrow still unbind To genial rains, to sun and wind, The most benignant soil ! Clang, clang ! — Our coulter's course shall be On many a sweet and sheltered lea, By many a streamlet's silver tide, Amidst the song of morning birds, Amidst the low of sauntering herds, Amidst soft breezes which do stray Through woodbine hedges and sweet May, Along the green hill's side. When regal autumn's bounteous hand With wide-spread glory clothes the land ; When to the valleys, from the brow Of each resplendent slope, is rolled A ruddy sea of living gold, We bless, — we bless the tlough. THE SONG OF THE FORGE. Clang, clang ! — Again, my mates, what glows Beneath the hammer's potent blows ? — Clink, clank ! — We forge the giant chain, Which bears the gallant vessel's strain, 'Midst stormy winds and adverse tides ; Secured by this, the good ship braves The rocky roadstead, and the waves Which thunder on her sides. Anxious no more, the merchant sees The mist drive dark before the breeze, The storm-cloud on the hill ; Calmly he rests, though far away In boisterous climes his vessel lay, Reliant on our skill. Say on what sands these links shall sleep, Fathoms beneath the solemn deep ; By Afric's pestilential shore, — By many an iceberg, lone and hoar, — By many a palmy Western isle, Basking in spring's perpetual smile, — By stormy Labrador. THE WAIF. Say, shall they feel the vessel reel, When to the battery's deadly peal The crashing broadside makes reply ? Or else, as at the glorious Nile, Hold grappling ships, that strive the while For death or victory ? Hurrah ! — Cling, clang ! — Once more, what glows, Dark brothers of the forge, beneath The iron tempest of your blows, The furnace's red breath ? Clang, clang S — A burning torrent, clear And brilliant, of bright sparks, is poured Around and up in the dusky air, As our hammers forge the savord. The sword ! — a name of dread ; yet when Upon the freeman's thigh 't is bound, While for his altar and his hearth, While for the land that gave him birth, The war-drums roll, the trumpets sound, How sacred is it then ! THE SONG OF THE FORGE. Whenever for the truth and right It flashes in the van of fight, — Whether in some wild mountain-pass, As that where fell Leonidas, — Or on some sterile plain, and stern, A Marston or a Bannockburn, — Or 'mid fierce crags and bursting rills, The Switzer's Alps, gray Tyrol's hills, — Or, as when sunk the Armada's pride, It gleams above the stormy tide, — Still, still, whene'er the battle-word Is Liberty, when men do stand For justice and their native land, Then Heaven bless the swokd ! A SONG. It is not beauty I demand, A crystal brow, the moon's despair, Nor the snow's daughter, a white hand, Nor mermaid's yellow pride of hair. Tell me not of your starry eyes, Your lips, that seem on roses fed, Your breasts, where Cupid tumbling lies, Nor sleeps for kissing of his bed, — A bloomy pair of vermeil cheeks, Like Hebe's in her ruddiest hours, A breath that softer music speaks Than summer winds a-wooing flowers. A SONG. These are but gauds ; nay, what are lips ? Coral beneath the ocean-stream, Whose brink when your adventurer slips, Full oft he perisheth on them. And what are cheeks, but ensigns oft, That wave hot youth to fields of blood ? Did Helen's breast, though ne'er so soft, Do Greece or Ilium any good ? Eyes can with baleful ardor burn, Poison can breathe, that erst perfumed ; There 's many a white hand holds an urn, With lover's hearts to dust consumed. For crystal brows, there 's naught within ; They are but empty cells for pride ; He who the Siren's hair would win Is mostly strangled in the tide. Give me, instead of beauty's bust, A tender heart, a loyal mind, THE WAIF. Which with temptation I would trust, Yet never linked with error find ; — One in whose gentle bosom I Could pour my secret heart of woes, Like the care-burdened honey-fly, That hides his murmurs in the rose ; - My earthly comforter ! whose love So indefeasible might be, That, when my spirit won above, Hers could not stay, for sympathy. WHY THUS LONGING? Why thus longing, thus for ever sighing, For the far off, unattained, and dim ; While the beautiful, all round thee lying, Offers up its low, perpetual hymn ? Wouldst thou listen to its gentle teaching, All thy restless yearnings it would still ; Leaf and flower and laden bee are preaching, Thine own sphere, though humble, first to fill. Poor indeed thou must be, if around thee Thou no ray of light and joy canst tlirow ; If no silken cord of love hath bound thee To some little world through weal and woe ; 10 THE WAIF. If no dear eyes thy fond love can brighten, — No fond voices answer to thine own ; If no brother's sorrow thou canst lighten, By daily sympathy and gentle tone. Not by deeds that win the crowd's applauses, Not by works that give thee world-renown, Not by martyrdom, or vaunted crosses, Canst thou win and wear the immortal crown. Daily struggling, though unloved and lonely, Every day a rich reward will give ; Thou wilt find, by hearty striving only, And truly loving, thou canst truly live. 11 THE MONKS OF OLD. I envy them, — those monks of old, — Their books they read, and their beads they told ; To human softness dead and cold, And all life's vanity. They dwelt like shadows on the earth, Free from the penalties of birth, Nor let one feeling venture forth But Christian charity. I envy them ; their cloistered hearts Knew not the bitter pang that parts Beings that all affection's arts Had linked in unity. 12 THE WAIF. The tomb to them was not a place To drown the best-loved of their race, And blot out each sweet memory's trace In dull obscurity : To them it was the calmest bed That rests the aching human head : They looked with envy on the dead, And not with agony. No bonds they felt, no ties they broke, No music of the heart they woke, When one brief moment it had spoke, To lose it suddenly. Peaceful they lived, — peaceful they died ; And those that did their fate abide Saw brothers wither by their side In all tranquillity. THE MONKS OF OLD. 13 They loved not, dreamed not, — for their sphere Held not joy's visions ; — but the tear Of broken hope, of anxious fear, Was not their misery. I envy them, — those monks of old ; And when their statues I behold, Carved in the marble, calm and cold, How true an effigy ! I wish my heart were as calm and still To beams that fleet, and blasts that chill, And pangs that pay joy's spendthrift thrill With bitter usury. 14 HYMN TO THE FLOWERS. Day-stars ! that ope your eyes with morn to twinkle From rainbow galaxies of earth's creation, And dew-drops on her lovely altars sprinkle As a libation ! Ye matin worshippers ! who, bending lowly Before the uprisen sun, God's lidless eye, Throw from your chalices a sweet and holy Incense on high ! Ye bright mosaics ! that with storied beauty The floor of Nature's temple tesscllate, What numerous emblems of instructive duty Your forms create ! HYMN TO THE FLOWERS. 15 'Neath cloistered boughs each floral bell that swingeth, And tolls its perfume on the passing air, Makes Sabbath in the fields, and ever ringeth A call to prayer ! Not to the domes where crumbling arch and column Attest the feebleness of mortal hand ; But to that fane most catholic and solemn Which God hath planned ! To that cathedral, boundless as our wonder Whose quenchless lamps the sun and moon supply, Its choir the winds and waves, its organ thunder, Its dome the sky ! There, — as in solitude and shade I wander Through the lone aisles, or stretched upon the sod, Awed by the silence, reverently ponder The ways of God, — Your voiceless lips, O flowers, are living preachers, Each cup a pulpit, and each leaf a book, 16 THE WAIF. Supplying to my fancy numerous teachers From loneliest nook ! Floral apostles ! that in dewy splendor Weep without sin and blush without a crime, O, may I deeply learn and ne'er surrender Your love sublime ! " Thou wast not, Solomon, in all thy glory, Arrayed," the lilies cry, " in robes like ours " : How vain your grandeur ! O, how transitory Are human flowers ! In the sweet-scented pictures, heavenly Artist ! With which thou paintest Nature's wide-spread hall, What a delightful lesson thou impartest Of love to all ! Not useless are ye, flowers ! though made for pleasure, Blooming o'er fields and wave by day and night, From every source your sanction bids me treasure Harmless delight. HYMN TO THE FLOWERS. 17 Ephemeral sages ! what instructors hoary For such a world of thought could furnish scope ? Each fading calyx a memento mori, Yet fount of hope ! Posthumous glories ! angel-like collection ! Upraised from seed or bulb interred in earth, Ye are to me a type of resurrection And second birth. Were I, O God ! in churchless lands remaining, Far from all teachers and from all divines, My soul would find, in flowers of thy ordaining, Priests, sermons, shrines ! 18 WHY ARE THEY SHUT? Why are our churches shut with jealous care, Bolted and barred against our bosom's yearning, Save for the few short hours of Sabbath prayer, With,the bell's tolling statedly returning ? Why are they shut ? If with diurnal drudgeries o'erwrought, Or sick of dissipation's dull vagaries, We wish to snatch one little space for thought, Or holy respite, in our sanctuaries, Why are they shut ? What ! shall the church, the house of prayer no more, Give tacit notice from its fastened portals, WHY ARE THEY SHUT? 19 That for six days 't is useless to adore, Since God will hold no communings with mortals ? Why are they shut ? Are there no sinners in the churchless week Who wish to sanctify a vowed repentance ? Are there no -hearts bereft which fain would seek The only balm for death's unpitying sentence ? Why are they shut ? Are there no poor, no wronged, no heirs of grief, No sick, who, when their strength or courage falters, Long for a moment's respite or relief, By kneeling at the God of mercy's altars ? Why are they shut ? Are there no wicked, whom, if tempted in, Some qualm of conscience or devout suggestion Might suddenly redeem from future sin ? O, if there be, how solemn is the question, Why are they shut ? 20 THE WAIF. In foreign climes mechanics leave their tasks To breathe a passing prayer in their cathedrals ; There they have week-day shrines, and no one asks, When he would kneel to them, and count his bead- rolls, Why are they shut ? Seeing them enter sad and disconcerted, To quit those cheering fanes with looks of glad- ness, — How often have my thoughts to ours reverted ! How oft have I exclaimed, in tones of sadness, Why are they shut ? For who within a parish church can stroll, Wrapt in its week-day stillness and vacation, Nor feel that in the very air his soul Ecceives a sweet and hallowing lustration ? Why are they shut ? The vacant pews, blank aisles, and empty choir, All in a deep sepulchral silence shrouded, WHY ARE THEY SHUT ? 21 An awe more solemn and intense inspire, Than when with Sabbath congregations crowded. Why arc they shut ? The echoes of our footsteps, as we tread On hollow graves, are spiritual voices ; And, holding mental converse with the dead, In holy reveries our soul rejoices. Why are they shut ? If there be one, — one only, — who might share This sanctifying week-day adoration, Were but our churches open to his prayer, Why, — I demand with earnest iteration, — Why are they shut ? 22 AFAR IN THE DESERT. Afar in the desert I love to ride, With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side : When the sorrows of life the soul o'ercast, And, sick of the present, I cling to the past ; When the eye is suffused with regretful tears, From the fond recollections of former years ; And shadows of things that have long since fled Flit over the brain, like ghost of the dead : Bright visions of glory, that vanished too soon , Day-dreams, that departed ere manhood's noon ; Attachments, by fate or by falsehood reft ; Companions of early days, lost or left ; And my native land, whose magical name Thrills to the heart like electric flame ; AFAE IN THE DESERT. 23 The home of my childhood ; the haunts of my prime ; All the passions and scenes of that rapturous time When the feelings were young and the world was new, Like the fresh bowers of Eden unfolding to view ; All, all now forsaken, forgotten, foregone ; And I, a lone exile, remembered by none ; My high aims abandoned, my good acts undone, Aweary of all that is under the sun ; — With that sadness of heart which no stranger may scan, I fly to the desert afar from man ! Afar in the desert I love to ride, With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side : When the wild turmoil of this wearisome life, With its scenes of oppression, corruption, and strife ; The proud man's frown and the base man's fear, The scorner's laugh and the sufferer's tear, And malice, and meanness, and falsehood, and folly, Dispose me to musing and dark melancholy ; When my bosom is full, and my thoughts are high, And my soul is sick with the bondman's sigh, — 24 THE WAIF. 0, then there is freedom, and joy, and pride, Afar in the desert alone to ride ! There is rapture to vault on the champing steed, And to bound away with the eagle's speed, With the death- fraught firelock in my hand, — The only law of the desert land ! Afar in the desert I love to ride, With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side : Away, away from the dwellings of men, By the wild deer's haunt, by the buffalo's glen ; By the valleys remote where the oribi plays, Where the gnu, the gazelle, and the hartebeest graze, And the kudu and eland unhunted recline By the skirts of gray forests o'erhung with wild-vine ; Where the elephant browses at peace in his wood, And the river-horse gambols unscared in the flood, And the mighty rhinoceros wallows at will In the fen where the wild ass is drinking his fill. Afar in the desert I love to ride, With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side : AFAR IN THE DESEIIT. 25 O'er the brown karroo, where the fleeting cry Of the springbok's fawn sounds plaintively, And the timorous quagga's shrill-whistling neigh Is heard by the fountain at twilight gray ; Where the zebra wantonly tosses his mane, With wild hoof scouring the desolate plain ; And the fleet-footed ostrich over the waste Speeds like a horseman who travels in haste, Hieing away to the home of her rest, Where she and her mate have scooped their nest, Far hid from the pitiless plunderer's view In the pathless depths of the parched karroo. Afar in the desert I love to ride, With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side : Away, away, in the wilderness vast, Where the white man's foot hath never passed, And the quivered Coranna or Bechuan Hath rarely crossed with his roving clan ; A region of emptiness, howling and drear, Which man hath abandoned from famine and fear ; Which the snake and the lizard inhabit alone, With the twilight bat from the yawning stone ; 26 THE WAIF. Where gi*ass, nor herb, nor shrub takes root, Save poisonous thorns that pierce the foot ; And the bitter melon, for food and drink, Is the pilgrim's fare by the salt lake's brink ; A region of drought, where no river glides, Nor rippling brook with osiered sides ; Where sedgy pool, nor bubbling fount, Nor tree, nor cloud, nor misty mount, Appears to refresh the aching eye ; But the barren earth, and the burning sky, And the blank horizon, round and round, Spread, void of living sight or sound. And here, while the night-winds round me sigh, And the stars burn bright in the midnight sky, As I sit apart by the desert stone, Like Elijah at Horeb's cave alone, A still small voice comes through the wild, Like a father consoling his fretful child, Which banishes bitterness, wrath, and fear, Saying, — Man is distant, but God is near ! 27 THE CAMP. You know we French stormed Ratisbon ; A mile or so away, On a little mound Napoleon Stood, on our storming day ; With neck outthrust, you fancy how, Legs wide, arms locked behind, As if to balance the prone brow Oppressive with its mind. Just as perhaps he mused, " My plans, That soar, to earth may fall, Let once my army-leader, Lannes, Waver at yonder wall," 28 THE WAIF. Out 'twixt the battery-smokes there flew A rider, bound on bound Full-galloping ; nor bridle drew Until he reached the mound. Then off there flung in smiling joy, And held himself erect By just his horse's mane, a boy : You hardly could suspect, — So tight he kept his lips compressed, Scarce any blood came through, — You looked twice ere you saw his breast Was all but shot in two. " Well," cried he, " Emperor ! by God's grace We 've got you Ratisbon ! The marshal 's in the market-place, And you '11 be there anon To see your flag-bird flap his vans Where I, to heart's desire, Perched him ! " The chief's eye flashed : his plans Soared up again like fire. the c^mp. 29 The chief's eye (lashed ; but presently Softened itself, as sheathes A film the mother eagle's eye, When her bruised eaglet breathes : " You 're wounded ! " " Nay," his soldier's pride Touched to the quick, he said : " I 'm killed, Sire ! " And, his chief beside, Smiling the boy fell dead. ao SONG. As the moon's soft splendor O'er the faint, cold starlight of heaven Is thrown, So thy voice most tender To the strings without soul has given Its own. The stars will awaken, Though the moon sleep a full hour later To-night : No leaf will be shaken, Whilst the dews of thy melody scatter Delight. SONG. 31 Though the sound overpowers, Sing again, with thy sweet voice revealing A tone Of some world far from ours, Where music and moonlight and feeling Are one. 32 AUTUMN. Sweet Sabbath of the year ! When evening lights decay, Thy parting steps, methinks, I hear teal from the world away. Amid thy silent bowers, 'T is sad, but sweet, to dwell, Where falling leaves and fading flowers Around me breathe farewell. Along thy sunset skies Their glories melt in shade ; And, like the things we fondly prize, Seem lovelier as they fade. AUTUMN. 33 A deep and crimson streak The dying leaves disclose ; As on consumption's waning cheek, 'Mid ruin, blooms the rose. The scene each vision brings Of beauty in decay ; Of fair and early faded things, Too exquisite to stay ; Of joys that come no more ; Of flowers whose bloom is fled ; Of farewells wept upon the shore ; Of friends estranged or dead ; Of all, that now may seem To memory's tearful eye The vanished beauty of a dream, O'er which we gaze and sigh ! 34 THE LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT. I am sitting on the stile, Mary, Where we sat side by side, On a bright May morning, long ago, When first you were my bride ; The corn was springing fresh and green, And the lark sang loud and high, And the red was on your lip, Mary, And the love-light in your eye. The place is little changed, Mary ; The day is bright as then ; The lark's loud song is in my ear, And the corn is green again : THE LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT. 35 But I miss the soft clasp of your hand, And your breath, warm on my cheek, And I still keep listening for the words You never more may speak. 'T is but a step down yonder lane, And the little church stands near, — The church where we were wed, Mary, — I see the spire from here ; But the graveyard lies between, Mary, And my step might break your rest ; For I 've laid you, darling, down to sleep, With your baby on your breast. I am very lonely now, Mary, For the poor make no new friends ; But, O, they love the better still The few our Father sends ! And you were all I had, Mary, — My blessing and my pride ; There 's nothing left to care for now, Since my poor Mary died ! 36 THE WAIF. Your's was the good, brave heart, Mary, That still kept hoping on, When the trust in God had left my soul, And my arms' young strength had gone. There was comfort ever on your lip, And the kind look on your brow ; I bless you, Mary, for that same, Though you cannot hear me now. I thank you for the patient smile, When your heart was fit to break, When the hunger-pain was gnawing there, And you hid it, for my sake ! I bless you for the pleasant word, When your heart was sad and sore ; O, I 'm thankful you are gone, Mary, Where grief can't reach you more ! I am bidding ypu a long farewell, My Mary, — kind and true ! But I '11 not forget you, darling, In the land I am going to : THE LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGHAKT. 37 They say there 's bread and work for all, And the sun shines always there ; But I '11 not forget old Ireland, Were it fifty times as fair ! And often in those grand old woods I 'It sit and shut my eyes, And my heart will travel back again To the place where Mary lies ; And I '11 think I see the little stile Where we sat side by side, And the springing corn, and the bright May morn When first you were my bride ! 38 HE STANDETH AT THE DOOR AND KNOCKETH. In the silent midnight watches, List, — thy bosom door ! How it knocketh, — knocketh, — knocketh, Knocketh evermore ! Say not 't is thy pulse's beating : 'T is thy heart of sin ; 'T is thy Saviour knocks, and crieth, " Rise, and let me in." Death comes on, with reckless footsteps, To the hall and hut : Think you Death will tarry, knocking, Where the door is shut ? HE STANDETH AT THE DOOK AND KNOCKETH. 39 Jesus waiteth, — waiteth, — waiteth, — But the door is fast ; Grieved, away thy Saviour goeth ; Death breaks in at last. Then, 't is thine to stand entreating Christ to let thee in ; At the gate of heaven beating, Wailing for thy sin. Nay, — alas, thou foolish virgin ! Hast thou, then, forgot ? Jesus waited long to know thee, — Now he knows thee not. 40 KULNASATZ, MY REINDEER. Kulnasatz, my reindeer, We have a long journey to go ; The moors are vast, And we must haste. Our strength, I fear, Will fail, if we are slow; And so Our songs will do. Kaige, the watery moor, Is pleasant unto me, Though long it be, KULNASATZ, MY EEINDEEE. 41 Since it doth to my mistress lead, "Whom I adore ; The Kihva moor I ne'er again will tread. Thoughts filled my mind, Whilst I through Kaige passed, Swift as the wind, And my desire Winged with impatient fire ; My reindeer, let us haste ! So shall we quickly end our pleasing pain, — Behold my mistress there, With decent motion walking o'er the plain. Kulnasatz, my reindeer, Look yonder, where She washes in the lake ! See, while she swims, The water from her purer limbs New clearness take ! 42 SONNET ON AUTUMN. There is a fearful spirit busy now. Already have the elements unfurled Their banners : the great sea-wave is upcurled : The cloud comes : the fierce winds begin to blow About, and blindly on their errands go : And quickly will the pale red leaves be hurled From their dry boughs, and all the forest world, Stripped of its pride, be like a desert show. I love that moaning music which I hear In the bleak gusts of Autumn ; for the soul Seems gathering tidings from another sphere, And, in sublime, mysterious sympathy, Man's bounding spirit ebbs and swells more high, Accordant to the billow's loftier roll. 43 APRIL. All clay the low-hung clouds have dropper! Their garnered fulness down ; All day that soft gray mist hath wrapped Hill, valley, grove, and town. There has not been a sound to-day To break the calm of nature ; Nor motion, I might almost say, Of life, or living creature, — Of waving bough, or warbling bird, Or cattle faintly lowing ; I could have half believed I heard The leaves and blossoms growing. 44 THE 7/AIF. I stood to hear — I love it well — The rain's continuous sound ; Small drops, but thick and fast they fell, Down straight into the ground. For leafy thickness is not yet Earth's naked breast to screen, Though every dripping branch is set With shoots of tender green. Sure, since I looked at early morn, Those honeysuckle -buds Have swelled to double growth ; that thorn Hath put forth larger studs ; That lilac's cleaving cones have burst, The milk-white flowers revealing ; Even now, upon my senses first Methinks their sweets are stealing. The very earth, the steamy air, Is all with fragrance rife ; APRIL. 45 And grace and beauty everywhere Are flushing into life. Down, down they come, — those fruitful stores ! Those earth-rejoicing drops ! A momentary deluge pours, — Then thins, decreases, stops. And ere the dimples on the stream Have circled out of sight, Lo ! from the west, a parting gleam Breaks forth of amber light. But yet, behold ! abrupt and loud, Comes down the glittering rain ; The farewell of a passing cloud, The fringes of her train. 4