BOWLES/ HAL 
 

 

 
y 
 
 / I 
 
POEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 fctt,V<-^.^*Oa 
 
 GRACE GREENWOOD.^ 
 
 BOSTON: 
 TICK NOR, REED, AND FIELDS 
 
 At DCCC H. 
 
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1850, by 
 
 SARA J. CLARKE, 
 in the Clerk s Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. 
 
 CAMBRIDGE: 
 
 METCALF AND COMPANY 
 PRINTERS TO THE UNIVERSITY. 
 
DEDICATION. 
 
 TO MY MOTHER. 
 
 ON your heart, my beloved mother, I would lay this 
 offering ; because from the inflowing of your nature all 
 poetry of mine has its source, so that these lays, whether 
 embodying the light, sweet dreams of the girl, or the fer 
 vor and aspiration of the woman, are in spirit more yours 
 than my own ; because from you come my joy in the 
 beautiful, and my faith in the good ; because in your 
 great love I have found the strength and repose and the 
 fulness of life. 
 
 I say this in simple words, and few, for the reason 
 that heart-throbs can hardly be set to music, and that I 
 could not well say more, were all my soul poured out in 
 song. 
 
 GRACE. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 I HAVE but a word to offer in the way of 
 a preface. I would only ask a generous pub 
 lic to regard this volume more as a promise 
 than a performance, more as a prophecy than 
 a fulfilment. To the critic I would only whis 
 per, that this collection is not nearly as large 
 as it might have been ; and that I am confi 
 dent he would overlook the bad verse he may 
 find in it, could he know how much worse 
 poetry has been left out. 
 
 G. G. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 PROEM .3 
 
 ARIADNE g 
 
 PYGMALION 13 
 
 THE HORSEBACK RIDE 19 
 
 FANNY FORESTER 22 
 
 THE RESTORED 25 
 
 DREAMS 28 
 
 THE WIFE S APPEAL 34 
 
 THE STORY OF A LIFE 38 
 
 RECONCILIATION 42 
 
 PUTNAM 44 
 
 INVOCATION TO MOTHER EARTH 48 
 
 SPIRIT LONGINGS 51 
 
 TO A BEREAVED FRIEND 56 
 
 I NEVER WILL GROW OLD 59 
 
 WANTED. A THEME 63 
 
 HERVEY TO NINA. MISS BREMER 67 
 
 NINA TO HERVEY. MISS BREMER .... 70 
 
 SIRI, THE SWIMMER. MISS BREMER .... 73 
 
 THE ARMY OF REFORM 76 
 
 THE LEAP FROM THE LONG BRIDGE .... 80 
 
 THE LAST GIFT 83 
 
 EMILIE PLATER 86 
 
 LOVE S EMBLEMS 90 
 
 THE LOST HEART 92 
 
 THERESE 94 
 
 SONGS - .... 96 
 
 VOICES FROM THE OLD WORLD: THE FAMINE OF 1847 99 
 
 THE FLIGHT OF GENIUS 105 
 
 LOVE-LETTER TO A FRIEND .... 107 
 
Vlii CONTENTS. 
 
 ILLUMINATION FOR VICTORIES IN MEXICO . . .109 
 
 VALENTINES. 
 
 TO FITZ-GREENE HALLECK 112 
 
 TO A REFORMER 113 
 
 TO MISS C. M. SEDGWICK 114 
 
 TO MR. GILES 115 
 
 TO BAYARD TAYLOR 116 
 
 TO G. P. MORRIS 116 
 
 TO MISS A. C. L 118 
 
 TO A POET 119 
 
 TO THE WIFE OF A POET 120 
 
 TO THE WIFE OF AN ARTIST .... 121 
 
 TO G. H. C 122 
 
 TO MR. 1NMAN 122 
 
 TO 123 
 
 TO COUNT 124 
 
 TO ONE WHO KNOWS 125 
 
 TO HELEN IRVING 126 
 
 TO A POETESS 127 
 
 TO THE HON. D. P. KING, WITH AN AUTOGRAPH . 129 
 
 DARKENED HOURS 130 
 
 THE DREAM 134 
 
 THE FIRST DOUBT 138 
 
 THE MIDNIGHT VIGIL 140 
 
 THE MAY MORNING 144 
 
 WAR-SONG OF THE MAGYARS 148 
 
 THE POET S HOME 151 
 
 A FRAGMENT 153 
 
 TO ONE AFAR 156 
 
 AN OFFERING TO ANNA 158 
 
 A LAY 160 
 
 CONSTANCE 162 
 
 TO , IN ABSENCE 166 
 
 THE GOLD-SEEKER 170 
 
 THE POET OF TO-DAY 175 
 
 ARNOLD DE WINKELRIED 179 
 
 L ENVOI 187 
 
POEMS 
 
PROEM. 
 
 SOME poet dreams come to the soul 
 
 In mystic beauty clad, 
 Unearthly in their loveliness, 
 
 So exquisitely sad. 
 
 Shadowy and dim and cloud-like things 
 Floating about on unseen wings, 
 
 They tremble on our sight ; 
 As in our nightly visions come 
 Pale spirits from their starry home, 
 
 To vanish with the light, 
 And by the waking heart forgot, 
 E en as a rose remembers not, 
 
 In sunshine rich and warm, 
 The moonbeams that through night s long hours 
 Came still and cold, in silver showers, 
 
 Upon her slumbering form. 
 
PROEM. 
 
 My dreams, my dreams, would they might come 
 
 To all like voices from their home ! 
 
 Like cool, bland breezes at mid-day, 
 
 Wafting sweet breathings on their way, 
 
 That tell us where the violet springs, 
 
 Like birds with sunshine on their win^s, 
 
 o " 
 
 Like the glad laugh of morning rills, 
 Like the first day-beams o er the hills, 
 Like the first stars when twilight closes, 
 Like the first blush of summer roses, 
 Like all things pure, and bright, and gay, 
 That lure awhile the soul away 
 From care, and grief, and feverish strife, 
 And make the heart in love with life ! 
 
 Some lays there are seem only sent 
 To add to passion s blandishment, 
 
 Or wing the creeping hours 
 Of souls to lifeless ease resigned, 
 In dreamy languidness reclined 
 
 On pleasure s couch of flowers. 
 And some are like exotics rare, 
 Found blooming in the still, soft air 
 
 Of pride and luxury only ; 
 And some like priceless, burning gems, 
 Set in imperial diadems, 
 
FROEM. 
 
 In very brightness lonely ; 
 And some in stately sluggishness, 
 Forsaken barks, float rudderless 
 
 Adown time s silent river ; 
 And some are meteors on high, 
 One moment flashing o er the sky, 
 
 Then lost in night forever ! 
 
 My lays, my lays, would they might find 
 
 An echo in my country s heart, 
 Be in its home -affections shrined, 
 
 Form of its cherished things a part! 
 Be like wild flowers and common air, 
 Blooming for all, breathed everywhere, 
 Or like the glad song of the bird, 
 Gushing for all, felt, more than heard I 
 Earnest, untiring, might they be 
 Like barks before a breeze at sea, 
 
 Whose dashing prows point home, 
 Like good knights bound for Palestine, 
 Like artists, warmed by fire divine, 
 O er icy Alp and Apennine, 
 
 Holding their way to Rome, 
 Like arrows flashing through the fight, 
 Like eagles on their sunward flight, 
 
PROEM. 
 
 Like to all things in which we see 
 An errand and a destiny ! 
 
 And would to Heaven that Freedom s voice, 
 
 Wild, bold, defying, strong, 
 Might sometimes, like a martial strain, 
 
 Peal through my fearless song ! 
 The soft-toned lays of sycophants 
 
 May mine yet ring above, 
 Clear as a clarion, and yet 
 
 Their very soul be love ! 
 
 O, not that Love who deems her sphere 
 Is not where falls the mortal tear, 
 
 Not by the mortal s hearth, 
 As ministering angel here, 
 
 Far from her place of birth ; 
 With earnest, heavenward-gazing eye, 
 And spread wing fluttering for the sky, 
 All yearning to depart she seems, 
 And scarce permits, in her high dreams, 
 
 Her feet to touch the earth. 
 Away with such a love ! Be mine 
 A love more glorious, more divine, 
 That boweth to the Infinite, 
 
PROEM. 
 
 When his dimmed image meets the sight, 
 As t were all glory and all light ! 
 That loves the wide world as it lies, 
 With broken soil and clouded skies, 
 With changing scenes and varied lots, 
 And few flowers springing in the spots 
 
 Where angel feet have trod ! 
 Let every theme with this be fraught, 
 Let every lay, let every thought, 
 
 Flash out this life of God 
 
A R I A D N E . 
 
 The demigod Theseus having won the love of Ariadne, daughter of the king 
 
 of Crete, deserted her on the isle of Naxos. InMissBremer s H Family, 
 
 the blind girl is described as singing "Ariadne a Naxos," in which Ariadne is 
 represented as following Theseus, climbing a high rock to watch his departing 
 vessel, and calling upon him in her despairing anguish. 
 
 DAUGHTER of Crete, how one brief hour, 
 E en in thy young love s early morn, 
 
 Sends storm and darkness o er thy bower, 
 O doomed, O desolate, O lorn ! 
 
 The breast which pillowed thy fair head 
 Rejects its burden, and the eye 
 Which looked its love so earnestly 
 
 Its last cold glance hath on thee shed ; 
 
 The arms which were thy living zone, 
 
 Around thee closely, warmly thrown, 
 
 Shall others clasp, deserted one ! 
 
 Yet, Ariadne, worthy thou 
 
 Of the dark fate which meets thee now, 
 
ARIADNE. 9 
 
 For thou art grovelling in thy woe ; 
 
 Arouse thee ! joy to bid him go ! 
 
 For god above, or man below, 
 
 Whose love s warm and impetuous tide 
 
 Cold interest or selfish pride 
 
 Can chill, or stay, or turn aside, 
 
 All too poor and slight a thing 
 
 One shade o er woman s brow to fling 
 
 Of grief, regret, or fear, 
 To cloud one morning s golden light, 
 Disturb the sweet dreams of one night, 
 To cause the soft flash of her eye 
 To droop one moment mournfully, 
 
 Or tremble with one tear ! 
 
 T is thou shouldst triumph ; thou art free 
 From chains which bound thee for a while ; 
 
 This, this the farewell meet for thee, 
 Proud princess on that lonely isle : 
 
 " Go, to thine Athens bear thy faithless name ; 
 
 Go, base betrayer of a holy trust ! 
 O, I could bow me in my utter shame, 
 
 And lay my crimson forehead in the dust, 
 If I had ever loved thee as thou art, 
 Folding mean falsehood to my high, true heart ! 
 
10 
 
 ARIADNE. 
 
 " But thus I loved thee not ; before me bowed 
 
 A being glorious in majestic pride, 
 And breathed his love, and passionately vowed 
 
 To worship only me, his peerless bride ; 
 And this was thou, but crowned, enrobed, entwined, 
 With treasures borrowed from my own rich mind ! 
 
 " I knew thee not a creature of my dreams, 
 
 * 
 
 And my rapt soul went floating into thine ; 
 My love around thee poured such halo-beams, 
 
 Hadst thou been true, had made thee all divine. 
 And I, too, seemed immortal in my bliss, 
 When my glad lip thrilled to thy burning kiss ! 
 
 tc Shrunken and shrivelled into Theseus now 
 
 Thou stand st : behold, the gods have blown away 
 
 The airy crown that glittered on thy brow, 
 
 The gorgeous robes which wrapped thee for a day ; 
 
 Around thee scarce one fluttering fragment clings, 
 
 A poor, lean beggar in all glorious things ! 
 
 " Nor will I deign to cast on thee my hate ; 
 It were a ray to tinge with splendor still 
 
 The dull, dim twilight of thy after-fate. 
 
 Thou shalt pass from me like a dream of ill, 
 
ARIADNE. 11 
 
 Thy name be but a thing that, crouching, stole, 
 Like a poor thief, all noiseless from my soul ! 
 
 " Though thou hast dared to steal the sacred flame 
 From out that soul s high heaven, she sets thee free, 
 
 Or only chains thee with thy sounding shame ; 
 Her memory is no Caucasus for thee, 
 
 And e en her hovering hate would o er thee fling 
 
 Too much of glory from its shadowy wing ! 
 
 " Thou think st to leave my life a lonely night. 
 
 Ha ! it is night all glorious with its stars ! 
 Hopes yet unclouded beaming forth their light, 
 
 And free thoughts rolling in their silver cars ! 
 And queenly pride, serene, and cold, and high, 
 Moves the Diana of its calm, clear sky ! 
 
 " If poor and humbled thou believest me, 
 Mole of a demigod, how blind art thou ! 
 
 For I am rich in scorn to pour on thee, 
 
 And gods shall bend from high Olympus brow 
 
 To gaze in wonder on my lofty pride, 
 
 Naxos be hallowed, I be deified ! " 
 ***** 
 
 On the tall cliff where, cold and pale, 
 
 Thou walchest his receding sail, 
 
 Tk - 
 
12 ARIADNE. 
 
 Where them, the daughter of a king, 
 Wail st like a wind-harp s breaking string, 
 Bend st like a weak and wilted flower 
 Before a summer evening s shower, 
 There shouldst thou rear thy royal form, 
 Like a young oak amid the storm, 
 
 Uncrushed, unbowed, unriven ! 
 Let thy last glance burn through the air, 
 And fall far down upon him there, 
 
 Like lightning-stroke from heaven ! 
 There shouldst thou mark o er billowy crest 
 
 His white sail flutter and depart, 
 No wild fears surging at thy breast, 
 
 No vain hopes quivering round thy heart ; 
 And this brief, burning prayer alone 
 Leap from thy lips to Jove s high throne : 
 " Just Jove ! thy wrathful vengeance stay, 
 And speed the traitor on his way ! 
 Make vain the Siren s silver song, 
 Let Nereids smile the wave along, 
 O er the wild waters send his bark 
 Like a swift arrow to its mark ! 
 Let whirlwinds gather at his back, 
 And drive him on his dastard track ! 
 Let thy red bolts behind him burn, 
 And blast him should he dare to turn ! " 
 
13 
 
 P Y G M-A LION. 
 
 THE sculptor paused before his finished work, 
 A wondrous statue of divinest mould. 
 Like Cytherea s were the rounded limbs, 
 The hands, in whose soft fulness, still and deep, 
 Like sleeping Loves, the chiselled dimples lay, 
 The hair s rich fall, the lip s exquisite curve. 
 But most like Juno s were the brow of pride, 
 And lofty bearing of the matchless head ; 
 While over all, a mystic holiness, 
 Like Dian s purest smile, around her hung, 
 And hushed the idle gazer, like the air 
 Which haunts at night the temples of the gods. 
 
 As stood the sculptor with still folded arms, 
 And viewed this shape of rarest Joveliness, 
 No flush of triumph crimsoned o er his brow, 
 
14 PYGMALION. 
 
 Nor grew his dark eye luminous with joy. 
 
 Heart-crushed with grief, worn with intense desires, 
 
 And wasting with a mad, consuming flame, 
 
 He wildly gazed, his cold cheek rivalling 
 
 The whiteness of the marble he had wrought. 
 
 The robe s loose folds which lay upon his breast 
 
 Tumultuous rose and fell, like ocean waves 
 
 Upheaved by storms beneath ; and on his brow, 
 
 In beaded drops, the dew of anguish lay. 
 
 And thus he flung himself upon the earth, 
 
 And poured in prayer his wild and burning words: 
 
 " Great Jove, to thy high throne a mortal s prayer 
 In all the might of anguish struggles up ! 
 Thou hast beheld his work, as day by day 
 It put on form and beauty, till it stood 
 The wonder of the glorious realm of art. 
 The sculptor wrought not blindly. Oft there came 
 Blest visions to his soul of forms divine ; 
 Of white-armed Juno, in that hour of love, 
 When, fondling close the cuckoo, tempest-chilled, 
 She all unconscious in that form did press 
 The mighty sire of the eternal gods 
 To her soft bosom ; Aphrodite fair, 
 As first she trod the glad, enamoured earth, 
 
PYGMALION. 15 
 
 With small, white feet, spray-dripping from the 
 
 sea ; 
 
 Of crested Dian, when her nightly kiss 
 Pressed down the eyelids of Endymion, 
 Her silvery presence making all the air 
 Of dewy Latmos tremulous with love. 
 
 " And now (deem not thy suppliant impious, 
 Our being s source, thou Father of all life), 
 A wild, o ermastering passion fires my soul, 
 / madly love the work my hand hath wrought. 
 Intoxicate I gaze through all the day, 
 And mocking visions haunt my couch at night ; 
 My heart is faint and sick with longings vain, 
 A burning thirst is parching up my life. 
 
 u I call upon her, and she answers not ! 
 The fond love-names I breathe into her ear 
 Are met with maddening silence ! When I clasp 
 Those slender fingers in my fevered hand, 
 Their coldness chills me like the touch of death ! 
 And while my heart s wild beatings shake my frame, 
 And pain my breast with love s sweet agony, 
 No faintest throb that shining bosom stirs. 
 
16 PYGMALION. 
 
 " O, I would have an eye to gaze in mine ! 
 An ear to listen for my coming step, 
 A voice of love, with tones like joy s own bells, 
 To ring their silver changes on mine ear ! 
 A yielding hand to thrill within mine own, 
 And lips of melting sweetness, full and warm ! 
 Would change this deathless stone to mortal flesh, 
 And barter immortality for love ! 
 
 " If voice of earth, in wildest prayer, may reach 
 To godhood, throned amid the purple clouds, 
 To animate this cold and pulseless stone 
 Grant thou one breath of that immortal air 
 Which feedeth human life from age to age, 
 And floateth round Olympus ! Hear, O Jove ! 
 
 " And so this form may shrine a soul of light, 
 Whose starry radiance shall unseal these eyes, 
 Send down the sky s blue deeps, O sire divine, 
 One faintest gleam of that benignant smile 
 Which glows upon the faces of the gods, 
 And lights all heaven ! Hear, mighty Jove ! " 
 
 He stayed his prayer, and on his statue gazed. 
 Behold, a gentle heaving stirred its breast ! 
 
PYGMALION. 17 
 
 O er all the form a flush of rose-light passed, 
 Along the limbs the azure arteries throbbed, 
 A golden lustre settled on the head, 
 And gleamed amid the mazes of the hair ; 
 The rounded cheek grew vivid with a blush, 
 Ambrosial breathings cleft the curved lips, 
 And softly through the arched nostril stole ; 
 Slow rose the silken-fringed lids, and eyes 
 Like violets wet with dew drank in the light ! 
 
 Moveless she stood, until her wandering glance 
 Upon the rapt face of the sculptor fell ; 
 Bewildered and abashed, it sank beneath 
 The burning gaze of his adoring eyes. 
 And then there ran through all her trembling frame 
 A strange, sweet thrill of blissful consciousness, 
 Life s wildest joy, in one delicious tide, 
 Poured through the channels of her new-born heart, 
 And love s first sigh rose quivering from her breast. 
 
 She turned, and, smiling, bent her toward the 
 
 youth, 
 
 And blushed love s dawn upon him as he knelt. 
 He rose, sprang forward with a passionate cry, 
 And joyously outstretched his waiting arms; 
 
18 PYGMALION. 
 
 And lo ! the form he sculptured from the stone, 
 Instinct with life, and radiant with soul, 
 A breathing shape of beauty, soft and warm, 
 Of mortal womanhood, all smiles and tears, 
 In love s sweet trance upon his bosom lay. 
 
19 
 
 THE HORSEBACK RIDE. 
 
 WHEN troubled in spirit, when weary of life, 
 
 When I faint neath its burdens, and shrink from its strife, 
 
 When its fruits, turned to ashes, are mocking my taste, 
 
 And its fairest scene seems but a desolate waste, 
 
 Then come ye not near me, my sad heart to cheer, 
 
 With friendship s soft accents, or sympathy s tear. 
 
 No pity I ask, and no counsel I need, 
 
 But bring me, O, bring me, my gallant young steed, 
 
 With his high arched neck, and his nostril spread wide, 
 
 His eye full of fire, and his step full of pride ! 
 
 As I spring to his back, as I seize the strong rein, 
 
 The strength to my spirit returneth again ! 
 
 The bonds are all broken that fettered my mind, 
 
 And my cares borne away on the wings of the wind ; 
 
 My pride lifts its head, for a season bowed down, 
 
 And the queen in my nature now puts on her crown ! 
 
20 THE HORSEBACK RIDE. 
 
 Now we re off, like the winds to the plains whence 
 
 they came, 
 
 And the rapture of motion is thrilling my frame ! 
 On, on speeds my courser, scarce printing the sod, 
 Scarce crushing a daisy to mark where he trod ! 
 On, on like a deer, when the hound s early bay 
 Awakes the wild echoes, away, and away ! 
 Still faster, still farther, he leaps at my cheer, 
 Till the rush of the startled air whirs in my ear ! 
 Now long a clear rivulet lieth his track, 
 See his glancing hoofs tossing the white pebbles back ! 
 Now a glen, dark as midnight, what matter? we 11 
 
 down, 
 
 Though shadows are round us, and rocks o er us frown ; 
 The thick branches shake, as we re hurrying through, 
 And deck us with spangles of silvery dew ! 
 
 What a wild thought of triumph, that this girlish hand 
 Such a steed in the might of his strength may command ! 
 What a glorious creature ! Ah ! glance at him now, 
 As I check him awhile on this green hillock s brow ; 
 How he tosses his mane, with a shrill, joyous neigh, 
 And paws the firm earth in his proud, stately play ! 
 Hurrah ! off again, dashing on as in ire, 
 Till the long, flinty pathway is flashing with fire ! 
 
THE HORSEBACK RIDE. 21 
 
 Ho ! a ditch ! Shall we pause ? No ; the bold leap 
 
 we dare, 
 
 Like a swift-winged arrow we rush through the air! 
 O, not all the pleasures that poets may praise, 
 Not the wildering waltz in the ball-room s blaze, 
 Nor the chivalrous joust, nor the daring race, 
 Nor the swift regatta, nor merry chase, 
 Nor the sail, high heaving waters o er, 
 Nor the rural dance on the moonlight shore, 
 Can the wild and thrilling joy exceed 
 Of a fearless leap on a fiery steed ! 
 
22 
 
 FANNY FORESTER. 
 
 A THOUSAND sweet ties bind her here, 
 
 O friend ! thy fears are vain ! 
 The blessed angels will not break 
 
 So soon this golden chain ; 
 And God, our God, who loveth her, 
 
 Shall breathe on her again ! 
 
 The languor of her step shall yet 
 
 With winter snows depart ; 
 Her feet shall spring o er carpets wrought 
 
 By Flora s loving art, 
 And keep time to the joyous beat 
 
 Of her exulting heart ! 
 
 Spring flowers, they must, to one like her, 
 Bring life in their perfume ; 
 
FANNY FORESTER. 23 
 
 Though lilies mind us of the young, 
 
 Pale bending to the tomb, 
 She shall tread among the violets 
 
 Before the lilies bloom ! 
 
 Yes, when the summer roses blush, 
 Her cheek shall catch their glow ; 
 
 And when the summer birds return, 
 Her tones, no longer low, 
 
 Shall, like their strains, on raptured ears 
 In waves of music flow. 
 
 Our souls arms are around her thrown ! 
 
 She must not pass away 
 Now, when, too humble for the proud, 
 
 Too lonely for the gay, 
 The altar of sweet Poesy 
 
 Is falling to decay ! 
 
 O, there may we behold her yet 
 
 In her young beauty bow ! 
 There may we hear her glad lip breathe 
 
 Her consecration vow, 
 Earth s warm life lighting up her eye, 
 
 Its glory on her brow ! 
 
24 FANNY FORESTER. 
 
 There long a priestess may she serve, 
 With vestments pure and fair, 
 
 There offer up her winged dreams, 
 Young doves from heaven s own air, 
 
 And pour the rich wine of her soul 
 As a libation there ! 
 
25 
 
 THE RESTORED. 
 
 OUR Father, when our loved one lay 
 
 With her languid eyes half closed, 
 When the darkening shadow of the grave 
 
 On her sunny brow reposed, 
 Mid our woe thou didst send thy spirit down 
 
 To renew her failing breath, 
 And mid our joy we bless Thee now, 
 
 O thou God of life and death ! 
 
 Ah, when she turned from the shadowy vale, 
 
 From the night that gloomed before her, 
 A new life burst, like a tropical day, 
 
 In surpassing glory, o er her ! 
 The stars pour down a purer light, 
 
 The sunbeams richer fall, 
 And sweeter far through the arch of heaven 
 
 Sounds the wild-bird s early call. 
 
26 THE RESTORED. 
 
 And each low wind that murmurs by, 
 
 Or lingers on her brow, 
 Seems a whisper from the realm of peace, 
 
 The kiss of angels now ; 
 And flowers are far more blessed things, 
 
 The lowliest that bloom 
 Bear tracings of the loving hand 
 
 That raised her from the tomb. 
 
 Though she seemeth yet, with her noiseless step, 
 
 Some fair and fleeting shade, 
 And her voice hath the sound of a silver brook, 
 
 Low rippling down the glade ; 
 Though faint the flush that sometimes comes 
 
 Her glowing dreams to speak, 
 As the shadow of a rose-leaf cast 
 
 On a sculptured Psyche s cheek ; 
 
 Life, life, is thrilling through her veins ! 
 
 And her heart, these warm spring hours, 
 Waked to new raptures and new loves, 
 
 Seems beating under flowers, 
 Like a pulse in the brow of a young May Queen, 
 
 Just crowned in her morning bowers. 
 
THE RESTORED. 27 
 
 That from her door to the place of graves 
 
 The path is yet untrod, 
 That we have not pressed on her warm young breast 
 
 The icy burial sod, 
 That she sleepeth, and waketh, and is not dead, 
 
 We bless thee, O our God ! 
 
28 
 
 DREAMS. 
 
 THERE was a season when I loved 
 The calm and holy night, 
 
 When, like yon silvery evening star, 
 Just trembling on our sight, 
 
 My spirit through its heaven of dreams 
 Went floating forth in light. 
 
 Night is the time when Nature seems 
 
 God s silent worshipper, 
 And ever with a chastened heart, 
 
 In unison with her, 
 I laid me on my peaceful couch, 
 
 The day s dull cares resigned, 
 And let my thoughts fold up like flowers, 
 
 In the twilight of the mind. 
 
DREAMS. 29 
 
 Fast round me closed the shades of sleep ; 
 
 Then burst upon my sight 
 Visions of glory and of love, 
 
 The stars of slumber s night ! 
 Dreams, wondrous dreams, that far around 
 
 Did such rich radiance fling, 
 As the sudden first unfurling 
 
 Of a young angel s wing. 
 Then sometimes blessed beings came, 
 
 Parting the midnight skies, 
 And bore me to their shining homes, 
 
 The bovvers of Paradise ; 
 I felt my worn, world-wearied soul 
 
 Bathed in divine repose, 
 My earth-chilled heart, in the airs of heaven, 
 
 Unfolding as a rose. 
 
 Nor were my dreams celestial all, 
 
 For oft along my way 
 Clustered the scenes and joys of home, 
 
 The loves of every day ; 
 Soft after angel-music still 
 
 The voices round my hearth, 
 Sweet after Paradisean flowers 
 
 The violets of earth. 
 
30 DREAMS. 
 
 But now I dread the night, it holds 
 
 Within its weary bounds 
 Strife, griefs and fears, red battle-fields, 
 
 And spectre-haunted grounds ! 
 
 One night there sounded through my dreams 
 
 A trumpet s stirring peal, 
 And then methought I went forth armed, 
 
 And clad in glittering steel, 
 And sprang upon a battle steed, 
 
 And led a warrior band, 
 And we swept, a flood of fire and death, 
 
 Victorious through the land ! 
 O, what wild rapture t was to mark 
 
 My serried ranks advance, 
 And see amid the foe go down 
 
 Banner and plume and lance ! 
 The living trampled o er the dead, 
 
 The fallen, line on line, 
 Were crushed like grapes at vintage-time, 
 
 And blood was poured like wine ! 
 My sword was dripping to its hilt, 
 
 And this small, girlish hand, 
 Planted the banner, lit the torch, 
 And waved the stern command. 
 
DREAMS. 31 
 
 How swelled and burned within my heart 
 
 Fierce hate and fiery pride, 
 My very soul rode like a bark 
 
 On the battle s stormy tide ! 
 
 My pitying and all woman s soul ! 
 
 O, no, it was not mine ! 
 Perchance mine slumbered, or had left 
 
 Awhile its earthly shrine ; 
 So the spirit of a Joan d Arc 
 
 Stole in my sleeping frame, 
 And wrote her history on my heart, 
 
 In words of blood and flame. 
 
 My dead are with me in my dreams, 
 
 Rise from their still, lone home, 
 But are they as I loved them here ? 
 
 O Heaven, t is thus they come ! 
 Silent and cold, the pulseless form 
 
 In burial garments dressed, 
 The pale hands holding burial flowers, 
 
 Close folded on the breast ! 
 
 My living, they in whose tried hearts 
 My wild, impassioned love 
 
32 DREAMS. 
 
 Foldeth its wings contentedly, 
 
 And nestles as a dove, 
 They come, they hold me in their arms ; 
 
 My heart, with joy oppressed, 
 Seems panting neath its blessed weight, 
 
 And swooning in my breast ; 
 My eyes look up through tears of bliss, 
 
 Like flowers through dews of even, 
 There s a painful fulness in my lips, 
 
 Till the kiss of love is given ; 
 When, sudden, their fresh glowing lips 
 
 Are colorless and cold, 
 And an icy, shrouded corse is all 
 
 My shuddering arms enfold ! 
 
 Have I my guardian angels grieved, 
 
 That they have taken flight ? 
 Or frown st thou on me, O my God, 
 
 In the visions of the night ? 
 Yet with a child s fond faith I rest 
 
 Still on thy fatherhood, 
 Speak peace unto my troubled dreams, 
 
 Thou merciful and good ! 
 And, O, if cares and griefs must come, 
 
 Arid throng my humble way, 
 
DREAMS. 33 
 
 Then let me, strengthened and refreshed, 
 
 Strive with them in the day, 
 This glorious world which thou hast made 
 
 Spread out in bloom before me, 
 Thy blessed sunshine on my path, 
 
 Thy radiant skies hung o er me. 
 But when, like ghosts of the sun s lost rays, 
 
 Come down the moonbeams pale, 
 And the dark earth lies like an Eastern bride 
 
 Beneath her silvery veil, 
 Then let the night, with its silence deep, 
 
 Its dews and its starry gleams, 
 Be peace, and rest, and love ! God, 
 Smile on me in my dreams ! 
 
34 
 
 THE WIFE S APPEAL. 
 
 I M thinking, Charles, t is just a year, 
 
 Or will be, very soon, 
 Since first you told me of your love, 
 
 One glorious day in June. 
 
 All nature seemed to share our bliss, 
 The skies hung warm above, 
 
 The winds from opening roses bore 
 The very breath of love ! 
 
 We sought the still, deep forest shades, 
 
 Within whose leafy gloom 
 Few ardent sunbeams stole to kiss 
 
 The young buds into bloom ; 
 
35 
 
 The birds caught up our tones of love, 
 
 In songs not half so sweet, 
 And earth s green carpet, violet-flowered, 
 
 It scarcely felt our feet ! 
 
 Ah, apropos of carpets, Charles, 
 
 I looked at some to-day, 
 Which you will purchase, won t you, dear, 
 
 Before our next soiree ? 
 
 And then remember you how lost 
 
 In love s delicious dream, 
 We long stood silently beside 
 
 A gently gliding stream ? 
 
 T was Nature s mirror, when your gaze 
 
 No longer I could bear, 
 I modestly cast down my eyes, 
 
 Yet but to meet it there ! 
 
 And apropos of mirrors, love, 
 
 The dear gift of your mother 
 Is quite old-fashioned, and to-day 
 
 I ordered home another. 
 
36 THE WIFE S APPEAL. 
 
 Ah, well do I remember, Charles, 
 
 When first your arm stole round me, 
 
 You little dreamed how long your soul 
 In golden chains had bound me ! 
 
 And apropos of chains, my own, 
 
 At Allen s shop last week 
 I saw the sweetest love, so rich, 
 
 So tasteful and unique ! 
 
 The workmanship is most superb, 
 The gold most fine and pure, 
 
 I quite long, Charles, to see that chain 
 Suspend your miniature ! 
 
 I ve heard sad news while you were out, 
 My nerves are much affected, 
 
 You know the navy officer 
 I once for you rejected ; 
 
 Driven to despair by your success, 
 Made desperate by my scorn, 
 
 He went to sea, and has been lost 
 In passing round Cape Horn ! 
 
THE WIFE S APPEAL. 37 
 
 Ah, apropos of capes, my love, 
 
 I saw one in Broadway, 
 Of lace as fine as though t were wove 
 
 Of moonlight, by a fay ! 
 
 You 11 purchase the exquisite thing ? 
 
 T will suit your taste completely ; 
 Above the heart that loves you, Charles, 
 
 T will rise and fall so sweetly ! 
 
38 
 
 THE STORY OF A LIFE 
 
 THE world smiled on me at my birth, 
 
 Beneath a rose-hued sky, 
 Rocked on the summer waves of love, 
 
 My childhood glided by. 
 
 My boyhood passed in lofty dreams, 
 
 In longings for the strife, 
 The glory, and the pageantry, 
 
 The tournament of life. 
 
 At manhood s age, a being proud 
 
 And passionate, I stood ; 
 Gold, lands, were mine, and through my veins 
 
 Went leaping princely blood. 
 
THE STORY OF A LIFE. 39 
 
 Then Pleasure held her goblet high, 
 
 And called on me to drain 
 The glowing wine quaffed by the gods, 
 
 Till madness fired my brain ; 
 
 She mocked and tortured by delay, 
 
 Then, at my frenzied call, 
 She offered to my burning lip 
 
 The cup, and it was gall. 
 
 I won a friend by generous deeds, 
 
 One with an open brow ; 
 He bound his very life to mine 
 
 With many a holy vow. 
 
 Then fell the bolt, I was betrayed ! 
 
 By cool, insidious art, 
 By words that, like barbed arrows, still 
 
 Are quivering in my heart. 
 
 At last unto my bosom came, 
 
 In gentlest guise, young Love ; 
 It crept into its resting-place, 
 
 A sweet and quiet dove. 
 
40 THE STORY OF A LIFE. 
 
 I warmed it in my inmost heart, 
 
 Closed from the world s chill air ; 
 
 0, t was a rapture caught from heaven 
 To feel it nestling there ! 
 
 But ah ! one morn, from visions blest, 
 
 I wakened with a moan ; 
 There was a vulture at my breast, 
 
 And that young dove had flown ! 
 
 Then Fame held forth her laurel crown, 
 From her proud height afar ; 
 
 I longed for it, as does a child 
 At evening for a star. 
 
 I toiled, I suffered, humble joys 
 
 I careless flung aside, 
 Saw peace take wing, and in the dust 
 
 Bow down my manly pride. 
 
 At last, at last, it bound my brow, 
 That green immortal wreath ! 
 
 Exulting, glorying, I stood, 
 Defying time and death ! 
 
THE STORY OF A LIFE. 41 
 
 Yet soon I would have given worlds 
 
 To fling it off again, 
 For thorns were hid among the leaves, 
 
 That pierced me to the brain ! 
 
 Now is my life a storm-wrecked bark, 
 
 Dashed by time s surges high 
 Upon a bare, cold island rock, 
 
 Beneath a northern sky. 
 
 There, in that realm where hearts congeal, 
 
 The spirit s frozen zone, 
 A joyless, cheerless, loveless age, 
 
 I stand alone, alone. 
 
42 
 
 RECONCILIATION. 
 
 YES, all is well. The cloud hath passed away 
 That hung above our friendship s path awhile ; 
 
 For truth hath pierced it with a golden ray, 
 And love s own sunshine bathed it in a smile. 
 
 Yes, all is well, my brother. See, I place 
 My hand upon my late tumultuous heart, 
 
 And its soft pulses speak the calm of peace, 
 Which sweetest is just after storms depart. 
 
 Now let our friendship flow, like gentle river, 
 With no dark stream its silver waves to stain ; 
 
 And, O, let no cold wintry iceberg ever 
 Come floating down its summer tide again ! 
 
RECONCILIATION. 43 
 
 Let naught disturb our harmony of soul, 
 
 Let nothing come between thy heart and mine, 
 
 But let the circling years, as on they roll, 
 Still bring us more of sympathy divine. 
 
 We are but one remove from heavenly birth, 
 Let heavenly truth be on each lip and brow ; 
 
 Let us be free, let not the dust of earth 
 
 Weigh down the white wings of our spirits now. 
 
 So when we tread Eternity s dim shore 
 
 Our souls may know each other, and rejoice 
 
 That no disguise in earthly life they wore, 
 And spirit voice may answer spirit voice ! 
 
44 
 
 PUTNAM. 
 
 LET the haughty smile, the low defame, 
 The heartless worldling mock ; 
 
 I thank my God my fathers came 
 Of the good old Pilgrim stock ! 
 
 I thank my God, through this heart bounds 
 
 Blood from that hero band ; 
 That my sire first opened his young eyes 
 
 Where Northern plains expand ; 
 That my mother s first breath was the air 
 
 Of Putnam s glorious land ! 
 
 Our own brave Putnam ! worthy thou 
 Such rare and knightly praise 
 
 As warrior bards of a warrior race 
 Wove in their triumph-lays, 
 
 And sang aloud to their sounding harps, 
 In the old heroic days. 
 
PUTNAM. 45 
 
 When Freedom first her standard reared, 
 
 Her sword first girded on, 
 When her rally first from Concord rang, 
 
 And pealed from Lexington, 
 Thou heard st with triumph in thine eye, 
 
 And proud, uplifted brow, 
 And, like the patriot Roman, went 
 
 To glory from the plough ! 
 
 Thy voice rang like a clarion out 
 
 On Bunker s trampled height ; 
 Thy sword gleamed like a meteor through 
 
 The thick cloud of the fight ; 
 Where cannon boomed, where bayonets clashed, 
 
 There was thy fiery way, 
 And thy blows came down, a storm of death, 
 
 On the foe that fearful day. 
 
 Thy daring ride adown the rocks, 
 
 Have chivalry s bold days 
 A deed of wilder bravery 
 
 In all their stirring lays ? 
 The veteran loves to tell the tale, 
 
 When night enwraps the earth, 
 And youthful forms all eager crowd 
 
 Around the household hearth. 
 
46 PUTNAM. 
 
 The listeners, how, as with hushed breath 
 
 They drink in every word, 
 Is the martial spirit through their veins 
 
 Like a stream of lightning poured ! 
 How eye meets eye in a kindred blaze, 
 
 Like the flash of sword on sword ! 
 
 The Briton, on the hill s high brow, 
 With levelled arms, they see ; 
 
 And thou below, thy gray war-steed 
 Dashing on gallantly. 
 
 A shout springs to their lips, their souls 
 Go leaping down with thee ! 
 
 Like Wolfe, upon the crimsoned turf 
 
 It was not thine to lie, 
 The cannon s roar in thy dying ear, 
 
 The strife in thy dying eye ; 
 With thy country s banner o er thy head, 
 
 Unrolling broad and free, 
 And with thy passing spirit thrilled 
 
 By shouts of " Victory ! " 
 
 But by the hands of Peace and Love 
 Thy white death-couch was spread ; 
 
PUTNAM. 47 
 
 And Hope unfurled her starry wing 
 In glory o er thy head. 
 
 In the sweet May-time, when flowers awoke, 
 
 And earth was very fair, 
 To the bending heaven the soldier s soul 
 
 Uprose on the breath of prayer, 
 And the shout of " Victory ! " here unheard 
 
 Was the soldier s welcome there. 
 
48 
 
 INVOCATION TO MOTHER EARTH. 
 
 O EARTH ! thy face hath not the grace 
 
 That smiling Heaven did bless, 
 When thou wert " good," and blushing stood 
 
 In thy young loveliness ; 
 And mother dear, the smile and tear 
 
 In thee are strangely met ; 
 Thy joy and woe together flow, 
 
 But, ah, we love thee yet ! 
 
 Thou still art fair, when morn s fresh air 
 
 Thrills with the lark s sweet song ; 
 When Nature seems to wake from dreams, 
 
 And laugh and dance along ; 
 Thou rt fair at day, when clouds all gray 
 
 Fade into glorious blue ; 
 When sunny hours fly o er the flowers, 
 
 And kiss away the dew. 
 
INVOCATION TO MOTHER EARTH. 49 
 
 Thou rt fair at eve, when skies receive 
 
 The last smiles of the sun ; 
 When through the shades that twilight spreads 
 
 The stars peep, one by one ; 
 Thou rt fair at night, when full starlight 
 
 Streams down upon the sod ; 
 When moonlight pale, on hill and dale, 
 
 Rests like the smile of God. 
 
 And thou art grand where lakes expand, 
 
 And mighty rivers roll ; 
 Where ocean proud, with threatenings loud, 
 
 Mocketh at man s control ; 
 And grand thou art when lightnings dart, 
 
 And gleam athwart thy sky ; 
 When thunders peal, and forests reel, 
 
 And storms go sweeping by. 
 
 We bless thee now, for gifts which thou 
 
 Hast freely on us shed ; 
 For dew and showers, and beauteous flowers, 
 
 And blue skies overhead ; 
 For morn s perfume, and mid-day s bloom. 
 
 And evening s hour of mirth ; 
 
 4 
 
50 INVOCATION TO MOTHER EARTH. 
 
 For glorious night, for all things bright, 
 We bless thee, Mother Earth ! 
 
 But when long years of care and tears 
 
 Have come and passed away, 
 The time may be when sadly we 
 
 Shall turn to thee, and say, 
 " We are worn with life, its toils and strife, 
 
 We long, we pine, for rest ; 
 We come, we come, all wearied, home, 
 
 Room, Mother, in thy breast ! " 
 
51 
 
 SPIRIT LONGINGS. 
 
 I LOOK upon life s glorious things, 
 The deathless themes of song, 
 
 The grand, the proud, the beautiful, 
 The wild, the free, the strong, 
 
 And wish that I might take a part 
 Of what to them belong. 
 
 Behold, the fearless Ship goes forth, 
 
 Where ocean billows sweep ; 
 Proud as a steed, swift as a bird, 
 
 She dashes through the deep ! 
 Her drapery of snowy sail 
 
 Around her stately form, 
 Majestic Juno in the calm, 
 
 Bellona in the storm ! 
 
52 SPIRIT LONGINGS. 
 
 Thus may I, on the sea of life, 
 Launch forth all strong and brave, 
 
 Wait through the lonely, tedious calm, 
 And breast the stormy wave. 
 
 Bold Eagle, gazer on the sun, 
 
 Child of the upper air ! 
 In low, unworthy strifes and sports 
 
 He deigneth not to share : 
 Behold him in a mountain land, 
 
 When storm-clouds roll on hip-h, 
 
 O * 
 
 Upon the gathering tempest look, 
 
 With calm, uncowering eye ! 
 Loud thunders peal and crash around ; 
 
 He knoweth no affright, 
 But spreads his wing upon the blast, 
 
 And speeds his upward flight ! 
 Red lightnings blaze along his path, 
 
 And play around his form ; 
 He joys, he glories, he exults, 
 
 In striving with the storm ! 
 
 Thus may my nature bear through life, 
 Whatever may betide, 
 
SPIRIT LONGINGS. 53 
 
 A scorn of all things low and mean, 
 
 A stern and lofty pride ; 
 Thus may a dauntless, daring strength 
 
 Be given unto my soul ; 
 Thus, thus through tempests may it sweep 
 
 On, upward to its goal ! 
 
 The bright, the beautiful, the glad, 
 
 The swift and silvery River ! 
 Dim woods, dark rocks, along it frown, 
 
 But it laugheth on for ever ! 
 
 Thus may my heart, a joyous thing, 
 
 Go laughing o er the earth, 
 And nothing sadden, nothing awe, 
 
 Its careless, childlike mirth. 
 
 The blue, the broad, the deep, the strong, 
 
 The wild, unfettered Sea ! 
 Methinks he might have taught the world 
 
 That God had made it free. 
 He lies at rest ; upon his breast 
 
 The stars are mirrored bright ; 
 He sees move through the courts of heaven 
 
 The lovely queen of night, 
 
54 SPIRIT LONGINGS. 
 
 And his strong pulses bound to meet 
 
 Her sweet smile s placid light ! 
 Though worlds, though all created things 
 
 Should threaten and command, 
 He lies at rest. But see, the winds 
 
 Are loosed from God s right hand, 
 And the sea-bird screameth with affright, 
 
 And the seaman steers to land ! 
 
 Thus may this soul of mine be free, 
 
 Thus mirror things above ; 
 Thus may its soft tides ever swell, 
 
 Beneath the smile of love ; 
 Thus may the will of God alone 
 
 Move its unfathomed deep, 
 And wake its rushing, flashing thoughts 
 
 From their inglorious sleep. 
 
 A gentle Star, lit up in heaven, 
 
 And meekly beaming there, 
 Its quiet light comes trembling down 
 
 The sweet and silent air ; 
 Within the mist, behind the cloud, 
 
 Its living rays still shine, 
 Like sacred fires mid incense-wreaths 
 
 That circle round the shrine. 
 
SPIRIT LONGINGS. 55 
 
 Thus may my life shine forth a star, 
 
 On all who walk in night, 
 Unquenched by mists, undimmed by clouds, 
 
 Till lost in morn s full light. 
 
 spirit, be no more content 
 To dream, aspire, and long ! 
 
 Grasp thou the grand, the beautiful, 
 The proud, the free, the strong ! 
 
 1 rouse ! no more for far-off good, 
 
 With folded hands, I pine ; 
 I seek, I yet will find, the springs 
 
 To quench this thirst divine ! 
 And these, all these I covet now, 
 
 God helping, shall be mine ! 
 
56 
 
 TO A BEREAVED FRIEND. 
 
 THY Mary hath gone from thee ; thou hast folded 
 For the last time her dear form to thy breast, 
 
 And on those lips, in softest beauty moulded, 
 The last, last kiss of yearning love hast pressed. 
 
 She hath gone from thee ; thou hast seen her lying 
 Gasping away the life so dear to thee ; 
 
 And thou didst hold her hand while she was dying, 
 Till the long sleep stole o er her tranquilly ; 
 
 One after one didst feel thy heart-strings breaking, 
 As each faint pulse grew fainter in that hand ; 
 
 Though thou didst know that she was only taking 
 Her flight before thee to the better land. 
 
TO A BEREAVED FRIEND. 57 
 
 It was the hand in love s devotion given, 
 
 When first she stood thy young and trustful bride, 
 The hand which led thy children on to heaven, 
 
 T was hers who lived, joyed, suffered by thy side. 
 
 Yet there were stars in holy brightness shining 
 Down on the midnight path which thou hast trod ; 
 
 Didst thou not see her meekly earth resigning, 
 And leaning on the bosom of her God ? 
 
 She hath not left thee wholly broken-hearted ; 
 Was it not thine to watch her latest breath ? 
 
 To print upon her lips, ere she departed, 
 
 The seal of love, the good-night kiss of death ? 
 
 And thou didst see no stranger hand composing 
 Her fair limbs in the attitude of sleep ; 
 
 Severing her tresses, and the fringed lids closing 
 
 O er those dark eyes which now have ceased to weep. 
 
 And though thy Mary walks in highest heaven, 
 Ye were knit soul to soul, as heart to heart ; 
 
 The love to light your earthly pathway given 
 Was of that heaven to which she rose a part. 
 
58 
 
 TO A BEREAVED FRIEND. 
 
 She placed her earthly being in thy keeping ; 
 
 When thou art anguished, can she be at rest ? 
 Will she not feel the tears which thou art weeping, 
 
 Like swift rain falling on her angel breast ? 
 
 And will she not, while now "the new song" learning, 
 Amid its pauses hear thy mournful sighs ? 
 
 Will she not feel a vain and painful yearning 
 To bear thee peace and comfort from the skies ? 
 
 Then mourn no more, t will sadden her in glory 
 To know how ceaselessly flow forth thy tears ; 
 
 And she will tell the angels the sad story, 
 
 How she hath left thee in thy night of years, 
 
 A lone, despairing, broken-hearted mourner, 
 For one dear presence evermore to pine ; 
 
 And they will grieve that they should thus have borne her, 
 Even to heaven, from such a love as thine. 
 
59 
 
 I NEVER WILL GROW OLD. 
 
 0, NO, I never will grow old ; 
 
 Though years on years roll by, 
 And silver o er my dark brown hair, 
 
 And dim my laughing eye, 
 
 They shall not shrivel up my sowZ, 
 
 Nor dim the glance of love 
 My heart casts on this world of ours, 
 
 And lifts to that above ! 
 
 Now, with a passion for those haunts 
 Where wild, free nature reigns, 
 
 With life s tide leaping through my heart, 
 And revelling through my veins, 
 
60 I NEVER WILL GROW OLD. 
 
 T is hard to think the time must come 
 When I can seek no more, 
 
 With step bold as a mountain child s, 
 Deep dell and rocky shore ; 
 
 No longer on my swift young steed, 
 Bound o er the hills as now, 
 
 And meet half way the winds that toss 
 The loose locks from my brow ! 
 
 Yet still my spirit may go forth 
 Where fearless fancy leads, 
 
 May take at will as glorious rides, 
 On wild, invisible steeds ! 
 
 Ye tell me as a morning dream 
 Shall pass away, ere long, 
 
 My humble, yet most passionate, 
 Adoring love of song. 
 
 No, no ! life s ills may throng my way, 
 And pride may bend the knee, 
 
 And Hope s bright banner kiss the dust; 
 But lofty Poesy 
 
I NEVER WILL GROW OLD. 61 
 
 Shall fling their slavish chains aside, 
 
 And spurn their dark control ; 
 They never, never shall lay waste 
 
 That Italy of the soul ! 
 
 My father, pleasant years may pass, 
 
 Ere his last sun shall set ; 
 And blessed be the God of life ! 
 
 My mother liveth yet. 
 
 My sisters blend their souls with mine, 
 
 A laughing, loving band ; 
 A heaven-set guard along our paths, 
 
 Our six brave brothers stand. 
 
 While God thus pours the light of joy 
 
 As sunshine round my home, 
 O, I 11 lay up such a store of loves 
 
 For the stormy days to come ! 
 
 In the joy and grief of every one 
 
 I 11 seek to share a part, 
 Till grateful thoughts and wishes fond 
 
 Come thronging to my heart. 
 
(J2 I NEVER WILL GROW OLD. 
 
 The earnest praises of the young, 
 The blessings of the old, 
 
 I ll gather them in, P 11 hoard them up, 
 As a miser hoards his gold ! 
 
 Those loves may die, yet hopeful trust 
 Shall leave me, fail me, never ; 
 
 I will plant roses on their graves, 
 Vive lajeunesse for ever ! 
 
 Smile on, doubt on, say life is sad, 
 The world is false and cold, 
 
 P 11 keep my heart glad, true, and warm, 
 I never will grow old ! 
 
WANTED. A THEME. 
 
 THE spring is here again, mother ! she bursts upon our 
 sight, 
 
 Like a young girl in her bridal dress, all bloom, and 
 love, and light ; 
 
 The birds from out the sunny South, Heaven-guided, 
 hither come ; 
 
 And earth is very fair, mother, far round our cottage- 
 home. 
 
 A spell is on my heart, mother, a deep, mysterious 
 
 spell ; 
 
 I feel the mighty tide of song within my spirit swell ! 
 Then find for me a theme, mother, a theme to write 
 
 upon, 
 Ere breaks that spell, and ere that tide has ebbed away 
 
 and gone. 
 
64 WANTED. A THEME. 
 
 I could write of the fields, mother, the dark and waving 
 woods, 
 
 The bursting flowers, the clinging vines, the water 
 falls and floods ; 
 
 But then the world would say, mother, although twere 
 done up neat, 
 
 That I was in a beaten track, a-following that Street. 
 
 I might weave lays like rose-wreaths, mother, and fling 
 
 them left and right, 
 All odorous with the breath of love, and glowing with 
 
 its light ; 
 But though t were all a sham, mother, wise ones 
 
 their heads would shake, 
 And they M say I was in love, mother, which were a 
 
 sad mistake. 
 
 I could write of the West, mother, tell many a back 
 woods tale ; 
 
 But " Mary Clavers " long ago chanced on that happy 
 trail. 
 
 And " went it with a rush" mother, as all the world 
 agree, 
 
 And made " a powerful sight " of fun, and left no 
 laugh for me. 
 
WANTED. A THEME. 65 
 
 I could write on the wars, mother, the soldier s glo 
 rious life, 
 
 I sometimes think it is my forte to sing of scenes of 
 strife ; 
 
 But I ve avowed " peace principles," arid may not 
 call them back. 
 
 So I cannot write of war, mother, I must take an 
 other tack. 
 
 The terrible might do, mother, some wild, unearthly 
 
 story ; 
 
 I might ride, for a Pegasus, a nightmare into glory. 
 But then that " Raven " there, mother, above that 
 
 " chamber-door," 
 I asked him if t would be a hit, quoth the raven, 
 
 " Never more ! " 
 
 I might plead for the poor, mother, the wronged and 
 
 the oppressed, 
 And give a flash of freedom s fire, deep burning in 
 
 my breast ; 
 But they d say I was a fanatic, a-battling with weak 
 
 straws 
 Against the mighty Union, and the almighty laws. 
 
66 WANTED. A THEME. 
 
 The fooleries of the leau-monde, mother, should I 
 write on as I feel, 
 
 The ladies fair would vote me odd, and not at all 
 genteel ; 
 
 And ah, the lordly sex, mother, their ire would heav 
 iest fall, 
 
 They d vow I was a sour old maid, and that were 
 worse than all ! 
 
 I think I 11 off to bed, mother, I m tired, and then 
 it s late ; 
 
 The horse I rode this afternoon had such a shocking 
 gait! 
 
 So do not early break, mother, my deep and soft re 
 pose, 
 
 For I love a morning doze, mother, I love a morn 
 ing doze. 
 
67 
 
 HERVEY TO NINA. MISS BREMER. 
 
 DIVIDED in our lives, and yet twin-hearted ! 
 
 Our sad first parents shared a happier fate ; 
 When, from Love s Eden, dearest, we departed, 
 
 T was ours to sever at the outer gate. 
 
 Ah ! yet I know, whatever path thou rt tracing, 
 Thy tearful eye is sometimes backward cast ; 
 
 Thou art not coldly from thy heart effacing 
 The thrilling story of our blissful past, 
 
 When life was like a sunset s glories blended 
 With all the waking splendors of the morn, 
 
 And when, dear love, if some light showers descended, 
 It seemed t was but that rainbows might be born. 
 
68 HERVEY TO NINA. MISS BREMER. 
 
 O warm ! O beautiful ! O glorious season ! 
 
 Like the first blushing-time of Cashmere s roses ! 
 My soul forgets cold truth, and worldly reason, 
 
 And in thy lap of languid joy reposes. 
 
 In reveries delicious I revisit 
 
 Each spot where love s impassioned tale was told ; 
 Where moments passed of pleasure so exquisite, 
 
 Time should have marked their flight with sands of 
 gold. 
 
 Again upon my throbbing breast thou rt leaning, 
 O fondly, wildly loved one ! O adored ! 
 
 Again come back thy words of tenderest meaning, 
 That once such transport through rny bosom poured. 
 
 Again I feel the wish, intense and burning, 
 To live within thy life, to drink thine air ; 
 
 That deep, mysterious, and mighty yearning 
 
 Would draw me down from heaven, wert thou not 
 there. 
 
 A fount there was within each bosom flowing, 
 That gushed not water, but love s purple wine ; 
 
 Sparkling with rapture, and with passion glowing, 
 It maketh mortals for a space divine. 
 
HERVEY TO NINA. MISS BKEMER. 69 
 
 T was joy to know thee of that fountain drinking, 
 Within my heart, upspringing but for thee, 
 
 And I of thine as deeply, all unthinking 
 
 There might be madness in that draught for me ! 
 
 When all of bliss the earth-born may inherit, 
 
 Divinely lavish, was around us thrown, 
 And when the mystic union of the spirit 
 
 Had twined our glowing beings into one, 
 
 Then were we parted ; Hope s ecstatic vision 
 
 Grew dim with tears, and Joy s young pinion furled ; 
 
 Pillowed on flowers, we had a dream Elysian, 
 And we have wakened in a stormy world ! 
 
 Gone, gone for ever ! we beheld it vanish, 
 As a warm cloud melts in the blue above ; 
 
 Yet from our souls no power create can banish 
 The golden memory of that dream of love ! 
 
70 
 
 NINA TO HER VEY. MISS BREMEH. 
 
 CANST thou forget, beloved, our first awaking 
 
 From out the shadowy realm of doubts and dreams, 
 
 To know Love s perfect sunlight round us breaking, 
 Bathing our beings in its gorgeous gleams ? 
 Canst thou forget ? 
 
 A sky of rose and gold was o er us glowing, 
 Around us was the morning breath of May ; 
 
 Then met our soul-tides, thence together flowing, 
 Then kissed our thought-waves mingling on their way : 
 Canst thou forget ? 
 
 Canst thou forget when first thy loving fingers 
 Laid gently back the locks upon my brow ? 
 
 Ah, to my woman s thought that touch still lingers, 
 And softly glides along my forehead now ! 
 Canst thou forget ? 
 
NINA TO HERVEY. MISS BREMER. 71 
 
 Canst thou forget when every twilight tender, 
 Mid dews and sweets, beheld our slow steps rove, 
 
 And when the nights, which came in starry splendor, 
 Seemed dim and pallid to our heaven of love ? 
 Canst thou forget ? 
 
 Canst thou forget the childlike heart-outpouring 
 Of her whose faith knew no weak, faltering fears ? 
 
 The lashes drooped to veil her eyes adoring, 
 Her speaking silence, and her blissful tears ? 
 Canst thou forget ? 
 
 Canst thou forget the last most mournful meeting, 
 The trembling form clasped to thine anguished breast, 
 
 The heart against thine own, now wildly beating, 
 Now fluttering, faint, grief- wrung, and fear-oppressed? 
 Canst thou forget ? 
 
 Canst thou forget, though all Love s spells be broken, 
 The wild farewell which rent our souls apart ? 
 
 And that last gift, affection s holiest token, 
 The severed tress, which lay upon thy heart ? 
 Canst thou forget ? 
 
 Canst thou forget, beloved one ? Comes there never 
 The angel of sweet visions to thy rest ? 
 
7x5 NINA TO HERVEY. MISS BREMER. 
 
 Brings she not back the fond hopes fled for ever, 
 While one lost name thrills through thy sleeping 
 breast ? 
 
 Canst thou forget? 
 
SIHI, THE SWIMMER. MISS BREMER. 
 
 WHEN evening with its breezy air 
 
 Succeeds the sultry day, 
 Let others wear, in crowds and glare, 
 
 The tranquil hours away ; 
 But be it mine to seek at eve 
 
 Yon lake of heavenly blue, 
 To lave my weary frame, and cleave 
 
 The shining waters through ! 
 
 When first the fair moon s tender light 
 
 Steals up the cloudless sky, 
 Like plighted maiden to her knight, 
 
 Down shelving shores I fly ! 
 My lord, constrained by kingliness, 
 
 Hastes not his love to meet, 
 Yet sends wave-messengers, who press 
 
 In homage round my feet. 
 
74 SIRI, THE SWIMMER. MISS BKEMER. 
 
 I hear his gentle, wooing tone, 
 
 I come, my lord, I haste ! 
 Now are his arms about me thrown, 
 
 They circle round my waist ! 
 Their fond clasp brings no fearful chill ; 
 
 Mine own extended wide, 
 I fling myself, with a joyful thrill, 
 
 On the bosom of the tide ! 
 
 0, what delicious coolness flows 
 
 Through every quivering vein ! 
 Fresh as a water-lily grows 
 
 My fevered heart again ! 
 The spray leaps up to plash my brow ! 
 
 My long hair, unconfined, 
 Is flung, like some young Nereid s, now 
 
 To tossing wave and wind ! 
 
 A new and glorious life is mine, 
 
 I seem to float through heaven, 
 And mark far down its blue depths shine 
 
 The golden stars of even ! 
 Now farther from the shadowy shore, 
 
 Right cheerily away ! 
 See, like the plashing of an oar, 
 
 My tireless arms quick play ! 
 
S1RI, THE SWIMMER. MISS BKEMEK. 75 
 
 And now, where none are nigh to save, 
 
 While earth grows dim behind, 
 I lay my cheek to the kissing wave, 
 
 And laugh with the frolicsome wind ! 
 On the billowy swell I lean my breast, 
 
 And he fondly beareth me ; 
 I dash the foam from his sparkling crest, 
 
 In my wild and careless glee ! 
 
 Then give to me the wild delight 
 
 To dash the billows through ! 
 To bathe at once in moonbeams white, 
 
 And in the waters blue ! 
 When, hurrying down from mountain caves, 
 
 The cooling night-wind sweeps, 
 O, a moonlight frolic with the waves, 
 
 A plunge through starlit deeps ! 
 
76 
 
 THE ARMY OF REFORM. 
 
 YES, ye are few, and they were few, 
 
 Who, daring storm and sea, 
 Once raised upon old Plymouth rock 
 
 " The anthem of the free." 
 
 And they were few, at Lexington, 
 
 To battle, or to die, 
 That lightning-flash, that thunder-peal, 
 
 That told the storm was nigh. 
 
 And they were few, who dauntless stood 
 
 Upon old Bunker s height, 
 And waged with Britain s strength and pride, 
 
 The fierce, unequal fight. 
 
THE ARMY OF REFORM. 77 
 
 And they were few, who, all unawed 
 
 By kingly " rights divine," 
 The Declaration, rebel scroll, 
 
 Untrembling dared to sign. 
 
 Yes, ye are few, for one proud glance 
 
 Can take in all your band, 
 As now against a countless host, 
 
 Firm, true, and calm, ye stand. 
 
 Unmoved by Folly s idiot laugh, 
 Hate s curse, or Envy s frown, 
 
 Wearing your rights as royal robes, 
 Your manhood as a crown, 
 
 With eyes whose gaze, unveiled by mists, 
 
 Still rises clearer, higher, 
 With stainless hands, and lips that Truth 
 
 Hath touched with living fire, 
 
 With one high hope, that ever shines 
 
 Before you as a star, 
 One prayer of faith, one fount of strength, 
 
 A glorious few ye are ! 
 
78 THE ARMY OF REFORM. 
 
 Ye dare not fear, ye cannot fail, 
 
 Your destiny ye bind 
 To that sublime, eternal law, 
 
 That rules the march of mind. 
 
 See yon bold eagle, toward the sun 
 Now rising free and strong, 
 
 And see yon mighty river roll 
 Its sounding tide along : 
 
 Ah ! yet near earth the eagle tires, 
 Lost in the sea, the river ; 
 
 But naught can stay the human mind, 
 T is upward, onward, ever ! 
 
 It yet shall tread the starlit paths, 
 
 By highest angels trod, 
 And pause but at the farthest world 
 
 In the universe of God. 
 
 T is said that Persia s baffled king, 
 
 In mad, tyrannic pride, 
 Cast fetters on the Hellespont, 
 
 To curb its swelling tide : 
 
THE ARMY OF REFORM. 79 
 
 But freedom s own true spirit heaves 
 
 The bosom of the main ; 
 It tossed those fetters to the skies, 
 
 And bounded on again ! 
 
 The scorn of each succeeding age 
 
 On Xerxes head was hurled, 
 And o er that foolish deed has pealed 
 
 The long laugh of a world. 
 
 Thus, thus, defeat, and scorn, and shame, 
 
 Is his, who strives to bind 
 The restless, leaping waves of thought, 
 
 The free tide of the mind. 
 
80 
 
 THE LEAP FROM THE LONG BRIDGE. 
 
 AN INCIDENT AT WASHINGTON. 
 
 A woman once made her escape from the slave-prison, which stands midway 
 between the Capitol and the President s house, and ran for the Long Bridge, 
 crossing the Potomac to the extensive grounds and woodlands of Arlington 
 Place. 
 
 Now rest for the wretched. The long day is past, 
 And night on yon prison descendeth at last. 
 Now lock up and bolt. Ha, jailer ! look there ! 
 Who flies like a wild-bird escaped from the snare ? 
 A woman, a slave ! Up ! out in pursuit, 
 
 While linger some gleams of the day ! 
 Ho ! rally thy hunters, with halloo and shout, 
 To chase down the game, and away ! 
 
 A bold race for freedom ! On, fugitive, on ! 
 Heaven help but the right, and thy freedom is won. 
 How eager she drinks the free air of the plains ! 
 Every limb, every nerve, every fibre, she strains ; 
 
THE LEAP FROM THE LONG BRIDGE. 81 
 
 From Columbia s glorious Capitol 
 Columbia s daughter flees 
 
 To the sanctuary God hath given, 
 The sheltering forest-trees. 
 
 Now she treads the Long Bridge, joy lighteth her 
 
 eye, 
 
 Beyond her the dense wood and darkening sky ; 
 Wild hopes thrill her breast as she neareth the shore, 
 O despair ! there are men fast advancing before ! 
 Shame, shame on their manhood ! they hear, they 
 
 heed, 
 
 The cry her flight to stay, 
 
 And, like demon-forms, with their outstretched arms 
 They wait to seize their prey ! 
 
 She pauses, she turns, ah ! will she flee back ? 
 Like wolves her pursuers howl loud on her track ; 
 She lifteth to Heaven one look of despair, 
 Her anguish breaks forth in one hurried prayer. 
 Hark, her jailer s yell ! like a bloodhound s bay 
 
 On the low night-wind it sweeps ! 
 Now death, or the chain ! to the stream she turns, 
 And she leaps, O God, she leaps ! 
 
82 THE LEAP FROM THE LONG BRIDGE. 
 
 The dark, and the cold, yet merciful wave 
 Receives to its bosom the form of the slave. 
 She rises, earth s scenes on her dim vision gleam, 
 But she struggleth not with the strong, rushing stream, 
 And low are the death-cries her woman s heart gives 
 
 As she floats adown the river ; 
 Faint and more faint grows her drowning voice, 
 And her cries have ceased for ever ! 
 
 Now back, jailer, back to thy dungeons again, 
 To swing the red lash and rivet the chain ! 
 The form thou wouldst fetter a valueless clod, 
 The soul thou wouldst barter returned to her God ! 
 She lifts in His light her un&anacled hands ; 
 
 She flees through the darkness no more ; 
 To freedom she leaped through drowning and death, 
 And her sorrow and bondage are o er. 
 
83 
 
 THE LAST GIFT. 
 
 I LEAVE thee, love ! In vain hast them 
 
 The God of life implored ; 
 My clinging soul is torn from thine, 
 
 My faithful, my adored ! 
 My last gift, I tave on it breathed 
 
 In blessing and in prayer ; 
 So lay it close, close to thy heart, 
 
 This little lock of hair ! 
 
 I know thou wilt think tenderly 
 
 And lovingly on me, 
 Thou wilt forget my waywardness, 
 
 When I am gone from thee ; 
 Thou wilt remember all my love, 
 
 Which made thee think me fair ; 
 Thou wilt with many tears be-gem 
 
 This little lock of hair ! 
 
84 THE LAST GIFT. 
 
 And yet, at last, thy grief s wild storm 
 
 Will sigh itself to rest ; 
 Then thou mayst choose another love, 
 
 And clasp her to thy breast ; 
 But when she hides her glowing face 
 
 In tearful gladness there, 
 O, do not let her hand displace 
 
 This little lock of hair ! 
 
 The dark, rich hue thou oft hast praised, 
 
 This ringlet still shall hold ; 
 Still, as the sunlight on it falls, 
 
 Give out quick gleams of gold. 
 
 hough years roll by, no trace of change 
 
 Its glossy rings shall wear ; 
 It never will grow gray, beloved, 
 
 This little lock of hair ! 
 
 And when the earth weighs chill and damp 
 
 Above my resting-place, 
 When fall moist tresses heavily 
 
 Around my cold, dead face, 
 T is sweet to know a part of me 
 
 Thine own life-glow may share. 
 Thou It keep it warm, love, always warm, 
 
 This little lock of hair ! 
 
THE LAST GIFT. 85 
 
 Ah, dearest, see how pale and cold 
 
 Has grown this hand of mine ! 
 No longer now it glows and thrills 
 
 Within the clasp of thine ; 
 I go ! soon, where my dying head 
 
 Is pillowed with fond care, 
 No trace of me shall linger, save 
 
 This little lock of hair. 
 
 I see thee not ! I faintly feel 
 
 The fast tears thou dost weep ; 
 Kiss down my quivering eyelids, love, 
 
 Thus, thus, and I will sleep. 
 I go where angels beckon me, 
 
 I go their heaven to share ; 
 Yet, with a longing envy, leave 
 
 This little lock of hair ! 
 
86 
 
 EMILIE PLATER. 
 
 The young Countess Plater did in truth die for Poland, though it was not 
 hers to fall in the field. Her health was destroyed by the terrible hardships 
 which she endured, and her heart broken that she had endured them in vain. 
 
 RAINBOW of the battle-storm ! 
 Methinks thou rt gleaming on my sight ; 
 
 1 see thy fair and fragile form 
 
 Amid the thick cloud of the fight ! 
 
 I mark thy glowing lips compressed, 
 Thy brows in haughty sternness knit, 
 
 The eager panting of thy breast, 
 The strange fire in thy blue eyes lit. 
 
 On, on, in maddest bravery dashing, 
 
 Thou lead st thy band against their foes ! 
 
 Now Russian blades are round thee clashing, 
 Now Russian ranks about thee close ! 
 
EMILIE PLATER. 87 
 
 Before thy slender arm I see 
 
 The bearded Cossack reel and fall ! 
 
 I hear thy voice, bold, clear, and free, 
 In charging cry and rallying call ! 
 
 The young Pole hears it, through his heart 
 
 There leaps a stronger, wilder life ! 
 Again his eyes fierce lightnings dart, 
 
 Again he plunges in the strife ! 
 
 The veteran, whose life is poured 
 
 Through countless wounds upon the plain, 
 
 Hears it, and grasps his dripping sword, 
 To strike for Poland once again ! 
 
 O Heaven, and this was all in vain ! 
 
 And, matchless maiden, it was thine 
 To carnage, pillage, and the chain 
 
 Thy dear, lost country to resign ! 
 
 Was it for this from girlish days 
 
 Thy gentle frame thou hadst inured 
 To midnight chill, and noontide blaze, 
 
 And all a soldier s toils endured ? 
 
88 EMILIE PLATER. 
 
 For this had dreams of high endeavour, 
 Of triumph in the stormy strife, 
 
 Drowned with their trumpet-notes for ever 
 The music of a woman s life ? 
 
 Thy country, glorious, brave, and fair, 
 Thine all of life, thine only love, 
 
 For her alone thy constant prayer 
 Rose burning to the throne above ! 
 
 Her name alone thy heart s depths stirred, 
 And filled thy soul with warlike pride, 
 
 Which gave the maiden strength to gird 
 The falchion on her tender side. 
 
 Yet in thy last hours, dark and lonely, 
 Thou, so devoted, faithful, brave, 
 
 Didst ask, in sorrowing meekness, only 
 Of thy adoring land a grave. 
 
 How was thy woman s soul betrayed, 
 When death s seal on thy brow was set ! 
 
 Then thou didst weep above the blade, 
 So oft with life-blood vainly wet ! 
 
EMILIE PLATER. 89 
 
 When Hope sighed out her glimmering light, 
 
 When thou didst see Sarmatia lie 
 Bleeding and bound in slavery s night, 
 
 Then was thy fitting time to die. 
 
90 
 
 LOVE S EMBLEMS. 
 
 THERE was a rose, that blushing grew 
 
 Within my life s young bower ; 
 The angels sprinkled holy dew 
 
 Upon the blessed flower. 
 I glory to resign it, love, 
 
 Though it was dear to me ; 
 Amid thy laurels twine it, love, 
 
 It only blooms for thee. 
 
 There was a rich and radiant gem 
 
 I long kept hid from sight ; 
 Lost from some seraph s diadem, 
 
 It shone with heaven s own light ! 
 The world could never tear it, love, 
 
 That gem of gems, from me ; 
 Yet on thy fond breast wear it, love, 
 
 It only shines for thee. 
 
LOVE S EMBLEMS. 91 
 
 There was a bird came to my breast, 
 
 When I was very young ; 
 I only knew that sweet bird s nest, 
 
 To me she only sung. 
 But, ah ! one summer day, love, 
 
 I saw that bird depart ! 
 The truant flew thy way, love, 
 
 And nestled in thy heart ! 
 
92 
 
 THE LOST HEART. 
 
 " SAY, have you found the heart I lost 
 
 As you and I, last night, 
 The fragrant, new-mown meadow crossed, 
 
 Beneath the sweet starlight ? " 
 
 " I have a heart ; but ere I show it, 
 
 T is fair thou shouldst define 
 The private marks by which thou It know it ; 
 
 No doubt the heart is thine." 
 
 " Well, t was not hard, nor very strong, 
 
 A loving, little heart, 
 Filled with sweet raptures and wild song, 
 
 But all unskilled in art. 
 
THE LOST HEART. 93 
 
 " T was like, in its free, joyous youth, 
 
 A bird upon the wing, 
 A worshipper of love, and truth, 
 
 And every blessed thing." 
 
 " Well, here s the heart, so fond and true, 
 
 I never could forsake it ; 
 Yet rightfully belongs to you 
 
 The priceless gem, then take it." 
 
 " I thank you, Sir. But hold, look here ! 
 
 I said my heart was small ; 
 This great, warm, throbbing heart, t is clear, 
 
 Is not my heart at all ! 
 
 " Aha, a roguish plunderer thou ! 
 
 So this nice heart is thine I 
 No matter though, I 11 keep it now, 
 
 T is most as good as mine." 
 
94 
 
 THERESE. 
 
 A ROSE once pressed against thy lips, 
 
 Then gayly flung to me, 
 Is all the gift I treasure up 
 
 In memory of thee ; 
 It bringeth back that golden time, 
 
 Too beautiful to last, 
 The glad and love-lit past, Therese, 
 
 The glad and love-lit past ! 
 
 Then comes the memory of the change 
 
 Which fell upon thy heart, 
 As falls the frost upon the rose 
 
 When summer suns depart ; 
 And now returns that weary time 
 
 With doubts and glooms o ercast, 
 The sad and mournful past, Therese, 
 
 The sad and mournful past ! 
 
THERESE. 95 
 
 Young flowers, fair, quickly fading flowers, 
 
 Love s rneetest emblems they, 
 For naught in life so fitly marks 
 
 Its swift and sure decay ; 
 O type of that frail, passing faith 
 
 So fondly set apart 
 To wither in its early dew, 
 
 And die upon my heart ! 
 
96 
 
 SONGS. 
 
 No passionless creature of duty, 
 
 No child of capricious delay, 
 Our love, like the goddess of beauty, 
 
 Sprang into warm life in a day ! 
 Around us her magic spells flinging, 
 
 She smiled as she saw we adored, 
 And then, in a burst of wild singing, 
 
 Her soul s morning raptures outpoured. 
 
 Ah, soon changed that song, born in heaven, 
 To farewells and passionate sighs ! 
 
 For a mist, like the shadow of even, 
 Came over her violet eyes : 
 
 With Hope s golden sunshine around her, 
 On Joy s couch of roses half- blown, 
 
SONGS. 97 
 
 Pale, cold as a snow-wreath, we found her ; 
 Her glowing young spirit had flown ! 
 
 II. 
 
 THOUGH now it were madness to cherish 
 
 The dream that enchained us so long, 
 Yet shall it not utterly perish, 
 
 For thou hast embalmed it in song : 
 Its story s exquisite revealing 
 
 Shall live on the lips of the young ; 
 Each change of its passionate feeling 
 
 Be gayly or mournfully sung. 
 
 Like honey-dew dropping on blossoms, 
 
 On hearts thy sweet numbers shall fall ; 
 Thy lays shall thrill desolate bosoms, 
 
 And tenderest visions recall ; 
 Now wild, like the rapturous greeting 
 
 That song-birds send down from above ; 
 Now sad, like the tremulous beating 
 
 Of hearts that are breaking with love. 
 
98 SONGS. 
 
 HI. 
 
 WE must silence, with words of cold reason, 
 
 The eloquent voice of the heart ; 
 For Love hath stayed out his brief season, 
 
 And spread his young wing to depart ! 
 Though awhile round our memory he hovers, 
 
 He may smilingly offer no more 
 Fond words, the ambrosia of lovers, 
 
 Nor the nectar of passion outpour. 
 
 Our last tearful farewell is spoken, 
 
 Life s sweet morning-vision hath flown ! 
 Each vow, each glad promise, is broken, 
 
 That twined our twin beings in one ! 
 And severed are love s golden fetters, 
 
 And sympathy s silvery chain ; 
 So please. Sir, return me my letters, 
 
 I may wish to use them again ! 
 
99 
 
 VOICES FROM THE OLD WORLD: THE 
 FAMINE OF 1847. 
 
 A VOICE from out the Highlands, 
 
 Old Scotia s mountain homes ! 
 From wild burn-side, and darksome glen, 
 
 And towering steep, it comes ! 
 Is it the shout of huntsmen bold, 
 
 Who chase the antlered stag, 
 Who sound the horn and cheer the hound, 
 
 And leap from crag to crag ? 
 Is it the call of rising clans, 
 
 The cry of gathering men ? 
 Pours Freedom s rocky fortress forth 
 
 Its Gaelic hordes again ? 
 Throng round the Scottish chieftains 
 
 Such hosts as, long ago, 
 
100 VOICES FROM THE OLD WORLD. 
 
 In mountain storms of valor 
 
 Swept down upon the foe ? 
 When hoarse and deep, like thunder, 
 
 Their shouts of vengeful wrath, 
 And the lightning of drawn claymores ] 
 
 Flashed out upon their path ? 
 
 Far other are the fearful sounds 
 
 Borne o er the wintry wave, 
 The cry of mortal agony, 
 
 The death-groans of the brave ! 
 For once a foe invincible 
 
 The kilted Gael hath found ; 
 At length one field beholds him yield, 
 
 Starvation s battle-ground ! 
 
 Thus, thus come forth the mountaineers, 
 
 Pale, gaunt, and ghastly bands, 
 Who westward turn their frenzied eyes, 
 
 And stretch their shrivelled hands ! 
 And like the shriek of madness comes 
 
 Their wild, beseeching cry, 
 " Bread, bread ! we faint, we waste, we starve ! 
 
 Bread, bread ! O God, we die ! " 
 
VOICES FROM THE OLD WORLD. 101 
 
 And shall they perish thus, whose sires, 
 
 Stout warrior-men and stern, 
 With Wallace battled side by side, 
 
 And bled at Bannockburn ? 
 
 Where Freedom s new-world realms expand 
 
 Where western sunsets glow, 
 A nation with one mighty voice 
 
 Gives back the answer, No ! 
 T is ours, t is ours, the godlike power 
 
 To bid doomed thousands live ! 
 Then let us on the waters cast 
 
 The bread of our reprieve. 
 Give, give ! when Scotia s proud sons beg, 
 
 O Heaven, who would not give ? 
 
 And forms of womanhood are there, 
 
 The matron and the maid, 
 Strange, haggard, famine-wasted shapes, 
 
 In tattered garbs arrayed. 
 And these are they whose beauties rare 
 
 Are famed in song and story ! 
 And these are they whose mothers names 
 
 Are linked with Scotland s glory ! 
 
102 VOICES FROM THE OLD WORLD. 
 
 Ah, they too gaze, with dim, sad eyes, 
 
 Out o er the western main ! 
 While there are beating woman-hearts 
 
 They shall not gaze in vain ! 
 We rest not till we minister 
 
 To their despairing need ; 
 Give, give ! O Heaven, who would not give 
 
 When Scotia s daughters plead ? 
 
 A voice from Erin s storied isle 
 
 Comes sweeping o er the main ! 
 Ha ! calls she on her sons to strike 
 
 For freedom once again ? 
 Or rises from her heart of fire 
 
 The pealing voice of song, 
 Or rolls the tide of eloquence 
 
 The burdened air along ? 
 Or, ringeth out some lay of love, 
 
 By blue-eyed maidens sung, 
 Or, sweeter, dearer music yet, 
 
 The laughter of the young? 
 
 Far other is that fearful voice, 
 A sound of woe and dread ! 
 
VOICES FROM THE OLD WORLD. 103 
 
 T is Erin mourning for her sons, 
 
 The dying and the dead ! 
 They perish in the open fields, 
 
 They fall beside the way, 
 Or lie within their hovel-homes, 
 
 Their bed the damp, cold clay, 
 And watch the sluggish tide of life 
 
 Ebb slowly day by day ! 
 They sink as sinks the mariner 
 
 When wrecked upon the wave, 
 " Unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown," 
 
 No winding-sheet, no grave ! 
 
 To us her cry. Be our reply, 
 
 Bread-laden argosies ! 
 Let love s divine armada meet 
 
 Her fearful enemies ! 
 Give, give ! and feel the smile of God 
 
 Upon thy spirit lie ; 
 Draw back, and let thy poor soul hear 
 
 Its angel s parting sigh. 
 Give, give ! O Heaven, who would not give 
 
 When Erin s brave sons die ? 
 
 O sisters, there are famishing 
 The old, with silver hair, 
 
104 VOICES FKOM THE OLD WORLD. 
 
 And dead, unburied babes are left 
 
 To waste upon the air, 
 And mothers wan and fever-worn 
 
 Beside their hearths are sinking, 
 And maiden forms, while yet in life, 
 
 To skeletons are shrinking ! 
 
 Ho, freight the good ship to the wale, 
 
 Pile high the golden grain ! 
 A nation s life-boat spreads her sail, 
 
 God speed her o er the main ! 
 His peace shall calm the stormy skies, 
 
 And rest upon the waters. 
 Give, give ! O Heaven, who would not give 
 
 When perish Erin s daughters ? 
 
105 
 
 THE FLIGHT OF GENIUS. 
 
 WHERE in their Northern grandeur lie 
 Old Ocean s craggy shores, 
 
 Where waves give back the glorious sky, 
 
 And lift unceasingly on high 
 
 Their deep, majestic symphony, 
 An Eagle sunward soars ! 
 
 Through upper air lies his flight s bold ring, 
 
 And its portal-guarders frown ; 
 They throng with angry muttering, 
 Their rattling ice-shot round him fling, 
 But he shakes the small hail from his wing, 
 And royally soars on ! 
 
106 THE FLIGHT OF GENIUS. 
 
 Yet a sterner, darker strife is nigh ; 
 
 Wild storms come sweeping down ; 
 Their thunders peal through the trembling sky, 
 Their red lights gleam on the quivering eye, 
 Small birds to their leafy coverts fly, 
 
 But the Eagle still soars on ! 
 
 Gaze high ! for, the thunder s realm o erpast, 
 
 Now where warm glories spring, 
 Where no storm his way may overcast, 
 Outsoaring the lightning and the blast, 
 Lo, a golden cloud receives at last 
 The bird of the mighty wing ! 
 
107 
 
 LOVE-LETTER TO A FRIEND. 
 
 DEAR Anna, hast ne er heard it told 
 
 How florists have the curious power 
 To graft on some rude garden-plant 
 
 A tender and exquisite flower ? 
 Thus are our natures made as one, 
 
 In union mystic and divine ; 
 Thus, sweetest rose of womanhood, 
 
 Thy life is blooming into mine. 
 
 u Forget " thee ! Whence the childish fear 
 
 Ah, vain would be such heart-recalling ! 
 Have I not felt thine angel smiles, 
 
 Thy tears upon my bosom falling ? 
 How oft, when, through our lattice stealing, 
 
 The moonlight came in quivering gleams, 
 When thou wert by my side reposing, 
 
 Thy spirit busy with its dreams, 
 
108 LOVE-LETTER TO A FRIEND. 
 
 In love that would not let me sleep, 
 
 I hung above thy tranquil rest, 
 Whose soft, low breathings scarcely stirred 
 
 The snowy folds upon thy breast, 
 And watched to see thy starry eyes 
 
 Beam from their blue-veined lids eclipse, 
 And drank thy very breath, and kissed 
 
 The night-dew from thy rose-bud lips ! 
 
 As one in moon-lit, star-crowned night 
 
 Marks not the dark and envious shades 
 That lurk within the garden-bower, 
 
 Or glide along the forest-glades ; 
 Thus heed I not life s shadows dim, 
 
 Though gathering fast, around, above, 
 The blessed while t is mine to feel 
 
 The silvery presence of thy love. 
 
109 
 
 ILLUMINATION FOR VICTORIES IN MEXICO. 
 
 LIGHT up thy homes, Columbia, 
 
 For those chivalric men 
 Who bear to scenes of warlike strife 
 
 Thy conquering arms again, 
 Where glorious victories, flash on flash, 
 
 Reveal their stormy way, 
 Resaca s, Palo Alto s fields, 
 
 The heights of Monterey ! 
 
 They pile with thousands of thy foes 
 
 Buena Vista s plain ; 
 With maids and wives, at Vera Cruz, 
 
 Swell high the list of slain ! 
 They paint upon the Southern skies 
 
 The blaze of burning domes, 
 Their laurels dew with blood of babes ! 
 
 Light up, light up thy homes ! 
 
110 ILLUMINATION FOR VICTORIES IN MEXICO. 
 
 Light up your homes, O fathers ! 
 
 For those young hero bands, 
 Whose march is still through vanquished towns, 
 
 And over conquered lands ! 
 Whose valor, wild, impetuous, 
 
 In all its fiery glow, 
 Pours onward like a lava-tide, 
 
 And sweeps away the foe ! 
 
 For those whose dead brows glory crowns, 
 
 On crimson couches sleeping, 
 And for home faces wan with grief, 
 
 And fond eyes dim with weeping, 
 And for the soldier, poor, unknown } 
 
 Who battled, madly brave, 
 Beneath a stranger soil to share 
 
 A shallow, crowded grave. 
 
 Light up thy home, young mother ! 
 
 Then gaze in pride and joy 
 Upon those fair and gentle girls, 
 
 That eagle-eyed young boy ; 
 And clasp thy darling little one 
 
 Yet closer to thy breast, 
 And be thy kisses on its lips 
 
 In yearning love impressed. 
 
ILLUMINATION FOR VICTORIES IN MEXICO. Ill 
 
 In yon beleaguered city 
 
 Were homes as sweet as thine ; 
 There trembling mothers felt loved arms 
 
 In fear around them twine, 
 The lad with brow of olive hue, 
 
 The babe like lily fair, 
 The maiden with her midnight eyes, 
 
 And wealth of raven hair. 
 
 The booming shot, the murderous shell, 
 
 Crashed through the crumbling walls, 
 And filled with agony and death 
 
 Those sacred household halls ! 
 Then, bleeding, crushed, and blackened, lay 
 
 The sister by the brother, 
 And the torn infant gasped and writhed 
 
 On the bosom of the mother ! 
 
 O sisters, if ye have no tears 
 
 For fearful tales like these, 
 If the banners of the victors veil 
 
 The victim s agonies, 
 If ye lose the babe s and mother s cry 
 
 In the noisy roll of drums, 
 If your hearts with martial pride throb high, 
 
 Light up, light up your homes ! 
 
112 
 
 VALENTINES. 
 
 WRITTEN FOR MISS L 3 VALENTINE PARTIES. 
 
 TO FITZ-GREENE HALLECK. 
 
 MUST silence rest upon thy lyre, 
 And will thy hand awake it never ? 
 
 And must the great deeps of thy soul 
 Remain becalmed for ever ? 
 
 O for a midnight storm of song ! 
 
 The peal of arms, the blaze of glory, 
 Like that which once aroused a world, 
 
 Thy Grecian hero s story ! 
 
 O for a generous burst of song ! 
 
 Like that which once new splendor shed 
 Round the " pilgrim shrine" of a poet s grave, 
 
 And deified the dead ! 
 
VALENTINES. 113 
 
 O for a mirth-born " Fanny," sent, 
 
 That troubled lives, half unawares, 
 Might take in dancing shapes of joy, 
 
 And banish spectre cares ! 
 
 O for a lay, to crown the brave ! 
 
 Or rosy wreaths of love to twine, 
 To ring joy s bells, or start griefs tear, 
 
 If only it be thine I 
 
 Be hero-bard, be minstrel gay, 
 
 Thy song, if of thy soul a part, 
 Must bear a charmed life, and live 
 
 Within thy country s heart. 
 
 TO A REFORMER. 
 
 " ENTHUSIAST," " Dreamer," such the names 
 
 Thine age bestows on thee, 
 For that great nature, going forth 
 
 In world-wide sympathy ; 
 For the vision clear, the spirit brave, 
 
 The honest heart and warm, 
 And the voice which swells the battle-cry 
 
 Of Freedom and Reform ! 
 
114 VALENTINES. 
 
 Yet, for thy fearless manliness, 
 
 When weak time-servers throng, 
 Thy chivalrous defence of right, 
 
 Thy bold rebuke of wrong, 
 And for the flame of liberty, 
 
 Heaven-kindled in thy breast, 
 Which thou hast fed like sacred fire, 
 
 A blessing on thee rest ! 
 
 T is said thy spirit knoweth not 
 
 Its times of calm and sleeping, 
 That ever are its restless thoughts 
 
 Like wild waves onward leaping. 
 Then may its flashing waters 
 
 Be tranquil never more, 
 They are " troubled " by an angel, 
 
 Like the sacred pool of yore. 
 
 TO MISS C. M. SEDGWICK. 
 
 O GLORY-WEDDED ! to thy brow 
 
 A coronal is given, 
 For which, when song and Greece were young, 
 
 The very gods had striven. 
 
 
VALENTINES. 1]5 
 
 O, find st thou not that envied crown 
 
 A weary weight, and chilling ? 
 Its lonely glory, is it not 
 
 An ice-touch, heartward thrilling ? 
 
 Ah, no ! e en now a rosy light 
 
 Those vernal leaves is flushing ; 
 O woman-hearted, love s warm buds 
 
 Are mid thy laurels blushing ! 
 
 TO MR. GILES. 
 
 A CLASSIC heaven of old thy soul, 
 Song, grace, and fire divine ; 
 
 But the heaven of a purer faith, 
 That Christian heart of thine. 
 
 Thus he who walks beside thee 
 Hath what employ he chooses ; 
 
 May worship with the Angels, 
 Or converse with the Muses. 
 
116 VALENTINES. 
 
 TO BAYARD TAYLOR. 
 
 I SEND thee here no valentine, 
 I only dash thee off a line. 
 
 In trembling haste I send it, 
 Give earnest heed to what I say ; 
 I ve a grievous rent in my heart to-day. 
 
 I prithee, Taylor, mend it ! 
 
 TO G. P. MORRIS. 
 
 APOLLO once had leave to travel ; 
 
 He sought our Yankee land, 
 And he lionized it through, 
 
 With his golden lyre in hand. 
 
 Once, at " a cottage near a wood," 
 
 Which promised welcome s smile, 
 He thought, by general invitation, 
 
 To rusticate awhile. 
 
 One morn he woke, he yawned, he turned, 
 
 Sprang up with fright and grief, 
 And cried, " By George ! my lyre is stolen : 
 
 Without there, ho ! stop thief! " 
 
VALENTINES. 117 
 
 But vainly sought he east and west, 
 Half mad, all broken-hearted ; 
 
 O, a most ungodlike look he wore, 
 With his glory all departed ! 
 
 At last he turned Olympus-ward, 
 Thus lyreless, woe s the day ! 
 
 For Juno frowned, and Venus wept, 
 And Cupid ran away ! 
 
 Those ennuied gods and goddesses, 
 
 Upon their mount sublime, 
 O, had they not a weary lot, 
 
 A dull and dozing time ! 
 
 / 
 
 One morn there rose upon the air 
 Most sweet, though mortal song, 
 
 By Zephyrus glad wing upborne 
 To charm that heavenly throng. 
 
 Fair Venus bent her pearly ear, 
 
 Then earthward fixed her gaze, 
 And smiled a curious kind of smile, 
 
 Half pleasure, half amaze. 
 
118 VALENTINES. 
 
 " I see a mortal bard, his hand 
 Across a lyre s strings flinging, 
 
 And mortal lips catch up the strains, 
 Till all the land is ringing ! 
 
 " About him throng the fair and young, 
 They crown him ! I declare, 
 
 Fast by him stands my truant boy ! 
 Apollo, dear, look there ! " 
 
 The god rose from his cloud-divan : 
 " Ha ! by my thundering sire, 
 
 I understand that game of Morris. 
 
 There s the thief that stole my lyre ! " 
 
 TO MISS A. C. L- 
 
 THY life is like a fountain clear, upspringing 
 Beside the weary way I m treading now ; 
 
 I love to linger near, and feel it flinging 
 Its pure baptism on my fevered brow. 
 
VALENTINES. 119 
 
 Thy gentle heart is like the couch of resting, 
 That welcomes home the wanderer of the deep, 
 
 To my tired spirit, weary with long breasting 
 The midnight waves that round about me sweep. 
 
 Thy soul is like a silver lake at even, 
 
 Emblem of power, and purity, and rest, 
 
 Within its depths the eternal stars of heaven, 
 While earth s fair lilies float upon its breast. 
 
 TO A POET. 
 
 TENDER and pale the young moon shone, 
 The time of dreams stole o er the earth, 
 Stilling the greenwood s sounds of mirth, 
 Hushing the wild birds to repose, 
 
 Save the nightingale, who warbled on, 
 Leaning his breast against a rose ; 
 
 T was then from out a forest bower 
 
 Through shadows peered one wakeful flower, 
 Her azure robe with night-dews wet, 
 
 Watching a star through the purple even ; 
 
 And the star, though shining in highest heaven, 
 Smiled down on the violet ; 
 
120 VALENTINES. 
 
 For a fairy mirror the flower held up, 
 He saw himself in her brimming cup. 
 
 My soul is like that flower to-night, 
 
 Watching thy pathway through the sky, 
 The heaven of genius, far and high, 
 
 And waiting for thy smile of light 
 
 To pierce the shades that compass her, 
 Thy meek and hidden worshipper, 
 
 To where, with incense-breath up-stealing, 
 
 And brimming o er with the dew of feeling, 
 That soul-flower faintly mirrors thee, 
 Thou risen star of Poesy ! 
 
 TO THE WIFE OF A POET. 
 
 FAITHFUL friend ! O gentle wife ! 
 
 1 know I may not add to-day 
 One drop unto thy " wine of life," 
 
 Of love, or happiness, or pride ; 
 I know t is only mine to lay 
 
 One rose-leaf on the mantling tide. 
 
VALENTINES. 121 
 
 O, what without thy sunny face, 
 
 Lit with the day-spring from above, 
 Were thine abode of song and grace, 
 Art s fairy realm, joy s resting-place, 
 Where now a sacred trio meet, 
 Power, innocence, contentment sweet, 
 Genius and infancy and love ! 
 
 TO THE WIFE OF AN ARTIST. 
 
 How like soft skies that bend at even 
 
 Italia s vales above, 
 Thy spirit s pure and tranquil heaven, 
 
 Illumed with stars of love ! 
 Thy chosen one, no longer bound 
 
 Art s pilgrim, o er the sea, 
 With Nature s self at home, hath found 
 
 His Italy in thee. 
 
122 
 
 VALENTINES. 
 
 TO G. H. C. 
 
 As Linnseus wrote his name in flowers, 
 
 Thus, Artist, shall it ever be 
 That lily brows, carnation cheeks, 
 
 And rose-bud lips shall speak of thee ! 
 As students of the stars have written 
 
 Their names upon the midnight skies, 
 Thus thou thy living name hast traced 
 
 On beauty s heaven, in starry eyes ! 
 
 TO MR. INMAN. 
 
 MOORE tells us, in his dulcet lays, 
 A damsel, in the good old days, 
 Fell most imprudently in love 
 With some stray seraph from above ; 
 And once so runs the tragic story 
 This youth revealed his perfect glory, 
 Which, bursting forth in lurid flashes, 
 Consumed that beauteous maid to ashes ! 
 
 There was a maid of modern times, 
 Who warning took from these sad rhymes, 
 
VALENTINES. 123 
 
 And dreaming not an angel might 
 
 With amorous sighs about her hover, 
 And asking not, and caring not, 
 
 For so combustible a lover, 
 In life s strange drama wisely chose 
 
 A safe and less ambitious part, 
 In man alone sufficient found 
 
 For fancy, intellect, and heart. 
 
 TO 
 
 WE never met ; yet to my soul 
 
 Thy name hath been a voice of singing, 
 And ever to thy glorious lays 
 
 The echoes of my heart are ringing. 
 
 We never met ; yet is thy face, 
 Thy pictured face, before me now ; 
 
 Strangely, like life, I almost see 
 
 The dark curls wave upon thy brow ! 
 
 This face reveals that poet-life, 
 Still deepening, still rising higher, 
 
 A breathing from thy soul of song, 
 A glow from out thy heart of fire ! 
 
124 VALENTINES. 
 
 And yet, unlike thy portraiture 
 I would thy living face might be, 
 
 For ever, as I gaze on this. 
 
 Thine eyes are turned away from me. 
 
 TO COUNT . 
 
 WE need not to be told thou art 
 Of Rome s own glorious race ; 
 
 We hear her song breathe in thy voice, 
 In thy form behold her grace, 
 
 And her pure and classic beauty 
 In thy rare and thoughtful face. 
 
 That speaks her ancient honor, 
 Her proud immortal dower ; 
 
 It tells of her sad present, 
 
 Yet foretells her triumph hour, 
 
 Hath the grandeur of her sorrow, 
 And the glory of her power. 
 
VALENTINES. 125 
 
 TO ONE WHO KNOWS. 
 
 THEY told me, when I knew thee first, 
 Thou wert not made for loving, 
 
 That next St. Valentine s would see 
 Thy truant heart a-roving ; 
 
 That thou wouldst weary of my love, 
 Turn from me, and for ever ! 
 
 That I would meekly bow and weep, 
 But chide the rover never. 
 
 Ah ! those were mournful prophecies, 
 To cloud the sky of youth ; 
 
 And thou and I, we little thought 
 So soon to test their truth ! 
 
 We are that sad truth s witnesses, 
 Proofs manifest and living, 
 
 Thou art for -getting this poor heart, 
 And I am still for -giving ! 
 
126 VALENTINES. 
 
 TO HELEN IRVING. 
 
 AGAIN thou comest like a star of brightness, 
 As pure and tender, as serene and fair ; 
 
 I hear thy tones of love, or joyous lightness ! 
 I breathe thy presence like a balmy air ! 
 
 They say that genius sacred fount is gushing 
 Within thy soul of tenderness arid truth ; 
 
 That glory s sunlight even now is flushing 
 The still and dewy morning of thy youth. 
 
 Thou little dreamest that perchance above thee 
 Fame s envied chaplet trembles in the air, 
 
 While crowned with roses in the hearts that love thee, 
 While homage sweet is offered to thee there. 
 
 Thy soul is loveliest ere fashion round it 
 
 Her robe of cold and glittering thraldom flings, 
 
 Ere worldly art, with gilded chains, hath bound it, 
 Ere brushed the gold-dust from its fairy wings. 
 
VALENTINES. 127 
 
 TO A POETESS. 
 
 A NAMELESS power lives in thy verse, 
 
 A gleam of things divine ! 
 And with meek looks and clasped hands 
 
 My spirit bows to thine. 
 
 Now beams thy soul-light on the heart, 
 
 Like morn-rise, soft and tender ; 
 And now in wild, impassioned fire 
 
 Breaks forth with startling splendor. 
 
 We say, when gently steal along 
 
 Thy light, love-breathing numbers, 
 That Song s sweet angel whispering bends 
 
 Above thy nightly slumbers. 
 
 Anon there peals from out thy lays 
 
 A voice so clear and bold, 
 That we might almost dream thou wert 
 
 A prophetess of old. 
 
 The eye glows with unwonted fire, 
 
 The soul s still depths are stirred ; 
 The heart leaps to intenser life 
 
 At every burning word ! 
 
128 VALENTINES. 
 
 We see on swift, untiring wing 
 
 The morning lark uprise, 
 Until his tuneful gush of joy 
 
 Floats faintly down the skies. 
 
 Thus thou art rising glad and free, 
 Thy wild song downward flinging, 
 
 Up toward the morning gates of heaven 
 Thy flight of glory winging. 
 
129 
 
 TO THE HON. D. P. KING, 
 
 WITH AN AUTOGRAPH. 
 
 
 A CHILD of the Republic, 
 I have never bowed the knee 
 
 To coronets or sceptres, 
 To rank or royalty : 
 
 But when a royal nature, 
 Crowned with a royal name, 
 
 Devotes to holy freedom 
 His genius and his fame, 
 
 O, then my soul forgets her pride, 
 Then to the winds I flins: 
 
 o 
 
 My democratic scruples, 
 And all that sort of thing ; 
 
 My spirit yields allegiance, 
 
 And prays, God save thee, King ! 
 
130 
 
 DARKENED HOURS. 
 
 WITH folded arms and drooping head 
 I stand, my heart s blest goal unwon. 
 
 My souPs high purpose unattained ; 
 But life, but life goes hurrying on ! 
 
 I pause and linger by the way, 
 
 With fainting heart and slumbering powers, 
 And still the grand, immortal height 
 
 Which I would climb before me towers. 
 
 And still, far up its rugged steep, 
 The poet-laurel mocks mine eyes ; 
 
 While sweetly on its summit wave 
 The fadeless Bowers of Paradise. 
 
 

 DARKENED HOURS. 131 
 
 My voice is silent, though I mark 
 The toil and woe of human lives, 
 
 The beauty of that human love, 
 
 That meekly suffers, trusts, and strives. 
 
 My voice is silent, though I see 
 
 The captive pining in his cell, 
 And hear the exiled patriot breathe, 
 
 O er the wild seas, his sad farewell. 
 
 No song of joy is on my lip, 
 
 While Freedom s banners are unfurled, 
 And Freedom s fearless battle-shouts 
 
 And triumph-lays ring round the world. 
 
 No glow of rapturous feeling comes 
 To flush my cheek, or light mine eye, 
 
 While golden splendors of the morn 
 Are kindling all the eastern sky. 
 
 Nor when, while dews weigh down the rose, 
 
 I read amid the shadowy even 
 That bright Evangel of our God, 
 
 Whose words are worlds, the starry heaven. 
 
132 DARKENED HOURS. 
 
 Yet was my nature formed to feel 
 The gladness and the grief of life, 
 
 To thrill at Freedom s name, and joy 
 In all her brave and holy strife ; 
 
 To tremble with the perfect sense 
 Of all things lovely or sublime, 
 
 The glory of the midnight heaven, 
 The beauty of the morning time. 
 
 God-written thoughts are in my heart, 
 
 And deep within my being lie 
 Eternal truths and glorious hopes, 
 
 Which I must speak before I die. 
 
 Who shall restore the early faith, 
 
 The fresh, strong heart, the utterance bold ? 
 Ah, when may be this weary weight 
 
 From off my groaning spirit rolled ? 
 
 To Thee I turn, before whose throne 
 No earnest suppliant bows in vain ; 
 
 My spirit s faint and lonely cry 
 
 Thou wilt not in thy might disdain. 
 
DARKENED HOURS. 133 
 
 Awake in me a truer life, 
 
 A soul to labor and aspire ! 
 Touch Thou my mortal lips, God, 
 
 With thine own truth s immortal fire ! 
 
 Be with me in my darkened hours ; 
 
 Bind up my bruised heart once more ; 
 The grandeur of a lofty hope 
 
 About my lowly being pour ! 
 
 Give strength unto my spirit s wing, 
 
 Give light unto my spirit s eye, 
 And let the sunshine of thy smile 
 
 Upon my upward pathway lie ! 
 
 Thus, when my soul in thy pure faith 
 Hath grown serene, and free, and strong, 
 
 Thy greatness may exalt my thought, 
 Thy love make beautiful my song. 
 
134 
 
 THE DREAM. 
 
 LAST night, my love, I dreamed of thee, 
 Yet t was no dream Elysian : 
 
 Draw closer to my breast, dear Blanche, 
 The while I tell the vision. 
 
 Methought that I had left thee long, 
 And, home in haste returning, 
 
 My heart, lip, cheek, with love and joy 
 And wild impatience burning, 
 
 I called thee through the silent house ; 
 
 But here, at last, I found thee, 
 Where, deathly still and ghostly white, 
 
 The curtains fell around thee. 
 
THE DREAM. 135 
 
 Dead I dead thou wert ! Cold lay that form, 
 
 In rarest beauty moulded, 
 And meekly, o er thy still, white breast 
 
 The snowy hands were folded. 
 
 Methought thy couch was fitly strewn 
 
 With many a fragrant blossom ; 
 Fresh violets thy fingers clasped, 
 
 And rose-buds decked thy bosom : 
 
 But thine eyes, so like young violets, 
 
 Might smile upon me never 
 And the rose-bloom from thy cheek and lip 
 
 Had fled away for ever ! 
 
 I raised thee lovingly, thy head 
 
 Against my bosom leaning, 
 And called thy name, and spoke to thee 
 
 In words of tenderest meaning. 
 
 I sought to warm thee at my breast, 
 My arms close round thee flinging ; 
 
 To breathe my life into thy lips, 
 With kisses fond and clinging. 
 
136 THE DREAM. 
 
 hour of fearful agony ! 
 
 In vain my frenzied pleading ! 
 Thy dear voice hushed, thy kind eye closed, 
 My lonely grief unheeding ! 
 
 Pale wert thou as the lily-buds 
 Twined mid thy raven tresses, 
 
 And cold thy lip and still thy heart 
 To all my wild caresses ! 
 ***** 
 
 1 woke, amid the autumn night, 
 
 To hear the rain descending, 
 And roar of waves and howl of winds 
 In stormy concert blending. 
 
 But, O, my waking joy was morn, 
 From heaven s own portals flowing ! 
 
 And the summer of thy living love 
 Was round about me glowing ! 
 
 V 
 
 I woke, ah, blessedness ! to feel 
 Thy white arms round me wreathing, 
 
 To hear, amid the lonely night, 
 Thy calm and gentle breathing ! 
 
THE DREAM. 137 
 
 I bent above tby rest till morn, 
 
 With many a whispered blessing ; 
 Soft, timid kisses on thy lips 
 
 And blue-veined eyelids pressing. 
 
 While thus, from slumber s shadowy realm, 
 
 Thy truant soul recalling, 
 Thou couldst not know whence sprang the tears 
 
 Upon thy forehead falling. 
 
 And, O, thine eyes sweet wonderment, 
 
 When thou didst ope them slowly, 
 To mark mine own bent on thy face 
 
 In rapture deep and holy ! 
 
 Thou couldst not know, till I had told 
 
 That dream of fearful warning, 
 How much of heaven was in my words, 
 
 " God bless thee, love, good morning ! " 
 
138 
 
 THE FIRST DOUBT. 
 
 My heart is chilled with sudden fear, 
 
 And heavy on my spirit lies 
 The doubt that breathed from thy harsh tones, 
 
 And looked from thy reproachful eyes. 
 And seest thou not love s mightiest spell, 
 
 Its pure and perfect trust, is broken, 
 By the cold thought thy heart hath nursed, 
 
 And the cold words thy lips have spoken ? 
 
 Ah, thou of little faith ! Came then, 
 
 No gentle memories to thee ? 
 No earnest tone, no still caress, 
 
 No smile, no tear, to plead for me ? 
 Had all the love of all our past 
 
 No voices calling through thy heart ? 
 Shone not mine eyes upon thy soul 
 
 A light to bid all clouds depart ? 
 
THE FIRST DOUBT. 139 
 
 Though smiles and fond endearing names 
 
 Upon our lips once more may live, 
 Yet love hath ceased to be divine 
 
 When those who love must say, " Forgive." 
 Though morning skies are o er us still, 
 
 Yet, sadder than the shades of night, 
 The shadow of thy first dark thought 
 
 Is hiding all our heaven from sight. 
 
 We drink no more at Hope s clear springs, 
 
 But bitter draughts of vain regret ; 
 Young Love who led us forth to life, 
 
 Rose-crowned and joyous, leads us yet, 
 But tearful now his weary eyes ; 
 
 Faint smiles around his sweet lips play, 
 And red drops falling from his wounds 
 
 Stain all the flowers along his way. 
 
 Beware, O dearest, lest some shaft 
 
 May pierce his gentle heart at last, 
 And the dim light of his sad smile 
 
 No longer on our path be cast ! 
 Lest, parting at his early grave, 
 
 With summer s perished blooms o erstrown, 
 We go forth through the world s wide waste, 
 
 And tread its weary ways alone ! 
 
140 
 
 THE MIDNIGHT VIGIL. 
 
 BY THE SICK-BED OF A MOTHER. 
 
 THEY say a tempest is abroad to-night ; 
 
 They tell me of its fearful sights and sounds, 
 
 Of driving rains, the rush and roar of winds, 
 
 The plunge of torrents o er the mountain side, 
 
 The burst of thunder, and the lurid track 
 
 Of the quick lightning, leaping down the skies ! 
 
 But deeper midnight and a colder gloom 
 Enwrap my life, within my bosom reigns 
 A wilder, sterner strife, while bows my head, 
 Bared to the peltings of a mightier storm ! 
 
 The hour is nigh at hand, the hour that oft 
 Darkened my childhood s dreams in nights of fear ; 
 Whose icy thought had e er strange power to chill 
 The bounding pulse of joy, since first my lips 
 Essayed to lisp the most beloved name. 
 
THE MIDNIGHT VIGIL. 141 
 
 Vainly my soul hath struggled ; from her clasp 
 Life s earliest, dearest joy is torn away ! 
 Her deepest, tenderest, thrice-blessed love, 
 A holy lamp within a sacred shrine, 
 Is dying out upon this midnight air ! 
 
 O soul, so strong with hope and high resolve, 
 Brave and exultant once, but shrinking, faint, 
 Now, while the wine-press of a mortal grief 
 Thy steps are treading painfully and slow ! 
 heart that once unfolded into life, 
 Flower-like in gladness, lifting up toward heaven 
 A chalice for its sunshine and its dews, 
 That drank in freshness with the morning hours, 
 And swayed to pleasant airs the livelong day, 
 Now, bruised and broken, bleed thyself away, 
 Earth cold beneath, and heaven all dark above ! 
 
 This voice hath grown a stranger to mine ear ; 
 Faltering and sad its tones that lately rung 
 Such merry changes, and the eyes that smiled, 
 And looked contentment from their deepest depths, 
 Grow wild, and darken with a great despair. 
 
 Silent I sit amid the waste of grief, 
 The desolation, the tempestuous gloom, 
 
142 THE MIDNIGHT VIGIL. 
 
 The deep convulsion of my inmost life ; 
 Save when a prayer of sternest agony, 
 Like some strong bird, goes forth amid the strife, 
 Through storm, and darkness, and cold, heavy clouds, 
 Battling its way toward heaven, its weary way, 
 Where, mid the conflict soon overcome, it falls, 
 Dashed toward the earth by some relentless power. 
 But peace, my soul ! He liveth yet, who looked 
 On woman s grief and " wept," e en while his voice 
 Rebuked the worm, and called the wasting dead 
 In life and freshness forth into the day ; 
 Who took the Jewish maiden by the hand, 
 And, with one word, gave back to mortal life 
 A spirit wandering in the deathless clime, 
 To lose the memory of her hour of heaven 
 In the sweet sadness of an earthly lot. 
 
 Once more my soul lifts up her bitter cry, 
 The fast outpouring of her grief and fear ! 
 Once more falls at thy feet, and grasps thy robe, 
 And will not let thee go, Master of Life ! 
 
 O, by the memory of her love, whose eyes 
 Looked tender adoration on Thee first, 
 Who warmed Thee at her bosom when the airs 
 Of the first morning breathed upon thy form, 
 
THE MIDNIGHT VIGIL. 143 
 
 And Bethlehem s dews made coolness round thy rest! 
 
 O, by that love still faithful when the child 
 
 Put on the name and presence of the God, 
 
 And went forth bearing on his mighty heart 
 
 The crime, and death, and sorrow of a world ! 
 
 Stilt true mid want, and wrong, and jeering scorn, 
 
 And hate s mad tempest beating on thy life, 
 
 To that dread hour when heaven was veiled in gloom, 
 
 And nature trembled and cried out in fear ! 
 
 O, by thy human love divinely sweet, 
 
 Which yearned for her caress to comfort Thee 
 
 In the long exile from thy heavenly home, 
 
 Which in the last hour lived upon thy lips 
 
 In words of tenderness, and from thine eyes 
 
 Struggled through mists of death in mute farewell ! 
 
 0, by thy love, thy sorrow, and thy pain, 
 
 By all the tears Thou st shed for mortal woe, 
 
 Let the imploring passion of my soul 
 
 Come up before Thee at this midnight hour! 
 
 Break not " the bruised reed," Most Merciful ! 
 
 Stay Thou the bleeding of the wounded heart ! 
 
 Give back its dearest treasure even now ! 
 
 Draw near, O Lord of Life, and gently take 
 
 The hand of our beloved in thine own, 
 
 And say to her, " Arise ! " 
 
144 
 
 THE MAY MORNING. 
 
 THE morning brightness showereth down from heaven ; 
 
 The morning freshness goeth up from earth ; 
 
 The morning gladness shineth everywhere ! 
 
 Soon as the sun, in glorious panoply, 
 
 Parting the crimson curtains of his tent, 
 
 Begins the day s proud march, the voice of song 
 
 And flush of beauty live along his way ! 
 
 The maiden flowers, whom all the dreamy night 
 
 The starlight vainly wooed, with wan, cold smile, 
 
 Blush as his presence breathes upon their bloom, 
 
 And feel his kiss through all their glowing veins, 
 
 And shake the night-dew from their joyous heads, 
 
 And pour thick perfumes on the golden air. 
 
 The trees bow at his coming, and look brave 
 In all the richness of their new attire ; 
 The Aspen s shining leaves give back his smile, 
 
THE MAY MORNING. 145 
 
 Dancing in glee, yet whispering in awe, 
 Like bashful maidens at some gorgeous fete, 
 Graced by a monarch s presence ; aged Oaks 
 Grow young again at their stout, loyal hearts ; 
 The stately brotherhood of mountain Pines 
 Give forth a solemn greeting, like a band 
 Of stern old monks, in sombre vestments clad. 
 Like Ganymede, the Magnolia stands, 
 Graceful and fair ; his silver chalice lifts, 
 Brimmed with night s nectar, to the thirsty god. 
 The garden Lilac, rich in purple bloom, 
 Scatters her royal largess far and wide ; 
 And the warm bosom of the opening Rose 
 Pants out its odorous sighs to the " sweet south," 
 That soft-plumed, low-voiced rover from afar, 
 Whose wings are heavy with the perfume stolen 
 From the cleft hearts of his forsaken loves. 
 The Mignonette breathes tenderly and deep, 
 The pure home-fragrance of a humble heart ; 
 And even the tiny Violet can make 
 Her little circle sweet as love ; the Vine, 
 Swaying in mid-air to the frolic wind, 
 Rains scented blossoms on the clover tufts, 
 And cheerful daisies, lighting up the grass. 
 The Robin and the Oriole awake 
 
 10 
 
146 THE MAY MORNING. 
 
 With the first sunshine glancing on their wings, 
 To thrill the young leaves quivering round their nests 
 With glad, wild gushes of exulting song, 
 To pour swift waves of clear, delicious sound, 
 Fresh and rejoicing, on the morning air. 
 
 The lake looks up to heaven, and smiles to see 
 Those vast, high courts with his own color hung ; 
 The waves, with whispers and low laughter, steal 
 Along the shore, to meet the honeyed kiss 
 Of the pale lilies, drooping faint with love. 
 Like some young mountain shepherd, whose fair maid, 
 Far down the vale, upon a gala morn, 
 Awaits his coming, the impetuous stream 
 Leaps down the hill-side, singing as it goes. 
 
 Yet, O fair sky ! O green and flowery earth ! 
 Your morning gladness in this bright May-time, 
 With visible glow and music-utterance, 
 Is all imperfect, faint, and dim, beside 
 The viewless, voiceless, unimagined joy 
 That maketh bloom and sunshine in my heart, 
 That fills my soul with hopes more bright than flowers, 
 And thoughts far sweeter than the voice of birds ! 
 
THE MAY MORNING. 147 
 
 The arctic winter which closed round me long, 
 And hung all heaven with tempests, hath gone by ; 
 The fear, the sorrow, and the wild despair 
 Which made a darkness deeper than the night, 
 And storm that mocked the loud and maddened strife 
 Of the roused elements, all, all gone by ! 
 A sky of love is bending o er me now, 
 And airs serene are breathing round my paths : 
 The rich midsummer of my life is here ! 
 
 O Thou, whose hand rolled back the clouds of fear, 
 Whose voice spake "peace" to sorrow s whelming 
 
 deeps, 
 
 And in mid-heaven stayed the shadowy wing 
 Of death s swift angel, what meet offering 
 Hath my glad soul to lay upon thy shrine ? 
 Prayers and rapt vigils ? or song s votive wreaths, 
 Dewy with grateful tears ? a pilgrim s vows ? 
 Saint-like observance of all sacred rites 
 And holy days ? Not these, not these, my soul ; 
 But the sweet offering of a loving heart, 
 But the rich offering of a free-born mind, 
 But the long offering of an earnest life. 
 
148 
 
 WAR-SONG OF THE MAGYARS. 
 
 A BATTLE-SHOUT for Hungary 
 
 Once more shall wake the day, 
 
 A joyful summons to the brave, 
 To rally for the fray ; 
 
 To gird her round, and, with their swords, 
 Make lightning on her way ! 
 
 The shout that each bold Magyar heart 
 With war s fierce rapture fills, 
 
 The cry that in the traitor s veins 
 The coward current chills, 
 
 Let it ring up from the valleys 
 And roll along the hills ! 
 
WAR-SONG OF THE MAGYARS. 149 
 
 Let it sound amid the mountain land, 
 
 That mighty gathering cry, 
 Go up from steep, and crag, and cliff, 
 
 Clear, terrible, and high, 
 Till the vultures and the eagles 
 
 Scream back their hoarse reply ! 
 
 Like the mingling of all fearful sounds 
 
 Of vengeance and of woe, 
 Like the rush of fire, the roar of floods, 
 
 When wintry tempests blow, 
 Like the thunder of the avalanche, 
 
 It shall sweep against the foe ! 
 
 God of the nations, Thou didst hear 
 
 Poor Hungary s patient prayer, 
 From the prison of her bondage 
 
 And the night of her despair, 
 When the groanings of her spirit 
 
 Were burdening all the air ! 
 
 Thou didst flash upon her darkness 
 
 A great and sudden light ; 
 Didst break her chains, and lead her forth, 
 
 And gird her for the fight 
 
150 WAR-SONG OF THE MAGYARS. 
 
 With the weapons of thine anger, 
 And the armour of thy might ! . 
 
 Once more be thy victorious strength 
 On mortal hearts outpoured ; 
 
 Take Thou the blood-guilt from our strife, 
 And sanctify the sword 
 
 That strikes for Freedom ! For the right, 
 Make bare thine arm, O Lord ! 
 
 Bless Thou our banners, till their folds 
 On Freedom s ramparts wave, 
 
 And shade the patriot s holy rest ; 
 O, strengthen, guide, and save 
 
 Our PROPHET-HERO to the end, 
 God of the struggling brave ! 
 
151 
 
 THE POET S HOME. 
 
 WE have struggled up the hill-side, 
 We stand upon its brow, 
 
 O, lovely as a dream of heaven, 
 The scene before us now ! 
 
 There singeth past the woodlands, 
 Where the listening aspens quiver, 
 
 There shineth through the meadows, 
 The beautiful, bright river. 
 
 And, farther off, old Ocean 
 
 Is lying at his rest, 
 With the warm and gentle sunlight 
 
 Asleep upon his breast. 
 
THE POET S HOME. 
 
 But low down in the village 
 Is a cottage, white and small, 
 
 And to me that cottage seemeth 
 More glorious than all ! 
 
 From out its portal floweth 
 
 A tide of minstrelsy, 
 That rolleth as a river, 
 
 And soundeth as the sea ! 
 
 If in storm-shocks meet its waters, 
 Or in summer quiet glide, 
 
 A sun that knows no setting 
 Smiles on the crystal tide ; 
 
 A sun across whose brightness 
 No lightest cloud is driven, 
 
 The constant, kind approval, 
 The blessed love of Heaven. 
 
153 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 THOU darest not love me ! thou canst only see 
 
 The great gulf set between us. Hadst thou love, 
 
 T would bear thee o er it on a wing of fire ! 
 
 Wilt put from thy faint lip the mantling cup, 
 
 The draught thou st prayed for with divinest thirst, 
 
 For fear a poison in the chalice lurks ? 
 
 Wilt thou be barred from thy soul s heritage, 
 
 The power, the rapture, and the crown of life, 
 
 By the poor guard of danger set about it ? 
 
 I tell thee that the richest flowers of heaven 
 
 Bloom on the brink of darkness. Thou hast marked 
 
 How sweetly o er the beetling precipice 
 
 Hangs the young June-rose with its crimson heart, 
 
 And wouldst not sooner peril life to win 
 
 That royal flower, that thou mightst proudly wear 
 
154 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 The trophy on thy breast, than idly pluck 
 
 A thousand meek-faced daisies by the way ? 
 
 How dost thou shudder at Love s gentle tones, 
 
 As though a serpent s hiss were in thine ear, 
 
 Albeit thy heart throbs echo to each word ! 
 
 Why wilt not rest, O weary wanderer, 
 
 Upon the couch of flowers Love spreads for thee, 
 
 On banks of sunshine ? Voices silver-toned 
 
 Shall lull thy soul with strange, wild harmonies, 
 
 Rock thee to sleep upon the waves of sono- ; 
 
 Hope shall watch o er thee with her breath of dreams ; 
 
 Joy hover near, impatient for thy waking, 
 
 Her quick wing glancing through the fragrant air. 
 
 Why dost thou pause hard by the rose-wreathed gate, 
 Why turn thee from the paradise of youth, 
 Where love s immortal summer blooms and glows, 
 And wrap thyself in coldness as a shroud ? 
 Perchance t is well for Ihee, yet does the flame 
 That glows with heat intense, and mounts toward heaven, 
 As fitly emblem holiest purity, 
 As the still snow-wreath on the mountain s brow. 
 
 Thou darest not say I love, and yet thou lovest, 
 And think st to crush the mighty yearning down, 
 
A FRAGMENT. 155 
 
 That in thy spirit shall upspring for ever ! 
 
 Twinned with thy soul, it lived in thy first thoughts, 
 
 It haunted with strange dreams thy boyish years, 
 
 And colored with its deep, empurpled hue 
 
 The passionate aspirations of thy youth. 
 
 Go, take from June her roses, from her streams 
 
 The bubbling fountain-springs, from life take love, 
 
 Thou hast its all of sweetness, bloom, and strength. 
 
 There is a grandeur in the soul that dares 
 To live out all the life God lit within, 
 That battles with the passions hand to hand, 
 And wears no mail, and hides behind no shield, 
 That plucks its joy in the shadow of death s wing, 
 That drains with one deep draught the wine of life, 
 And that with fearless foot and heaven-turned eye 
 May stand upon a dizzy precipice, 
 High o er the abyss of ruin, and not fall! 
 
156 
 
 TO ONE AFAR. 
 
 O STRONG and pure of soul ! O earnest-hearted ! 
 
 Like stranger-pilgrims at some way-side shrine 
 Have we two met, and mingled faith, and parted, 
 
 Thy pathway leading far away from mine. 
 
 The soul of ancient song is round thee swelling, 
 To triumph-marches leading on the hours ; 
 
 Thy life hath templed shades, where gods are dwelling, 
 Where founts Castalian play among the flowers. 
 
 But faintly may the voices of the ages 
 
 Come to my yearning but imperfect sense, 
 
 The strength of heroes and the lore of sages, 
 The fire of song, the storm of eloquence. 
 
TO ONE AFAR. 157 
 
 Thy thoughts, their grand vibrations far out-flinging, 
 Like church-tower bells ring out the morning chime, 
 
 While flow my numbers like the gleeful singing 
 Of peasant maidens at the vintage-time. 
 
 Grandeur and power are shrined within thy spirit ; 
 
 It moves in deeps and joys in storm and night, 
 While mine, of simpler mould, may but inherit 
 
 The love of all things beautiful and bright. 
 
 Truth s earnest seeker thou, I fancy s rover : 
 
 Thy life is like a river deep and wide ; 
 I but the light-winged wild-bird passing over, 
 
 One moment mirrored in the rushing tide. 
 
 Thus are we parted, thou still onward hasting, 
 Pouring the great flood of that life along ; 
 
 While I on sunny slopes am careless wasting 
 The little summer of my time of song. 
 
158 
 
 AN OFFERING TO ANNA. 
 
 I SEND this ring of braided hair, 
 
 A simple gift, to thee, 
 One more fond pledge of perfect trust, 
 
 And perfect peace, from me. 
 
 Thou It wear it for our dear love s sake, 
 
 So fresh and pure and strong, 
 Far sweeter than the dreams of fame, 
 
 Of romance, or of song. 
 
 And when snows fall, or spring-flowers wave, 
 
 My cold, still breast above, 
 Dear, faithful heart, thou It wear it then 
 
 In memory of our love. 
 
AN OFFERING TO ANNA. 159 
 
 Bird of my bosom ! blessed shape 
 
 Of joy and song thou art ; 
 Sweet soul of tenderness and truth, 
 
 Soft nestled in my heart, 
 
 Thou say st that heart is Poesy s harp, 
 
 A lute which Pleasure plays, 
 And Love s own dimpled fingers wake 
 
 To gay or mournful lays. 
 
 Then grieve not, should strains sad or harsh 
 
 Rise sometimes from its strings, 
 When thou dost jar the silver chords 
 
 With the fluttering of thy wings. 
 
160 
 
 A LAY 
 
 THE glorious queen of heaven, who flings 
 Her royal radiance round me now, 
 As with clasped hands and upturned brow 
 
 I watch her pathway fair and free, 
 Is not so silvery with the light 
 She pours o er darkened earth to-night 
 As in the gentle thoughts she brings 
 Of thee, dear love, of thee ! 
 
 The night-wind trembling round the rose, 
 The starlight floating on the river, 
 The fearful aspen s silvery shiver, 
 
 The dew-drop glistening on the lea, 
 Night s pure baptism to the flowers, 
 All, all bring back our dear," lost hours, 
 Till every heart-string thrills and glows 
 For thee, dear love, for thee ! 
 
A LAY. 161 
 
 And when dawn wakes the Earth with song, 
 And Nature s heart, so hushed to-night, 
 Goes leaping in the morning light, 
 
 While waves flash onward to the sea, 
 While perfumed dews to heaven arise, 
 While glory flushes o er the skies, 
 Still through my soul shall sweet thoughts throng 
 Of thee, dear love, of thee ! 
 
 Ah, thou beloved, whose heart hath thrilled 
 To blessed dreams and joys with mine, 
 What power shall change thy love divine, 
 
 Or shut its presence out from me, 
 Since all bright things, from flower to star, 
 Its types and sweet reminders are 
 To this fond heart, this soul so filled 
 With thee, dear love, with thee ! 
 
 We part not, though we said adieu. 
 
 Since first thy thoughts chimed in with mine, 
 And from those wondrous eyes of thine 
 
 A heaven of love looked down on me, 
 My very life round thine is.poured, 
 Thy words within my soul I hoard, 
 Still true, in every heart-throb true, 
 To thee, dear love, to thee ! 
 11 
 
162 
 
 CONSTANCE. 
 
 THE tropic stars are looking down 
 
 Upon the midnight deep ; 
 The wind blows fresh, as on our course 
 
 Right gallantly we sweep ; 
 For thee I wake, O fair beloved ! 
 
 Far o er the flashing foam, 
 My fears, my hopes, my tender thoughts, 
 
 Like swift-winged birds, fly home ! 
 Constance, my bride, 
 My heart s dear pride, 
 
 Say, is it well with thee ? 
 
 I wake from dreams that some dread ill 
 Hath breathed upon thy bloom, 
 
 That round thy ways are falling fast 
 The cold shades of the tomb ; 
 
CONSTANCE. 163 
 
 I wake to stretch my fond arms forth, 
 
 In grief and sudden fear ; 
 To weep, to call upon thy name, 
 Yet know thou canst not hear ! 
 Constance, my bride, 
 My heart s dear pride, 
 Say, is it well with thee ? 
 
 I wake to traverse, step by step, 
 
 The sweet paths of our past, 
 Where the throb of bliss first woke our hearts, 
 
 And the tide of life ran fast ; 
 When I sunned me, through enchanted days, 
 
 In thy beauty s splendid light ; 
 When thy love was with me in my sleep, 
 
 And hallowed all the night. 
 Constance, my bride, 
 My heart s dear pride, 
 
 Say, is it well with thee ? 
 
 O, life is full, O, life is deep, 
 
 O, earth is fair to see,, 
 A beautiful and blessed place, 
 
 For it holdeth love and thee ! 
 
164 CONSTANCE. 
 
 My faith in heaven and in thy truth 
 
 Are one for evermore ; 
 I read thy pure soul, and believe, 
 I love thee and adore. 
 
 Constance, my bride, 
 My heart s dear pride, 
 Say, is it well with thee ? 
 
 The beauty of life s morning-time, 
 
 The day s full bloom and light, 
 Art thou to me ; and when, at last, 
 
 Comes on the long, chill night, 
 0, I will crown me with thy love, 
 
 And arm me with thy faith, 
 Breathe out thy name from my deep heart, 
 
 And thus go down to death ! 
 Constance, my bride, 
 My heart s dear pride, 
 
 Say, is it well with thee ? 
 
 I know my soul s wild longings 
 
 Will seek thee in thy rest, 
 Where thou liest with a thought of me 
 
 Close folded to thy breast. 
 
CONSTANCE. 165 
 
 And I will fear no more, thou dwelPst 
 
 In the angels gentle care, 
 And the ear of Heaven low bendeth 
 To the meek voice of thy prayer. 
 Constance, my bride, 
 My heart s dear pride, 
 / know t is well with thee ! 
 
166 
 
 TO , IN ABSENCE. 
 
 WHEN first we met, beloved, rememberest thou 
 How all my nature was athirst and faint ? 
 
 My soul s high powers lay wasting still and slow, 
 While my sad heart sighed forth its ceaseless plaint. 
 
 For frowning pride life s summer waves did lock 
 Away from light, their restless murmuring hushed ; 
 
 But thou didst smite the cold, defying rock, 
 And full and fast the living waters gushed ! 
 
 0, what a summer glory life put on ! 
 
 What morning freshness those swift waters gave, 
 That leaped from darkness forth into the sun, 
 
 And mirrored heaven in every smallest wave ! 
 
 ***** 
 
TO 
 
 167 
 
 The cloud that darkened long our sky of love, 
 And flung a shadow o er life s Eden bloom, 
 
 Hath deepened into night, around, above, 
 But night beneficent and void of gloom, 
 
 The dews of peace and faith s sweet quiet bringing, 
 And memory s starlight, as joy s sunlight fades, 
 
 While, like the nightingale s melodious singing, 
 The voice of Hope steals out amid the shades. 
 
 Now it hath come and gone, the shadowed day, 
 The time of farewells that beheld us part, 
 
 I miss thy presence from my side alway, 
 Thy smile s sweet comfort raining on my heart. 
 
 Yes, we are parted. Now I call thy name, 
 And listen long, but no dear voice replies : 
 
 I miss thine earnest praise, thy gentle blame, 
 And the mute blessing of thy loving eyes. 
 
 Yet no, not parted. Still in life and power 
 Thy spirit cometh over wild and wave, 
 
 Is ever near me in the trial-hour, 
 
 A ready help, a presence strong arid brave. 
 
168 TO , IN ABSENCE. 
 
 Thy love breathes o er me in the winds of heaven, 
 Floats to me on the tides of morning light, 
 
 Descends upon me in the calms of even, 
 And fills with music all the dreamy night. 
 
 It falleth as a robe of pride around me, 
 
 A royal vesture rich with purple gleams, 
 
 It is the glory wherewith life hath crowned me, 
 The large fulfilment of my soul s long dreams ! 
 
 It is a paean drowning notes of sadness, 
 It is a great light shutting out all gloom, 
 
 It is a fountain of perpetual gladness, 
 It is a garden of perpetual bloom. 
 
 But to thy nature pride and power belong, 
 And death-defying courage ; what to thee, 
 
 With thy great life, thy spirit high and strong, 
 May my one love in all its fulness be ? 
 
 An inward joy, sharp e en to pain, yet dear 
 
 As thy soul s life, a warmth, a light serene, 
 
 A low, deep voice which none save thou may hear, 
 A living presence, constant, though unseen. 
 
TO , IN ABSENCE. 169 
 
 Yet shalt thou fold it closer to thy breast, 
 In the dark days, when other loves depart, 
 
 And when thou liest down for the long rest, 
 Then, beloved, t will sleep upon thy heart ! 
 
170 
 
 THE GOLD-SEEKER. 
 
 T WAS upon a Southern desert, and beneath a burning 
 
 sky, 
 That a pilgrim to the gold-clime sunk, o erwearied, 
 
 down to die ! 
 He was young, and fair, and slender, but he bore a 
 
 gallant heart, 
 Through the march so long and toilsome he had bravely 
 
 held his part. 
 His companions round him gathered, with kind word 
 
 and pitying look, 
 As in fever-thirst he panted, like "the hart for the 
 
 water-brook " ; 
 While their last cool drops outpouring on his brow and 
 
 parched lips, 
 Sorrowed they to mark his glances growing dim with 
 
 death s eclipse. 
 
THE GOLD-SEEKER. 
 
 Turning then, and onward passing, left they there the 
 
 dying man, 
 For a weary way to westward still the promised river 
 
 ran. 
 
 One there was, a comrade faithful, who the longest 
 lingered there, 
 
 While he wrung his hand in parting, bidding him not 
 yet despair ; 
 
 For they would return at morning, from the river- 
 banks, he said, 
 
 And, a silken scarf unfolding, laid it o er the sufferer s 
 head, 
 
 Then, full often backward glancing, took the weary 
 march again, 
 
 Onward pressing toward the waters, gleaming far 
 across the plain. 
 
 Silent lies the one forsaken, in this hour of pain and 
 
 fear, 
 While their farewells and their footsteps die upon his 
 
 failing ear, 
 With the withered turf his death-couch, neath the 
 
 burning heat of day, 
 All unhearing and unheeding, for his soul is far 
 
 away ! 
 
172 THE GOLD-SEEKER. 
 
 In the dear home of his childhood, in a pleasant North 
 
 ern land, 
 He beholds about him smiling the familiar household 
 
 band ; 
 Sees, perchance, his father coming homeward through 
 
 the twilight gray, 
 Listens to his merry brothers, laughing in their childish 
 
 Feels the fond arms of his mother, as of old, about 
 
 him thrown, 
 And the fair cheek of his sister pressing soft against 
 
 his own ! 
 Or he strays amid the moonlight, in a cool and shad 
 
 owy grove, 
 Looking down with earnest glances into eyes that look 
 
 back love ! 
 All beloved tones are calling sweetly through his heart 
 
 again, 
 And its dying pulse is quickened by the phantoms of 
 
 his brain ! 
 And beloved names he murmurs, while his bosom 
 
 heaves and swells, 
 For in dreams again he liveth through his partings and 
 
 farewells ! 
 
THE GOLD-SEEKER. 173 
 
 Slowly sinks the sun, night s shadows round the 
 
 lonely pilgrim spread, 
 While the rising night-winds gently lift the light scarf 
 
 from his head, 
 And the soft and pitying moonbeams glance upon his 
 
 forehead fair, 
 And the dews of night, descending, damp the dark locks 
 
 of his hair ; 
 Cool upon his brow they re falling, but its fever-throbs 
 
 are o er, 
 And his parched lips they moisten, but those lips shall 
 
 thirst no more ! 
 
 His companions come at morning, come to look on 
 his dead face, 
 
 Come to lay him to his grave-rest, in that dreary, desert 
 place, 
 
 Where the tropic sun glares fiercely on the wild, un 
 sheltered plain, 
 
 And where pour, from darkest heavens, rushing floods 
 of winter rain, 
 
 Where shall come the wild-bird s screaming, and the 
 whirlwind s sounding sweep, 
 
 And the tramp of herded bisons shall go thundering 
 o er his sleep. 
 
174 THE GOLD-SEEKER. 
 
 There are piteous sounds of mourning in a far-off 
 
 Northern home, 
 Where o er childhood s kindling dawn-light sudden 
 
 clouds of darkness come ; 
 There are heard a father s groanings, and a mother s 
 
 broken sighs, 
 There a voiceless sorrow troubleth the clear deeps of 
 
 maiden eyes. 
 
 In their fearful dreams, at midnight, they behold him 
 
 left to die, 
 With the hard, hot ground beneath him, and above a 
 
 brazen sky, 
 In his fainting, in his thirsting, in his pain and wild 
 
 despair, 
 Vainly calling on his dear ones, through the heavy 
 
 desert air ! 
 O, the bitter self-reproaches mingled in the cup they 
 
 drain ! 
 0, their poor hearts, pierced and tortured by a sharp 
 
 remorseful pain, 
 
 That they sent their best and dearest from his home- 
 love s sheltering fold, 
 In the madness of adventure, on that pilgrimage of 
 
 gold! 
 
175 
 
 THE POET OF TO-DAY. 
 
 WHAT siren joy from thy high trust hath won thee, 
 O Poet of to-day ? thou still unheard, 
 
 Though struggling nations cast their eyes upon thee. 
 And the roused world is waiting for thy word ! 
 
 Why lingerest thou amid the summer places, 
 The gardens of romance, the haunt of dreams, 
 
 Mid verdurous shadows, lit by fairy faces, 
 And fitful playing of soft, golden gleams ? 
 
 There have thy fiery thoughts and hopes betaken 
 To still delights, and loveliness, and rest, 
 
 Thy life to quiet gliding, lest it waken 
 The languid lilies sleeping on its breast. 
 
176 THE POET OF TO-DAY. 
 
 The rudest wind which comes where thou art lying, 
 Listening the chiming waters as they flow, 
 
 May scarcely set the mournful pines a-sighing, 
 Or shake down rose-leaves on thy dreaming brow. 
 
 Arouse ! look up, to where above thee tower 
 Regions of being grander, freer, higher, 
 
 Where God reveals his presence and his power, 
 E en as of old, in thunders and in fire. 
 
 Then stray no longer in the valleys vernal ; 
 
 Ascend where darkness and great lights belong, 
 Sunshine and tempest ; scale the heights eternal, 
 
 Go forth and tread the mountain-paths of song ! 
 
 From those far summits shall thy thought s clear voi 
 cing 
 
 Fall like the sweep of torrents on the world ; 
 Thy lays speed forth, exultant and rejoicing, 
 
 Their eagle pinions on the winds unfurled. 
 
 Ah, when the soul of ancient song was blending 
 With the rapt bard s in his immortal strains, 
 
 T was like the wine drunk on Olympus, sending 
 Divine intoxication through the veins. 
 
THE POET OF TO-DAY. 177 
 
 It brought strange, charmed words, and magic singing, 
 And forms of beauty burning on the sight, 
 
 Young loves their flight through airs ambrosial winging, 
 And dark-browed heroes arming for the fight, 
 
 The trumpet s "golden cry," the shield s quick flashing, 
 The dance of banners and the rush of war, 
 
 Death-showers of arrows and the spear s sharp clash 
 ing, 
 The homeward rolling of the victor s car ! 
 
 But ah ! in all that song s heroic story, 
 
 Had sad Humanity one briefest part? 
 Sounds through the clang of words, the storm, the glory, 
 
 One sharp, strong cry from out her bleeding heart ? 
 
 But unto thee the soul of song is given, 
 
 O Poet of to-day, a grander dower, 
 Comes from a higher than the Olympian heaven, 
 
 In holier beauty and in larger power. 
 
 To thee Humanity, her woes revealing, 
 
 Would all her griefs and ancient wrongs rehearse ; 
 
 Would make thy song the voice of her appealing, 
 And sob her mighty sorrows through thy verse. 
 12 
 
178 THE POET OF TO-DAY. 
 
 While in her season of great darkness sharing, 
 Hail thou the coming of each promise-star 
 
 Which climbs the midnight of her long despairing, 
 And watch for morning o er the hills afar. 
 
 Wherever Truth her holy warfare wages, 
 
 Or Freedom pines, there let thy voice be heard ; 
 
 Sound like a prophet-warning down the ages 
 The human utterance of God s living word. 
 
 But bring not thou the battle s stormy chorus, 
 The tramp of armies, and the roar of fight, 
 
 Not war s hot smoke to taint the sweet morn o er us, 
 Nor blaze of pillage, reddening up the night. 
 
 O, let thy lays prolong that angel-singing, 
 Girdling with music the Redeemer s star, 
 
 And breathe God s peace, to earth " glad tidings " 
 
 bringing 
 From the near heavens, of old so dim and far ! 
 
179 
 
 ARNOLD DE WINKELRIED. 
 
 DAY immortal in Helvetia, day to every Switzer 
 dear, 
 
 Day that saw Duke Leopold down before Sempach 
 appear, 
 
 Just as morning fresh and stilly dawned above the 
 ancient town, 
 
 And the mountain mists uprolling let the waiting sun 
 light down. 
 
 Full four thousand knights and barons marched with 
 
 Leopold that day, 
 With their vassals, squires, and burghers, following in 
 
 grand array ; 
 T was the Duke himself came foremost, slowly came, 
 
 in state arid pride, 
 
180 ARNOLD DE WINKELRIED. 
 
 With the knight of Ems, brave Eyloff, gravely riding 
 
 at his side. 
 Fiery-eyed with ancient hatred rode proud Gessler, as 
 
 became 
 One of the abhorred lineage, and the old accursed 
 
 name. 
 
 It was while their serfs and hirelings cut the Switzer s 
 
 tall grain down, 
 That the Austrian knights paraded on their steeds before 
 
 the town. 
 " Ho ! our reapers would have breakfast ! " thus the 
 
 Sire de Reinach calls. 
 " The Confederates make it ready ! " cried the Avoyer 
 
 from the walls. 
 
 Now, upon a hill to northward, in among the sheltering 
 
 wood, 
 The Confederates little army still and firm and fearless 
 
 stood ; 
 They from Gersau, Zug, and Glaris, the Waldstetten, 
 
 and Lucerne, 
 But not a burgher or a knight from false and recreant 
 
 Berne. 
 
ARNOLD DE WINKELRIED. 181 
 
 There with looks of old defiance glared they down 
 
 upon the foe, 
 And their hearts were hot for vengeance when they 
 
 thought of long-ago ; 
 For full many a pike now gleaming in the pleasant 
 
 summer light. 
 Had their fathers dipped in Austrian blood at Morgarten s 
 
 mountain fight ! 
 
 Up amid the winds and sunshine Austria s blazoned 
 banners danced, 
 
 With a mighty clash of armour Austria s haughty hosts 
 advanced ; 
 
 Calling on the God of freedom, with a shout for Swit 
 zerland, 
 
 Down against the mailed thousands rushed the little 
 patriot band ! 
 
 With their short swords, and their halberds, and their 
 simple shields of wood, 
 
 With their archers, and their slingers, and their pike- 
 men stern and rude. 
 
 But as thick as stands at harvest golden grain alono- 
 
 the Rhine, 
 Stood the spears of the invaders, gleaming down the 
 
 threatening line ; 
 
182 ARNOLD DE WINKELRIED. 
 
 And as pressed the hardy Switzers close upon their 
 
 leader s track, 
 Everywhere that wall of lances met their way, and 
 
 hurled them back ; 
 Till the blood of brave Confederates stained the hill-side 
 
 and the plain, 
 Drenching all the trampled greensward like a storm of 
 
 mountain rain ; 
 Till the boldest brow was darkened, and the firmest 
 
 lip was paled ; 
 
 Till the peasant s heart grew fearful, and the shep 
 herd s stout arm failed. 
 Then from out the Swiss ranks stepping, high above 
 
 the tumult called, 
 He, the Knight de Winkelried, Arnold, pride of Under- 
 
 wald : 
 " Yield not, dear and faithful allies ! stay, for / your 
 
 way will make! 
 
 Care you for the wife and children, for your old com 
 panion s sake ; 
 
 Follow now, and strike for freedom, God, and Switzer 
 land ! " he cried ; 
 
 Full against the close ranks rushing, with his arms ex 
 tended wide, 
 
ARNOLD DE WINKELRIED. 183 
 
 Caught, and to his bosom gathered, the sharp lances of 
 
 the foe ! 
 Then, as roll the avalanches down from wilds of Alpine 
 
 snow, 
 Through the breach, on rolled the Switzers, overthrew 
 
 the mail-clad ranks, 
 Smote, as smote their shepherd fathers, on Algeri s 
 
 marshy banks ! 
 Everywhere the Austrian nobles, serfs, and hirelings 
 
 turned in flight, 
 Soon was seen the royal standard wavering, falling in 
 
 the fight ; 
 T was the Duke himself upraised it, and its bloody 
 
 folds outspread, 
 Waved it, till his guard of barons all went down among 
 
 the dead ; 
 
 Then, amid the battle plunging, bravely bore the war 
 rior s part, 
 Till the long pike of a Switzer cleft in twain his tyrant 
 
 heart ! 
 
 With their souls a thirst for vengeance, through dark 
 gorge and rocky glen, B 
 
 On the footsteps of the flying, hot pursued the moun 
 tain men, 
 
184 ARNOLD DE WINKELR1EI). 
 
 Smiting down the bold invaders, till the ground for 
 many a rood, 
 
 Eound about that town beleaguered, was afloat with 
 Austrian blood. 
 
 Then arose their shouts of triumph up amid the shad 
 owy even, 
 
 Loud rejoicings, fierce exultings, storming at the gates 
 of heaven, 
 
 Till a thousand mountain echoes rendered back the 
 mighty cries, 
 
 With the sound of earth s contention making tumult 
 in the skies. 
 
 But amid the rush of battle, or the victor s proud ar 
 ray, 
 
 Came the saviour of Helvetia ? came the hero of the 
 day? 
 
 Prone along the wet turf lay he, with the lances he had 
 grasped, 
 
 All his valor s deadly trophies still against his brave 
 heart clasped ! 
 
 Feeling not the tempest-surging, hearing not the roar 
 of strife, 
 
 With the red rents in his bosom, and his young eye 
 closed on life. 
 
ARNOLD DE WINKELRIED. 185 
 
 And when thus his comrades found him, there was 
 
 triumph in their tears, 
 He had gathered glory s harvest in that bloody sheaf of 
 
 spears. 
 
 Lo, it is an ancient story, and, as through the shades of 
 night, 
 
 We are gazing through dim ages, on that fierce, un 
 equal fight ; 
 
 But the darkness is illumined by one grand, heroic deed, 
 
 And we hear the shout of Arnold, and \ve see his great 
 heart bleed ! 
 
 Yet to-day, O hero-martyr, does the Switzer guard thy 
 
 name, 
 And to-day thy glorious legend touches all his heart 
 
 with flame ; 
 And with reverence meek and careful still he hands 
 
 thy memory down, 
 By the chapel in the mountains, and the statue in the 
 
 town. 
 
 Take thou courage, struggling spirit ! Thus, upon life s 
 
 battle-plain, 
 God for all his heroes careth, and they cannot fall in 
 
 vain ! 
 
186 ARNOLD DE WINKELRIED. 
 
 Arid of heaven for ever blessed shall the soul heroic be 
 
 Who, oppression s close ranks breaking, makes a path 
 way for the free ; 
 
 Though his faithful breast receiveth the sharp lances of 
 the foe, 
 
 God, the God of freedom, counteth all the life-drops as 
 they flow ! 
 
 He shall have the tears of millions, and the homage of 
 the brave, 
 
 He shall have immortal crownings, and the world shall 
 keep his grave. 
 
187 
 
 L ENVOI. 
 
 I KNOW these lays will come to thee 
 
 Like flowers along thy pathway strown, 
 
 And wear, to thy young, generous eyes, 
 A grace arid beauty not their own. 
 
 Thou know st they spring where deepest shade 
 And blinding sunlight are at strife, 
 
 Faint blooms and frail, yet bearing thee 
 Sweet breathings from my inmost life. 
 
 Or come like waters, leaping out 
 From shadowy places to the day, 
 
 To catch heaven s brightness on their waves, 
 And freshen earth along their way. 
 
188 L ENVOI. 
 
 A streamlet laughing in the sun 
 
 Is afl a busy world may hear, 
 The deepest fountains of my soul 
 
 Send up their murmurs to thine ear. 
 
 There are to whom these lays shall come, 
 Like strains that skylarks downward send ; 
 
 But, ah, no higher than thy heart 
 They sing to thee, beloved friend ! 
 
 For in thy manhood pure and strong, 
 
 With thy great soul, thy fresh young heart, 
 
 Thou livest my ideal life, 
 
 And what I only dream, thou art. 
 
 The Grecian youth whose name thou bear st, 
 
 Who nightly with the billows strove, 
 And through the wild seas cleaved his way 
 
 To the dear bosom of his love, 
 
 Ne er bore a braver soul than thine, 
 
 When yawned great deeps, and storm-clouds frowned, 
 Nor lifted up, amid the waves, 
 
 A brow with loftier beauty crowned. 
 
L ENVOI. 189 
 
 The poet s rare and wondrous gifts 
 In thee await their triumph-hour, 
 
 There sleep within thy dreamy eyes 
 The mighty secrets of his power. 
 
 Thy heart with one high throb can rise 
 
 His fair, heroic dreams above, 
 There breathes more passion in thy voice 
 
 Than in a thousand lays of love. 
 
 Ah, know st thou not the while thou deem st 
 
 The poet s mission most divine, 
 Life s grand, unwritten poetry 
 
 Goes out from natures such as thine ? 
 
 What though it falleth brokenly 
 And faintly on the world s dull ear, 
 
 Though clamorous voices cry it down, 
 To God it rises, pure and clear ! 
 
 It cometh as a service glad, 
 
 A music all as full and sweet 
 As though the stars hymned forth their joy, 
 
 And rolled their anthems to His feet. 
 
190 
 
 When, like the Grecian youth, thou seest 
 The midnight tempests gather round, 
 
 When storm-clouds seern to flood the heavens, 
 And all the starry lights are drowned, 
 
 
 
 Upborne by angel-hands, mayst thou 
 
 Through life s wild sea right onward sweep, 
 
 To where Hope s signal lights the night, 
 And Love stands watching by the deep ! 
 
 THE END. 
 

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