I UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNI Accessions No. CA/ss No. .!&& L913 THE OLIVE AND THE PINE THE OLIVE AND THE PINE BY MARTHA PERRY LOWE AUTHOR OF " I.OVE IN SPAIN," " CHIEF JOSEPH," " BF.SSIE GKHY," ETC. " Two lands before them passed In strange and faire contrast " croitb TJFIVBRSIT7 BOSTON D. LOTHROP COMPANY 893 Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1893, by MARTHA PERRY LOWE In the Clerk s Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts PS 22 9? L , M/f/V TO CHARLES LOWE THIS BOOK IS INSCRIBED C O N T E N T S . PART I. SPAIN. Page To THE OLD CASTILIAN KNIGHT 3 JOURNEY IN A SPANISH DILIGENCE 5 A SONG OF THE SUN THE ESCOUIAL THE VIUGIN OF MUKILLO THE Two PICTURES 14 THE MOORISH WELL 19 CAROLINA CORONADO 21 BOABDIL 23 WHAT THE ANDALUSIAN GUITAR SAYS 27 THE BULL-FIGHT 30 MALAGA, THE REST 35 HUSBAND AND WIFE 37 JEALOUS 41 FORSAKEN .43 ALDONZA, THE YOUNG SINGER 45 MARCELA 53 THE MAJO RIBKRA S PICTUKE OF AN OLD MONK Vlii CONTENTS. THE ORGAN-PLAYER ......... . ....... 61 VALENCIA .............. ....... 63 THE STEAM-ENGINE IN MAD KID ............. 64 To WASHINGTON IRVING . ............ 66 PART II. NEW ENGLAND. THE ROAD OVER THE HILLS 71 THE OCEAN AT BEVERLY 75 THE PICNIC 76 THE GERMAN LESSON 84 THE FORESHADOWING or SPRING 89 THE BROKEN HOME 91 AN AUTUMN WALK 97 QUILTING AND HUSKING 99 THE NORTHERN LIGHTS 112 WAITING FOR DEATH .114 SIMPLICITY .118 THE SPIRIT OF AUTUMN .120 SUNDAY 124 " THE SILENT WAY " 126 THE OLD FARMHOUSE .128 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. THE WEDDING PRESENTS 135 TIME, THE HEALER .149 THE ALPS 151 SCHEFFER S PICTURE OF DANTE AND BEATRICE 153 CHARLOTTE BRONTE .155 ToC .156 prt I. SPAIN Entrotiucttotu TO THE OLD CASTILIAN KNIGHT. HAUGHTY soul of bravest story, Gallant heart of olden glory, Loyal breast through ages hoary, Scorn thou not What I have brought. If I rashly dare to trace Scenes thy footsteps once did grace, I, an alien to thy race, Pardon my Temerity. Touch my verses with the fire Burning in thee, so my lyre May some listening hearts inspire Unto thy Old chivalry. PART I. SPAIN. Scatter down upon my way The aroma fine which lay Round tliee from the earliest day, - Richest bloom Of rare perfume ! Thy untaught simplicity, Studying the fair and high With no braggart, carping eye, Ever be Bequeathed to me ! With the earnestness that brought Sanctity to every thought, From the Heavenly Lady caught, Shedding bright Celestial light ; And the reverence which o er All the world did kneel, adore ; Worshipping in awe before God above, The highest love. JOURNEY IN A SPANISH DILIGKNCK. JOURNEY IN A SPANISH DILIGENCE. WE journeyed on, o er hill and plain, From night till morn, from morn till night : Ah! who could sleep? Before the sight She brought such pictures, strange old Spain !. The olives, dark and lonely, stand In dots of verdure o er the land, And watch the weary sentinel Apace the melancholy road, Who scorns yon lowering cave, abode Most dear to robbers heart, they tell : The mule-bells jingle on the air, Impatient of the stillness there. The master sleeps, or else is singing A song which sounds like love, I say, Did it not grow at once so gay ; With reckless daring now tis ringing ! PART I. SPAIN. And all night long he singeth so ; I strive to catch the note, but no : From thoughtless Spain it should not go ; For us it is too idly sad, For us it is too wildly glad ! The morning dawns in mountains chill : I ne er again my breath shall draw Mid such deep loneliness and awe, The awe of ages on the spot ! No calm that doth our forests fill, All hushed in work ! it is the thought Of what has been that makes them still ! The stern old fortress peereth down For ambushed foe ; she hath forgot How well she did her work, I wot. There is no Moor to see her frown ! But old age peaceful cannot now Smooth out the wrinkles on her brow. The mellow sun is sinking low : This hour the good earth tenderer seems. And full of poesy to grow, While we are softening into dreams. JOURNEY IN A SPANISH DILIGENCE. We ride up to a walled town Upon a rock, and pass through gates All hoar with time ; yet in them waits No seer in wisdom s grave renown : The young sit all day round the walk Of orange-trees, and idly talk. "We enter fair Sevilla, dimmed In blinding showers ; yet, on the morrow, We know the rain but mocked at sorrow : We know she sits, with flowers betrimmed. Amid her light guitars for aye, In gay and glad festivity. PART I. SPAIN. A SONG OF THE SUN. SEVILLE. THE Sun, how it glowetb, all day gloweth down, On the gray of thy turrets, O wonderful town ! Sweet Seville, thou rt riper and fairer to see, As the ages do touch but to beautify thee : Sitting there in the sunlight, for centuries dreaming, How mellow thou growest, as on thee tis beaming ! It shines in the face of the beggar who lies Upturning his brow to the bountiful skies ; And darker and darker and richer it grows, His locks clinging round it in matted repose : What cares he, as by him the grander world goes ? Far harder than he they are working, he knows. Ah, no ! tis not working that maketh him brown : The Sun ! tis the Sun looking steadfastly down ! It feedeth the Spaniard in soul and in sense ; Yes, he ll not be drudging to lay up his pence. Let him lie in his ragged magnificence, Till, spell-bound, the artist shall bring him from thence ! A SONG OF THE SUN. The Sun looketh in on the dark myrtle-bowers Of courts that are sweet with the white orange-flowers, And golden doth lie on her deep-tinted cheek Who there at the bars with her lover doth speak. The bars shut him from her ; but he can look through As well as the Sun, and can touch her cheek too. Her soft eyes are glowing as evening in June ; And his they are burning like tropical noon : Tis the Sun that is setting on fire the heart ! What cooleth where enters his swift-glowing dart? Go, rein in his coursers, if here thou wouldst school The Child of the South by the Northerner s rule ! Now see the rays dance on the gay Guadalquivir ! Along the far plain she s a lonely, sad river, Where shadows of memory brood over her waves, As, weary, the desolate Vega she laves ; But here, in dear Seville, she learns to forget, And smileth in all her young radiance yet ! For all the long day, amid jasmine and roses And gay promenades, she in beauty reposes ; While fast crowds are floating as butterflies bright, Or watching the play of the ripples and light, And orange-groves follow her far on her way Adowri to the sea and to fair Cadiz Bay. 10 PART I. SPAIN. Then streams it aslant the Giralda, the tower Of the sorrowful Moor, at the soft vesper hour. Look ! fairest old traceries start to the light: The loiterer standeth amazed at the sight ! So Poesy s glance ever bringeth out plain The Past s finer etchings to daylight again. Behold, how it dareth to enter the vast, The sacred, the holy Cathedral at last ! All mellow, subdued in the window, it lies Insnared in the maze of those wonderful dyes, Subliming the colors until they arise, And float like the souls whom the Lord glorifies. The Sun, how it gloweth, all day gloweth down, On the gray of thy turrets, O wonderful town ! Sweet Seville, thou rt riper and fairer to see, As the ages do touch but to beautify thee : Sitting there in the sunlight, for centuries dreaming, How mellow thou growest, as on thee tis beaming ! THE ESCORIAL. 11 THE ESCORIAL. I LOVE the solemn awe that broods around This spot, so wondrous in its solitude : Tis grave, e en as the ancient faith that walked In high austerity throughout the land ; Tis still, as if the many hundred monks Who lie beneath my feet had e en but now To Mary said their prayer, and, one by one, Crept down below unto their rest in death ; Tis cold and calm as was the iron front Of him, its king, who built him here a house, Where, with his bosom-friend Remorse, he came, And, in her dread companionship, grew pale With looking on the blackness of his soul, And pondering how best to meet his God ; Tis awful, with its royal dead, who lie In chill magnificence. The mountains gray, Wherein the Escorial sits, breathe o er her like Ascetics rude. The very hedgerows dare 12 PART I. SPAIN. Not seek in graceful longing the glad sky ; But their young shoots are disciplined unto A goodly sanctity. But, ah ! behold The pages of the ancient manuscripts, With History s morning twilight, gold and red ! We of the more advancing day have paled The horizon of our books, as of our lives ; And in the broad, clear beams of Learning s sun, We know not the old age s intensity. The streaks of opening glory then burned in A deeper coloring to all her thought. Poor Philip ! I can see thee now, within The narrow room near by the chapel, where, Midst all thy mortal pains, thy gaze was fixed Upon the altar, while thy dying "bed Was quivering in the mighty organ s roll. Thy worship s pageantry moved daily o er Thy glazing eye : like him who walks the night In dreams, thou seeing wert, and seeing not. Ah ! better he, the pure in heart, who makes His bed beneath the open dome of stars, And seeth God, the great High Priest, perform The ritual of the world, and, on the voice Of answering Nature, passeth unto heaven ! THE VIRGIN OF MURILLO. 13 THE VIRGIN OF MURILLO. BEHOLD her floating radiant on the air ! The laughing cherubs in her lustre play, Fanned by the waving of her golden hair, And mantle blue, the robe of purity. She wears a look of holy, sweet surprise, Remembering all the words the angel said ; She thinketh of her Son with smiling eyes, Nor dreameth of that coming hour so dread ! - So fair, celestial in her innocence ! And yet she s.tood on earth beneath the Tree, And saw Him lifted up, until from thence Dear John, beloved, bore her reverently, Calming her tears away upon his breast, And bade her in his home for ever rest. 14 PART I. SPAIN. THE TWO PICTURES. THE WESTERN HUNTER, AND THE SPANISH MONK. I. THERE are two pictures on my wall ; And, when on them my eye doth fall, I marvel that they side by side Should be, and yet apart so wide. One imageth that wild young land Where roams the grim beast with his band, And shakes the forests with his cry Of most exultant liberty ; The endless waste of waters, where The lone bird screecheth through the air In Nature s ear, who sits all day, And lets her children have their way. For she, amidst the din, can hear The distant, tramping feet draw near Of generations who will crush Them down, and all their gambols hush ; THE TWO PICTURES. 15 E en as the mother calm doth smile On her wild brood, and muse the while How sure thick-coming cares will quell Ere long the o er-leaping heart too well. A rider bursts upon this rude, Untutored realm of solitude, And bids his steed with boldness break His way through yonder treacherous lake. It is the fierce-eyed Western rover, With gun and horse for friend and lover : Ah ! little dreams he his last bed Is making neath that horse s tread ! His horse looks in the quiet stream ; He s looking in red eyes that gleam : His horse feels but the cooling rushes ; He feels the hot blood come in flushes. Defiant, turning, look at him ! He sits, and glares upon a grim And hungry beast. He stills his breath ; Is all alive to keep off death ! 16 PART I. SPAIN. Methinks I see the monster spring Upon him as he sits a king, And pull him from his breathing throne, Where, Centaur-like, he moved alone, And proud surveyed the wilderness, Pull him beneath the deep abyss Of waters; grappling, hide him there, Mid weeds and tangles in his hair ! II. I leave the panting Present now With noonday sweat upon her brow : The Past doth steal, with hazy eye, Like twilight, on my company. In ancient Spain, where oft amid The tombs sweet-faced Religion hid, Though radiant angels found her out E en there, and came and hung about, Yon cell beholds a monk in prayer, While heavenly eyes are watching there : His locks as streaks of light are flowing, A silver halo o er him throwing, THE TWO PICTURES. 17 Caught from the blest, whose faces shine, So saith the Lord, with looks divine ; And light their Father s kingdom bright, E en as the sun, and know not night. Ah ! he is not afraid of Death ! " Come near, that I may feel," he saith, " How gaunt thou art." Yes, let Death shake His loosening bones : he will not quake. He is with him so well acquaint, That when, at length, the gentle saint Feels that cold hand upon his brow, And hears him whisper, " Thy turn now ! " " Friend, I ve been looking out for thee," He ll say ; then take up quietly His little cross, and rise and go With him so meekly, that I know, Grim Death will stagger back, and store On him amazed : " Ah ! few do dare To call me friend : thou robbest me, Old man ! of all my cruelty." 2 18 PART I. SPAIN. Now in those bony arms he ll rest As sweet as on his mother s breast ; While lights play beauteous o er his eyes, Flickering from opening Paradise. THE MOORISH WELL. 19 THE MOORISH WELL. How cold, how crisping, and how sweet ! The traveller climbs, with languid feet, The fair Alhambra crowned hill : The eager water, calm and still, In crystal quiet deftly lies To charm him with a quick surprise. He comes, he grasps in ardent haste The draught, and long and deep doth taste It startles him with joyance clear, Like silver bells a-sounding near ; So keen, so laughter-like, so springing, Through all his being it is ringing. It cutteth swift through every vein, Like sudden castanets again, Which in and out do run and patter About the ear with gentle clatter : His soul is dancing down and up Unto the music of the cup. .< 0? THR ^, |tJIU7BRSIT7} 20 PART I. SPAIN. But list ! a showery vision light Sparkles in grace before his sight : A dark-browed Moorish creature there ! The fountains tangle in her hair ; From out her eyes in jets they ray, In curves around her mouth they play. " Christian ! know that thou dost sip From out the well that cooled my lip, When, in a raging, burning thirst, A faithless Spanish knight I cursed ; Ay, cursed the Holy Virgin even, By whom he swore to me and Heaven ! " He of the Cross, in stern amaze, Came down before my trembling gaze : * Blasphemest thou the Mother, she Who stood by me on Calvary ? For this shalt thou insnared lie Below to all eternity ! " She sank beneath the earth in spray, Doomed to linger there for aye, And pour her life out to the fount : The stranger feels his blood remount, And well up high with drops that start Fresh from a Moslem maiden s heart ! CAROLINA CORONADO. 21 CAROLINA CORONADO, POETESS OF SPAIN. THE walls of Badajoz looked down Upon a gifted maid, who rose Within that old, beleaguered town, And startled Spain from her repose. Her eyes were beaming with the fire Of poet youth beneath her dark And shining locks. She struck her lyre ; And, lo ! the land of Spain did hark. She calmed her deep, impassioned breast With love to all the solitudes, And hid beside the wild-bird s nest Her verses in the rocks and woods. She hung enraptured on the sweet Young meadow rose, and lingered near The turtle-dove, who did repeat " Love, love," for ever in her ear. 22 PART I. SPAIN. Unto the Stars she told her tale, Weeping her tears melodiously At evening with the Nightingale, Or with the Palm communing high. Her genius moved not straight within The pruned walks of classic time, But ran abroad, and revelled in New laws that rose from out her rhyme. She poured a tide of passion through The sordid flats of Life s dull sea ; And, last, she dared to speak unto Her nation that word Liberty ! Yes, she the fearless girl did make The slavish priesthood tremble at The burning words of truth she spake, And poets at her footstool sat. At length the laurel wreath they set Upon her in the royal dome ; But most she loves the coronet Of wife and mother in her home ! BOABD1L. 23 B A B D I L. THE LAST SIGH OF THE MOOR." * BEHOLD him bowed upon the little hill, That sits in meekness all the day, forlorn, Beneath the proud Alhambra s fiery eye, Who speaketh from her height in palest scorn : " Ay, keep him fair-haired, silken hero, made Of pensive moonbeams and the whispering breeze ! Ay, keep him of the blue eyes, so afraid To guard my towers, who skulks through yonder trees ! " Receive his sighs upon your nursing breast, Tis softer than my bosom, sweeter bed : He loves the cooling grass, the wooing rest, More than the flashing fire around my head. * " Last Sigh of the Moor," the name of the little hill where Boabdil retired, and mourned for the Alhambra. 24 PART I. SPAIN. u Ah ! sing a song of love to make him sleep Among your coverts, so he may not hear The booming thunder bid him not to weep * Tis sweeter than his sighing to my ear ! " And let your gentlest airs a languid haze Breathe o er him, that he may not see the smoke That gathers round my throat, nor mark the blaze That flashes on my face as lightning stroke. " Hark ! hear I not, mid clanging hosts that move, My King, who bids me, as some lady s lyre, A fond farewell ? Peace ! peace ! no words of love, Boabdil, since thou hast no deeds of fire ! " THE KING. * O thou Alhambra, beautiful and bright, Who sat st serene amid the stars and sun, Gazing in high repose, at morn and night, O er all the world, adieu, thou glorious One ! " O mighty arm, that held in glory through The rolling years the heroes safe and well ; And breasted back the flaming darts that flew Anigh their lofty hearts invincible ; BOABDIL. 25 " And swept the blackening, deadly hail away, So it could shatter not one beauteous form ; And laughed, in exultation proud and gay, To see their locks untouched amid the storm ! " Thou paradise, exceeding beautiful, Wherein the lovely eyes have darkly glanced Among the rapturous fountains sleeping cool, That sprang to hear their footsteps light, and danced ! " No more the maids shall lie within thy doors, Beneath the whiteness of thy silvery walls. While their black tresses sweep along the floors Mid gold and blue that gleam from Afric s halls ! " I will not stay with thee ! by Allah, no ! Since I an arm of help no more can reach : I will not see thee midst a glaring foe, Nor hear the pompous Christian s rolling speech ! " Alhambra ! glory of my soul ! my love ! Forget not him who turns away his face : He, for thy sake, with bleeding heart must rove Without a land, a home, a resting-place ! 26 PART I. SPAIN. Farewell ! and guard thou sweet Granada, while, The Crescent sinking pale upon her crest, Thy King hath ceased in dreams of thee to smile, And laid him down to deep, unbroken rest ! " She trembled when she heard his words, the great, Fair Lady, watching him afar with sighs And looks of love, until the film that sate Around her forehead dimmed her eagle eyes. And then she roused herself again to meet The grappling of the Spanish men : they prest On her for Christ and victory, sure and sweet : At morn the eternal Cross was on her breast ! WHAT THE ANDALUSIAN GUITAR SAYS. RING, ring, ring, ring, Merry, merry Castanet ! Sing, sing, sing, sing, Maiden, with your eyes of jet ! Clickety clack, clickety clack, Anda, anda ! forward and back ! Hear me humming, humming, humming! Hear me tumming, tumming, tumming ! Life it is precious and fair and sweet ; Death it is dark, and the grave ye meet : Gather the moments ! quick ! they are flying ; Gather the sunbeams ! see ! they are dying. Fading, fading, fading away, Tum-a-lum, lum, Ting-a-ling, ling : Faster, faster, faster, I play ; Whirling and twirling, I ll keep ye for aye ! 28 PART I. SPAIN. The priest let him stare ; And what do ye care ? I ll buzz in his ear A tune he shall hear, That will drown all his aves and long pater-noster, And worry the old monk who sits in his cloister. But, ah ! in my song, If you list to it long, There are strains that do rove Through the shadows of love, With sobbing pulsation And throbbing vibration, That wake in the spirit a swift perturbation. How silver the moonlight, how gracious the breeze, Looking into the lattice, at play in the trees ! Ah ! love is the radiant charmer of night, That whispers untroubled the hopes of the light, And lingers in full-breathing ecstasy sweet, Or parts all tumultuous, never to meet ! sorrowful, sorrowful children of earth ! 1 weep for ye wildly, weep over your birth ; I sigh out the pains that are rending your breast ; I sing of the hearts that have entered their rest, Divided no more in the land of the blest ! THE ANDALUSIAN GUITAR. 29 But hush, my complain, Begone with this strain ! D Dear Love ! he is weeping ; The moonbeams are creeping, And mournfulest cadence your footsteps are keeping. Up, up ! the Bolero moves tardily on : Away with the breaking of hearts that are gone ! Fly on to the maze of advance and retreat, And slide through the air with your rapturous feet ! 30 PART I. SPAIN. THE BULL-FIGHT. SEE wave on wave arise Of swaying human heads, And flashing, coal-black eyes, And fluttering fan that spreads Around the costly scent From glossy, woven braids, With gold and crimson blent Of thousand Spanish maids ! The Infanta towereth high, In gleam of jewels hid ! Of fair nobility She crowns the pyramid. The princely children sit Around with chattering glee : Their cheeks blench not a whit At thought of what s to be ! THE BULL-FIGHT. 31 Bu.t, hark ! the trumpets sound ; The Bull is in the ring ; The goaders stand around, The red, red cloth they fling : It blazes on his brain ! He runneth wild about, To tear the thing in twain. Come, Picador ! come out ! The Bull drives on in wrath, When, lo ! a sudden thrust Doth send a crimson path Streaking along the dust ! Now springs he on the foe : A dainty man is he, With airy dress, and show Of gentler revelry. His horse doth shake in all His sinews mightily. Not so the rider small ; With calm and glittering eye, He meets that plunging head That sets itself for fight, With shock of lance so dread, It swoons in dizzy sight. 32 PART I. SPAIN. The monster sickens fast ; He will riot rouse again : Yes, yes ! the swoon is past ! He rallies from his pain ; Pie gives a sidelong sweep, And whelms the horse in death, Lashing, as doth the deep The drowning sailor s breath. The Picador is down As lightning from his seat, And leaves the Bull alone, The dead horse at his feet. Look, look ! the Matador ! He kneels before the court, And humbly craveth for Their grace to end the sport. The royal will he learns, A gracious boon it is ; And gratefully he turns To meet the Bull, I wis ! O Matador ! thou must Put up thy sword from sight, Nor give a single thrust, Till he begins the fight. THE BULL-FIGHT. What stillness noAV doth reign O er all the gazing mass ! Before his crowded brain A thousand ages pass ! Eternally he lies Beneath that goring head ; Eternally he dies, With sudden tossings dread ! One second stands he still ; One leap the great Bull makes Then with such steady will His mortal aim he takes, The weapon darteth straight Betwixt the neck and breast, And sitteth there in state, In sheath of purple drest ! With what a mighty fall The monster sinks to earth ! " Bravo ! " the myriads call, With trumpets clanging mirth. The mules, bespangled bright, Trot in the arena s bound, And drag him out of sight, Low on the abased ground. 34 PART I. SPAIN. Go, fair Infanta, dream Of bloody death to-day! Thy little children seem To see it when they pray. And, lo ! the nations far Do point, with warning hand, To yonder stains that are Upon thy native land ! MALAGA, MALAGA, THE REST. MALAGA, thou noiseless haven sweet, Offering thy blessed, kind retreat Gently to the weary, languid feet ! How thou drawest thy blue curtain there. Shutting from the wildered eye the glare, And the cold and chilling northern air ! Golden is the lamp which thou dost trim : Never for the sufferer is it dim ; Shedding mellow, pensive light on him. Beautiful, caressing, airy room ! Castles on thy sky for pictures loom, Cheering oft his spirit s sickly gloom ; Stretching out, as flowing tapestry, Yonder rainbow-tinted, velvet sea, Folding round his footsteps coolingly ! 30 PART I. SPAIN. Hush ! how still the air around his rest, Smoothing down the ripples in his breast, Where the swift disturber, Pain, hath prest ! They are waiting in thy beauteous hall, When the flowers open, when they fall ; Waiting for one lovely presence, all. And perchance she comes with dimpled cheek, Roses blushing soft when she doth speak, Bounding rapturous to the sufferer meek. Ah ! she oftener steals anear with eye Pitiful ; then turns her silently, Shakes her head, and says a kind good-by. HUSBAND AND WIFE. HUSBAND AND WIFE. FROM ENGLAND TO MALAGA. THEY sat together there so still, She, calm and holy, moist-eyed dove ; He, keen and restless, strong of will, Made soft and tender now by love : Her being strengthened in its beams ; His melted in o erflowing streams. He came from far, with heart o erleaping, The miles so long, the hours so creeping, Oft chafing to himself; but then A thought came to him suddenly : " God ! " said he, " should I never see Her large eyes look in mine again, Nor feel her fingers laid on me, How restful were this weariness ! How sweet such idle pain as this ! : 38 PART I. SPAIN. But she did smile again on him. He thought upon that vision grim That broke so sharp on his complaining, So quick his fretful tongue restraining ; And laughed to see the phantom dim Before her lustrous gaze was waning : " Twas false ! " he cried defiantly. But, when he saw her earnest eye, He seized the folding of her gown, And kissed it while the tears fell down. She did not ask him why he took Her dress so wild, what made him look Again so humble and so meek. She knew : then wherefore bid him speak ? Watch o er his soul she oft had kept, And laid its strangest workings by, Within her dear, fond memory ; But most the changing clouds that swept O er his fair heaven of love ; and, though They marred its deep sereneness so, She thought they did but touch it new With varying and changing hue, Leaving a deeper, brighter glow. Fond, blessed hearts, that stirred by turns, And calmed each other s bosoms so, HUSBAND AND WIFE. Cooling the daily fever-burns, Why should they not together go Upon the lone and darksome sea That stretches to Eternity ? His tender, fragile bird could he Bear see her spread herself alone ? Her wild and fevered mate would she Leave him to flutter here, and moan ? Could she contented rest her wings Beneath the Tree of Life on high, When on his prison-bar he springs, And falls down chill, despairingly ? The Sabbath sun was sinking low, And she arose, and touched some chords Of music sweet, and sang these words : " The Lord my Shepherd is ; and, though Along the vale of death I go, I will not shrink, nor be afraid To meet alone the dreadful shade ! " Then went she back unto him there. His head upon his hands did rest : She laid them softly on her hair, As if she came to be caressed. And, as they sat so still and dreamed, An angel took the harp, it seemed, 40 PART I. SPAIN. And sang: " Ah, children, who abide On mortal earth, and love and fear ! Rest ye in peace. God will provide A way to part ye gently here. If love s dear flame doth temper right Your souls, and burn them pure and white, So kind he ll still the precious breath, Ye ll stand in wondering peace by Death." JEALOUS. 41 JEALOUS. DOLORES ! dost thou love him ? say ! No ! silence, girl ! for thee I hate ! I saw him look at thee to-day : Was it for that he came so late ? I saw thee moving on the walk, Nor ever stirred thy treacherous eye : How sweetly he with me did talk ! Yet felt he not thy passing-by ? A curse be on thy ankles light, To trip thee in thy fair design ! A thousand plagues descend, and write Their mark upon that cheek of thine ! He said that I was handsome too ! He said my eyes were wondrous bright ; That he could see them flashing through The very deepest, deepest night ! 42 PART I. SPAIN. They ll flash throughout this night of pain, I tell thee, girl ! if this be so ; And cut thy purposes in twain, And burn thee, ere from life I go ! But thou art soft and sweet and still ; Dost lure him with a single thought: He will obey thy secret will, And think that thou commandest not. Thy pretty hands are small and white : A dagger did they ever hold ? It looketh clear and smooth and bright ; But, ah ! it feels so very cold ! Thou wilt be colder yet to see How warm the place to which it darts ; Paler, to look at him and ine, With blood avenging both our hearts ! FORSAKEN. 43 FORSAKEN. DOLORES ! dost thou weep ? Speak it again to me ! Or did I dream in sleep, That what I said to thee Thou sworest to forget ? For Jesu s blessed sake, Thou wilt the promise make ! Ah, yes ! thine eyes are wet ! And I was dreaming, child ; So hard thou wouldst not be ! The vision s made me wild ; But now my soul is free. Blood, blood, was on my heart ! I dreamed ! but God was kind : He held me, mad and blind ! Speak, speak, ere 1 depart ! Is it not true, to-night Lorenzo s pulses beat ? He sees the blessed light, The grass beneath his feet ? 44 PART I. SPAIN. I loved him, ob, twas bliss ! No more, no more, of this ! Away ! I enter where ^fo passion stains the air ! Love ! cruel was thy blow ; But now the weight of sin From off my soul doth go ; My breast is calm within. Sweet Virgin Mother ! hold The hearts of lovers here : When they are growing cold, Blest Mother ! be thou near, And still the raging tide Of burning grief and pride ! Jesu ! my pain, my sin, Take all upon thy cross. The world to me is dross : Oh ! let me enter in, And hide beneath thy name My poverty and shame ! Sweet Mother ! Death is here ! Where am I ? Come ! I fear ! Wipe off this heavy sweat, and stay, And lead me ; for tis dark upon the way. ALDONZA. 45 ALDOXZA, THE YOUNG SINGER. SHE sat beneath the swaying Palm That whispered Eastern memories ; While, in its every wave, the balm Of old perfumed lays did rise. She walked at early morning light, And toned the glistening lyre of youth ; Then sat serene at pensive night, And sang her songs of love and truth. She saw the shepherd moving by, And followed him, the lambs among : He went his way all silently, Nor wondered at her prattling tongue ; While she took up each tender thing, And held it on her sheltering arm, Or fondest praises oft would sing And press it to her bosom warm Of the sweet Lamb of Innocence, Within the church not far from thence, 46 PART I. SPAIN. Who sitteth on his Mother s knee To light the altar wondrously. The little red moon, hiding by Nevada s steep, she questioned free And fearlessly, and wondered why Twas blushing deep and angry then ; And why so calm and pale again Through all the night, as though a thought Of restless passion touched it not. To gather flowers she would stop, The scarlet corn-flower and the bright Fair gold and purple asters drop "Within her lap, and amaranths white. She thought them robed in Paradise, And deemed they left with their wet eyes The radiant, flowery band so sweet, Who round the Virgin s skirts do cling, And lay themselves around her feet, Again with freshening looks to fall Beneath her step ethereal. She was a woman : they drew nigh To mark her deep, poetic eye, Her beauty and benignity, ALDONZA. 47 Where er her gentle footsteps moved ; And, ah ! she loved, and, ah ! she loved, And felt the sweet and bitter fears That come with love, and wept the tears And heard the beating never cease Of doubt and hope and pain and peace, And last despair, the bitterest ; For he was false unto her heart. He struck a pain unto the breast Which he had sheltered and caressed ; He sent a quick and sudden smart Upon a gentle soul s delight, Then fled for ever from her sight ! She was a woman, ay, indeed ! And she was ready, at his need, To lay aside her fancy s wings, Her lovely, fair imaginings, Forget her songs, and slight the powers Which used to fire her radiant hours ; Accepting but the joy to bring To him her faithful ministering, And walk the simple way of earth, Like those of poor and lowliest worth, And love and serve, the highest heaven And humblest to a woman given ! 48 PART I. SPAIN. She would have laid beneath his feet Her lyre, with but a lullaby For ever sounding clear and sweet A low, deep song of constancy ! No ! he Avas faithless, that alone The world might have her for its own. Where was she now, bewildered one ? Gone was her singing heart, and gone Her heart of love. The singing she Had cast aside for loving : he, The lover, had despoiled her breast First of its young, poetic rest, Then of its sweet disquietude ; And left a weary, empty pain To fill her spirit s solitude. The songs they would not come again, Nor drown the ceaseless, ceaseless ring Of Love s still footsteps echoing ! . She roamed in pitiful young grief, Weeping her fond and vain belief; Then sat in stillest apathy : And so the changeless days went by. But once, as she was wandering slow Betwixt the spirit s storm and lull, ALDONZA. Her heart not heaving too and fro, Nor lying tranquilly and full, She saw the Virgin, heavenly eyed, Gathering, in meadows by her side, , The whitest amaranths that e er Grew starry on this brown earth drear ; And with the white her golden hair Gleamed out in blinding radiance there. Aldonza sank upon her knee, And bowed her head ; but presently She felt cool hands upon her laid, Like sacred streams from Olivet, Laving her quiet locks of jet : It was it was the holy Maid ! She knew the amaranth as it wound About her temples, and around She felt a glory, ah ! so nigh ! She dared not look ; but silently She prayed : when rose she from the ground, The radiant lady was not there ; The wreath had melted in her hair. So she took up her lyre again, And sang, ah ! how divinely then ! Until they, one by one, broke forth, Children of this distracted earth, 4 49 PART I. SPAIN. From thickening press of cares and sighs, Or smoother bond of gayeties, To hear her songs. The sweetest sadness, The purest and the soberest gladness, That ever came from lips so young, Fell on them as Aldonza sung. For Love had left its fulness deep, Nor sorrow s presence dark could sweep The gracious impress of that tread Away Love s footstep vanished ! Yet him she named not, breathed not mong Her lays : there silent was her tongue. He was beloved of her, not sung. But all the springs, so pure and sweet, That Love unseals, when souls do meet It sacredly, bedewed her song. She sang of truth, nobility ; Of loftiness and courage strong ; Of goodness and of charity ; And of the Cross, consoler deep, With gentlest tears for eyes that weep ; And of our sins and fears, with grace Of hope and patience on her face. The young men bowed, in kindling awe, Around her ; and the maids would draw ALDONZA. 51 Anear, and kiss her robe, the while : The old would pass her by, and smile, And say the saints to her had given Some benediction fresh from heaven. They gathered up, when by her side, Her songs, and bore them far and wide Through all Espana s restless marts Of throbbing breasts and fiery hearts. A spirit beautiful she grew : Her land was all aglow with her. In modest lustre, into view She rose a heavenly messenger, A charmed presence rose, to meet Sweet homage laid beneath her feet ; While she, the Spanish girl, among Her waving palms, unconscious sung. At length they crowned her with the wreath That cools the poet s brow beneath ; That overshadoweth, deep and green, His weary, wandering vision keen ; And calms the fervor of his eye With dew of immortality. And once they found her, at the light Of early summer stars, asleep PART I. SPAIN. In peace among the amaranths white That circled starry round her breast, A silver halo o er her rest, A radiant bed, from which they bore Her soul to the immortal shore. The Virgin called, and she was taken She was asleep, no more to waken ! MAKCELA. 53 M A R C E L A. Is not she Brightest gem you e er did see ; Very best Jewel on Sevilla s breast ? Happy sprite ! Now she cometh, flashing light, Airy sparkling, Out beneath her eyebrows darkling. Rolleth rich From her lips the Spanish speech, Pouring out Golden streams of talk about. Rising gay, Airily she steps away, Fashioning Jauntily a look to fling. 54 PART I. SPAIN. " Ah ! you know I am handsome ; but I go ! " Seems to you This she says with her adieu. From the next Parts she just as tender? Vext Are you by Her benignant coquetry ? Better spite Southern zephyrs, dancing light ! They and she Only live to flutter free. Better run From the royal Southern sun ! Is not he Ever courting ceaselessly ? You alone Are the very dullest drone : Where doth fly Your new foreign suavity ? How it clung Your poor, niggard Saxon tongue MARCEL A. -55 In its place, "With no answering back of grace ! Was it not Your slow-moving, Northern thought Made you shy Of her Andalusian eye ? If the sea Of creation throweth free Myriad host, Like you not what sparkles most ? Look again For another, nor complain : Nature keeps Gems for all, among her deeps. 56 PART I. SPAIN. THE MAJO. PEASANT DANDY. WHO is there so gay As I the live-long day ? Who can dress so well ? Sir, I pray you, tell. You are English, friend ? Come, your eye-glass lend, Peering up so high Into Spanish sky. Yola, hola, ha ! While I m seeing clear All about me here, You read your red book Ere you dare to look : Come along, and be Happy, sir, like me ! Soft, Amigo, now I will show you how. Yola, hola, ha ! THE MAJO. Crimson mantle bright Round my waistcoat tight ; Buttons jingling neat Down unto my feet, Shaking silvery When the girls go by ; While they stop and stare, All in love, I swear ! Tola, hola, ha ! Broidered jacket close^ Till to me it grows ; And my flat Sombrero, Look you, Estrangero, When you would be free^ Up to any joke, Own it then to me ! Don my hat and cloak !. Yola, hola, ha ! I can sing a song, Till they dance along, Springing from afar Round my good guitar. I can ride a fleet Pony through the street ; 57 58 PART I. SPAIN. And the girls will sigh, Oh ! so pensively ! Tola, hola, ha ! I can whisper sly Through the lattice, ay ! Rita knoweth best "Who is handsomest ! If she does forget, There are black eyes yet : Other maids there be Who will talk with me. Tola, hola, ha ! Kings and queens and priests, Grandees, eat your feasts ! Only do not veto My good cigarito ! Sorry English-man, Learning all you can, May your worship flee us : Go you home with Dios ! Tola, hola, ha ! PICTURE OF AN OLD MONK. 59 RIBERA S PICTURE OF AN OLD MONK. THOU good old man, what errand wouldst thou do, When some pale artist, with high ardor full, Caught thee upon his canvas, clear and true, In all thy sweetness so ineffable ? 4 Ah ! thou art leaning on young Charity ; She guides that mild, dear saint from place to place So long hast thou been in her company, That thou hast caught her looks upon thy face. She cannot smooth the pillow round thy head, But drops her tears that thou wilt lay thy hairs So white upon a lean and shrivelled bed, Through all thy ministry and weary cares. Yet, if thou bidst her ever lead the way Through sorrow, self-denial cannot keep Its watch around thy dreams : will she not stay To nurse thee then, when thou art gone to sleep ; 60 PART I. SPAIN. And sing to thee of Him, the Morning Star, And them whose road through tribulation lay To where the sounds of many waters are, And He is wiping all the tears away ; Until a smile goes over thee most sweet, And runs adown thy beard in silver light ; As if thou, in thy dreams, hadst sprung to meet The Shepherd with thy crown of glory bright ? THE ORGAN-PLAYER. 61 THE ORGAN-PLAYER. HE sat there at the great old Organ s side In mastery complete, and slowly laid His fingers on the silent keys, and felt Them o er with groping hands, as he were rapt Within the mazes of a wandering dream. But, lo ! the waking ! Suddenly uprose A mighty tempest of great notes, that rolled Through all the carved space, and shook it from Its boundless marble plains away unto The spangled grayness of its lofty dome ; And trembled in the arches, fading off Till where they caught the rosy bloom that streamed From little windows set with precious stones, That looked aslant the vastness, cutting through With rainbow mists the silent clouds of dark. He is undaunted mid the whirlwind of High ecstasy and pain, and joy and grief, 62 PART I. SPAIN. Which he hath wakened ; for his soul is far Ascending to the upper dome that rests Its beams not underneath the stars and sky, Like this fair atom in the eye of heaven. He sees his bride, who walketh in the light That plays immortal in her hazel eyes, And broods around her hair at rest in folds Of placid brownness on her mellow cheek. She is not roving mong the glorified, Forgetful of the restless hearts on earth : She watches him below with earnest eyes, And lays her ear unto the floor of heaven To catch the earthly sounds that wander up. She follows close upon the Organ s sweep With voice of sweetness, full and deep and low. He hears it, mid the cooling shadow of The great Cathedral, hears it day and night, An undertone for ever sounding clear Throughout the torrent of his whelming chords. Said he not, twas no mortal hands that ruled The harmonies amid that solitude ? And so he sitteth there at morn and even, And fondly dreameth that some time he may Float hence upon the current of her voice Unto the high concerto of the skies ! VALENCIA. 63 VALENCIA. HOMEWARD WITH DEAREST companion, Spain has passed from sight : Dost thou remember that luxurious hour When we, entranced, were walking neath the power Of evening, music, beauty, love, and light ; The pleasant sadness stealing o er us so, As we bethought us how no longer we Amid the children of the Sun should be, But soon shut in with thickening winter s snow ; Not where the pulses lie in languid ease, But where they spring to meet an enemy, The sovereign Cold, and conquer him, or die ? Yet that far land we chose beyond the seas : One lulled us with a dream of Lotus-trees ; The other woke to fair Reality. 64 PART I. SPAIN. THE STEAM-ENGINE IN MADRID. STRANGE monster, who hath sent thee dashing thus Profaningly through these old time-worn shores ? Thy sailing vapors are in fast pursuit, Though some do tarry oft to wreathe themselves Amid the listless, waving Spanish air ; Now playful hid, now creeping out again, Forgetful of their rushing fiery work, Insnared beneath the dreamy Southern sky. A goodly sight : yet wherefore do I turn Mine eyes away from fair Castilla s plains, The soil of silver speech and gentle blood ; From yon blue mountains rising up so grave, Like heart of ancient Spanish warrior ; And that fair city gleaming at their feet, Seat of the proudest line of monarchy ? It is because it minds me of that land, So young and strong, that stretches out its arms THE STEAM-ENGINE. 65 Its interlacing arras o er all the earth; And sweeter than its greatness is the thought, That there I drew the breath of liberty : For that beloved, far-off land is home. my America ! the eyes of all Now eager wait to see what thou canst do : Be faithful in thy promise to the world ! 66 PART I. SPAIN. TO WASHINGTON IRVING. IF there be any who have listened to My songs, it was because thou wentst before ; Because thy master-hand a picture drew Touched with the very look Espana wore. And it was painted with a brush so rare, So smooth, so lightsome, in its workmanship, That men stood all entranced in pleasure there, And wondered why the hours so fast did skip. The colors were in richening soberness Laid on, with flitting hues of light and shade, That glow for ever, like the Virgin s dress, And never from our native sky shall fade. America stood still amid her chase Through glaring daylight and reality, And dreamed with thee among that twilight race, Until it softened down her fevered eye. TO WASHINGTON IRVING. 67 Perchance, if thou shouldst scan these songs of mine, They d wake within thee pensive memories, Or mind thee how that legend-page of thine Is gilded with thy country s fondest praise. And if I have no power to charm her, then Mayhap she will turn back, when I do sing, From counting o er her gold, to look again Upon the costlier treasures thou didst bring. Part II. NEW ENGLAND. THE ROAD OVER THE HILLS. I LOVE, each lingering summer afternoon, When stay the hours, so loath to part with June, Beside my window with a book to sit, And let my eye from off its pages flit Away, away, to yonder distant wood, Where creeps along, in lovely solitude, The village road ; now here, now there, so white, Climbing the hill-top, cheerily and bright, Amid the pine-trees hushed and dark as night. At length, I seem in fancy there to be Among the young flowers, by the green wayside, That sit and look so sweet and earnestly Upon the traveller who doth by them ride. How still it is ! The squirrel quick hath run Across the track unto the old gray wall Wreathed o er with thorny vines, while brambles tall Beset it round ; and neath the summer sun 72 PART II. NEW ENGLAND. Floats the bronzed butterfly, until behold! His wings are turning all to burnished gold ! And all day, in the wild young cricket s ear, The locust proseth ; but she will not hear. And, hark ! a sudden stream of melody Comes quivering through the calm and silent wood Tis the sweet thrush, far from the gazing eye, Who swelleth now her little gushing throat Alone for her dear mate and tender brood ; And, ere the air hath caught that lovely note, Tis gone, and all the woods are dark and lone : And long they wait expectant of that tone, Nor know they where she sits, until again Her music runneth quick through all their bowers, And ceaseth. Ah ! no nightingales of Spain, That sing at night around Grenada s towers, So fondly all my ear and heart did gain. I dream the farmer windeth down the hill, And wonder if this loveliness will fill His soul, and touch him now one-half so sweet As me, adown upon the nimble feet Of Fancy borne, or on the airy wings Of swift Imagination, light and free ; Or thinks he only of the corn that springs And groweth now so bravely, but to be THE ROAD OVER THE HILLS. 73 Ere long within his petty barn, to feed Him and his little ones in time of need ? Ah ! he is poor, and they must eat and drink : He has no time on such as ye to think, Sweet images of God s great beauteousness ! But ye forget not him, nor serve him less : Your gentle influence will enter deep Beyond the sunburn, and the callousness Of pinching wintry frosts, and still doth keep Until he sitteth with his little girl, And playeth with some golden dropping curl, At evening-hour, beneath the cottage-door. Then ye do make him wander back once more To his forgotten youth and days gone by ; And, while he looks upon his little child, He ll wipe a tear perchance from out his eye. He sees again his mother s blue eyes mild Smiling her boy to school each opening day ; And him, the generous friend, the spirit wild, Who thought no more of death than he at play, And yet so early left him on the way, So early laid him down to earth, and slept ! And then he thinks how he is longer kept In this hard-working world, and draweth deep A sigh that he might ere long fall to sleep. 74 PART II. NEW ENGLAND. Meanwhile comes forth the early star of even, Or else the golden harvest moon doth rise, The festive Autumn, emblemed in the heaven ! And he will rest his soul, and lift his eyes Unto the Harvest Home in yonder skies ! THE OCEAN AT BEVERLY. 75 THE OCEAN AT BEVERLY. I AM afraid of thee, old Ocean ! thou Dost fill me with unutterable awe. The gentle maiden calls thee beautiful ; The youth doth love thee, thou so gallant, brave ; The hero stern, because thou art defiant, Unyielding as his own relentless breast ; And, last, the poet loveth thee, who art As boundless as the vague, eternal longings That sweep across his soul, now gently swayed, Now swelling all his being mightily ! But, when I gaze upon thee, I do think That there is nought but thee and me alone, No life, nor joy nor hope ; nor ever was, Nor ever will be, any thing save* thee, Stretching for ever on a mighty waste, One great eternity of desolation ! 76 PART II. NEW ENGLAND. THE PICNIC. SWEET golden hours, intense with early joy and pain ! I dream of them in smiles that come and go in tears, In tears of tenderness for all the vanished years, In smiles of peace that asks their presence not again. The west wind freshens round Monadnock pale, And shakes away his vaporous cap of night, Until he wakes majestic to invite The children of the Ashuelot Vale. There is a wondrous meaning in his gaze : " O village men and maidens ! hear the voice Of Nature when her spirit doth rejoice ! I sit alone, and list to all she says. " I hear her sweet, low song at early light ; Or, while she sleeps at noon with glowing cheeks, I mark her breathing, till she murmuring speaks, And wakes, at hush of eve, serene and bright. THE PICNIC. 77 " Come ! come, and be of her sweet life a part : Away, poor Care ! and hide thy palsied head ; And, stately Sorrow ! raise thee from thy dead, To rest upon thy living mother s heart." They hear his speech, the mountain grand ! It runs electric, hand to hand ; And in and out, with busy feet, They throng the peaceful village street. They come from pleasant doors in green Of darksome Maple shut from day ; Or where the slender Elms are seen In swinging high-born grace at play ; Or out of cool piazzas, light With sun, and dark with clinging vine Of grape, whose spraying shadows twine Along the steps to line their feet ; Or down the slopes of grass so bright, And glistening with the dewdrops sweet. The little lad, with eager eye, Is running, high his basket swinging, And braves the children going by With laugh to hear the dull bell ringing. The blue-eyed maid who slqwly passed But yesterday with book o erbent, 78 PART II. NEW ENGLAND. Her guileless soul too soon harassed By learning s dim bewilderment ; Her brow, too full of growing thought, To-day is wearing once again The roses which her girlhood brought, Where late the fragile lilies stood Of eager-dawning womanhood. The graceful matron of the home, Who keeps the springs of its dear life In order mid the jar and strife, Serene and watchful, she will come. And they, the grave-browed men, who ve seen The generations step between Them and the forms they loved to meet, Tis but a day since, in the street, Forget the sleeping ones to-day, And join the smiling band, awake To joy and hope and liberty, To glory, love, and life, awake ! The fleecy clouds are floating in the blue, .The green of summer deepens ever new, Till full refreshment sinks upon the sated view. THE PICNIC. 79 They move along in calm repose of noon, And drink the beauty of the glowing June : All care shall lie down calmly at her young feet soon. The mountain, wrapt in purple noontide haze, In veiled beauty slumbers on their gaze, And floats away as they approach in soft amaze. His slumberous calm is creeping slowly nigh To fold them in the sweet tranquillity Of souls, with all the universe in tune for aye. Arouse ! the Lake ! yon sparkling drop Down in the mountain s pebbly cup, That looks from fringed eyelid up, And, smiling, dreams that she has pressed The strong Monadnock to her breast, Ethereal in her liquid rest ; Nor vexes her sweet thoughts as we, Who oft so vainly disagree Twixt shade and substance foolishly. So, with the Lake the journey done, They fall entranced, one by one, Into the rocky nooks at ease, Or lean against the o erhanging trees To watch this jewel in the sun. 80 PART II. NEW ENGLAND. The shining stone, that once did rest Neath her caresses, now again Goes skimming back upon her breast, From lady s hand that quivers still, Or firm and manly arm that fain Would not outvie the maiden s skill, Yet aims it with a steadier will. Ere long the baskets open wide, And all survey them satisfied : The napkins glisten on the grass In lavish generosity, Piled up with bounties rich that pass Around by maidens trippingly : Nor she of most ethereal mind, Nor he by city thin refined, Of being exquisite and rare, Could here withstand the buxom air, Or stay the human needs that in Untrammelled spirits joy within The freedom of simplicity. They help the tired children first, Their little tongues are so athirst ; For here there is no stately rule : Dame Nature keeps to-day the school. THE PICNIC. 81 Will she not shock the old regime That kept the elders in their seat, While children s waiting eyes did gleam With hungry looks to see them eat ? The shades of afternoon are coming on ; The fitful gleaming of the Lake is gone : It lies subdued within the mellow light, And wins serener homage at the night. The little boat creeps outward from the shore, And handsome cheeks are browning at the oar ; While laughing lips are singing " Trancadillo," With dream of starry skies and ocean billow. The boisterous game has ceased upon the sward, And down to rest they sink with one accord : Here, too, the breath of music floats along Their ranks, and rises into pensive song. May be, the ballad of a simple maid, Who left, she knew not how, her cottage shade ; Led on by wiser, gentler folk, who thought To make a lady, since a baron sought ! PART II. NEW ENGLAND. Ah ! left the rough and honest throbbing heart Of her sweet lover, for the smoother part Of jewelled matron, waited on, to die For love and freedom, work and poverty ! Who snatches up her baby, running fast Beyond the gateway, till the Hall is passed ; And sobs and sings, and dreams a moment he Is laughing on her loving peasant s knee. Or else it is a song of olden time, When clinking glasses rang out to the rhyme, And hands in masonry of love did clasp, Warmed with the cheer that locked old friendship s grasp. The day is closing : must they rise and go ? So things do have their ending here below : Blessed the hour that groweth on and on Deeper and richer, fuller, yet is never gone ! The hour that wears the freshening dew of youth ; The hour that blossoms in immortal Truth ; Into to-day, to-morrow never wrought ; Unbroken by the. joys that are, and then are not! THE PICNIC. 83 They move along upon their homeward way In silence, night and earth s dim melody : The elders speak, in undertone, of days Like these, of old, though better, sweeter far, always ! The young man, sitting near the maid so still, Is satisfied even now, if so she will (While he is looking deep into her eyes) Point out to him the stars and their sweet ministries. The valley opens now to take them home ; The village slumbers waking till they come ; Fair forms are dallying, now they creep from sight; Sweet voices linger on the air : good-night, good-night ! PART II. -NEW ENGLAND. THE GERMAN LESSON. THEY sat together many a winter s eve, When blew the winds without, and brightly shone The fire upon the wall, and flashed its light On a youth s face j while deep and blacker grew His eyes with every gleam, and glowed upon A beauteous maiden s, till they browned away Unto a gentle softness. Yet not o er One page they sat, like them who read of old The tale of Launcelot and sweet Ginevra: Each held a book, being a space apart ; Yet not so far but some magnetic chain Might run between, had it so pleased them both! And one was ready, had he dared, to throw A trembling chord electric from his heart ; But, ah ! he feared twould find no resting-place, And come all quivering back. So there it staid, And kindled up a fire within his eyes : I marvel that the maiden saw it not. THE GERMAN LESSON. 85 They read together o er the nervous page Of high-strung Schiller, he who hath set on Many a youth to seek a nobler fame, And love and liberty. The maiden warmed : Her woman s soul beat high and tenderly In the great Poet s presence, who was pure As heart of woman. She was folio win him CD In full pursuit after the fair Ideal : She knew not she was leaving there behind A living, breathing love, nobility, And truth, to which the fairest Romance and The loftiest Poesy gleamed cold and chill As marble lips before the quivering glow Of Life. Alas ! why are we always up Among the skies, when Grace doth wreathe itself Around the poor tents that we ve pitched below, And radiant Love is at the very door, All ready to stream in, and light it up ? Tis true, when they came down again, she and The Poet, she did smile upon the youth; Yet it was only that the maid was pleased Because they went so high. But what knew he, Poor youth! how many leagues they d flown up in The realms of Fancy, when he all the time Saw only her ? What cared he where she went, 86 PART II. NEW ENGLAND. So, through the ambient air of Poesy, She vanished not from sight? . The maid was touched With a sweet hope to reach the nameless beauty That haunts the Poet s dreams. The youth was fired With a reality : he saw it in Her face and soul. Yet, when the village clock Each time struck out the hour when he was used To close the book, and go, he punctual rose, Bade her a stiff " Good-night ! " and left the room Like the unlimbered Schoolmaster. Not more Rebellious was the urchin at his task, Who chafed and fretted in his seat to see The open sky, than his unruly heart, That beat about, and strove to press him back Again to the sweet air of Love. Yet he Knew how to rule ; but this was sterner stuff Than he had grappled with, this rebel heart, All fortified with mightiest power of Earth. Yes, Love, thou couldst subdue the Schoolmaster, And do whate er thou wouldst with him. Ah ! could THE GERMAN LESSON. 87 The boys have seen him as he homeward went, How thou didst pull him back at every step, They would have joined their hands in thine, and said Thou wert the very likeliest rogue of all. So every week he through the dark night went All warm and gay and eager, and came forth, From out the lightsome room, chilled through, and crushed And maddened by his own unbroken silence. He seemed to see himself uprising there An everlasting glacier unto her, His Sun ; and, though the intensity of heat Was wearing him away within, untouched Without, before the summer of her look, He stood there cold, serene, unchangeable : Far better had she, with a scorching hate, Dissolved him from her presence evermore. At length the last night came ; and he rose up, Bade her farewell, and gave to her one look Of love unutterable (in that look, All his long tenderness and agony Leaped from its pent-up silence, and spoke through Those eyes), and went out from her face for ever. 88 PART II. NEW ENGLAND. She saw it now ! and, when his echoing steps Died fast away, she started up, and then She sank her head, and mused in a strange sadness. Ah ! had she loved, she would not have sat there : She would have flung herself upon the night, And called him back with such a love-rent voice, That he had shortly been upon her breast. No, no, poor lover ! not there canst thou rest Thy head. Go thou, and still thy fevered heart Upon the bosom of the world : tis rough Indeed ; but trust her ; she knows well thy ails ; For she hath cured many a heart like thine, Or bound it up, so that it drifted through This troublous sea, and reached the shore at last. FORESHADOWING OF SPRING. 89 THE FORESHADOWING OF SPRING. BENEATH the languid sky my Spirit loves to lie, And bathe herself all o er in witching sadness : Her wings she doth unfold, the heavens are fair out rolled, And now she floats away in idle gladness. I love the South wind breathing, as, round old Winter wreathing, She melts his spirit with her gentle sighing ; As tender-nursed flowers craze us for Summer bowers, While yet the snow in woodland nooks is lying. I love the gentle haze that dulls the glittering blaze Of pallid wintry sun, that warmeth not : It melts my charmed heart; and, when the fountains start, She weepeth tears of sweet, poetic thought. PART II. NEW ENGLAND. I love the sunlight playing, and longer, longer staying Upon my wall each Spring-tide afternoon : It waketh mystic longing, fair visions on me throng ing Of silver- voiced May and golden June. Ah, Soul ! they re never granting the joys for which thou rt panting, Not May s young buds, nor June with all her roses ! Not here thou lt find thy Spring nor peaceful Summer ing: Tis there thy hope in full delight reposes ! Art weary, then, of striving, and never yet arriving ? Mightier the boon when it is grasped by thee ! Go on with thy sweet dreaming amidst a world of seeming: Diviner will at last the wakin^ be ! THE BROKEN HOME. 91 THE BROKEN HOME. THEY bore her all the night with faces pale, Nearer and nearer to the sleeping vale, Where, in sweet blossoming, She waved at early Spring, Cut down before the Summer grass was withering. They followed close upon her, father, mother ; And, slow behind, the sister and the brother : They spoke not, soft or loud ; They saw her in her shroud, And looked with awe and dread around upon each other. They drew nigh to the lindens by the gate : The willows, with bowed head, did mutely wait. Why stirreth not the house ? Why do they not arouse ? It was not always still when they came home so late ! PART II. NEW ENGLAND. They do not sleep, they hear the passing feet They will not come, they cannot come, to meet ! But when they ope the door, And rest upon the floor, With dull and heavy fall, the burden which they bore, It jarred the stillness there within, that sound Ringing so hollow all the house around ! Slender and lithe and white, As poplar in moonlight, The little sister came down stairs with frightened bound. She clung upon the brave young man, her brother : . Before her grief his sobs he could not smother ; He turned away, and durst Not look on her at first, Nor speak a gentle word, lest they should strong out burst. When from afar he came in pleased delight, He used to praise her beauty morn and night : Though grown to womanhood, A trembling child she stood ; And he alone could calm her wild young pulse s flood. THE BROKEN HOME. 93 At length he spoke, and made her dry eyes weep ; And told her how she sang herself to sleep, And how her head she prest Upon the mother s breast, With dreamy, dying words of love for all the rest. So they together wept and calmed again, Or fell asleep with sudden-starting pain ; But, ere the morning light Made gray the lingering night, Down swept the clouds before the day with heavy rain. More dread than midnight soon became the morn ; The lurid lightning paled their faces worn ; The long, low thunder rolled, As if a requiem bold, For all mortality that was and is, it tolled ! Oh, terrible it is to be with death, Alone with stiffened clay, without its breath, When Nature glooms the while ; Ere yet we see the smile Beyond, where its fair soul in sunlight hovereth ! 94 PART II. NEW ENGLAND. But, hush ! how sacred, sweet, came forth the day When they were going to lay the loved away ! The earth seemed holier ; No flower or leaf astir : All pensive ceased their work in honor unto her. She lies within the cheerful, hallowed room Where once were always smiles, and never gloom ; And wild young spirits roving, And gentle fireside loving, And guests who in and out were ever gayly mov ing. She need not make it sad ; for she reposes, All covered o er with lilies and with roses : Only she used to wear The lilies in her hair ; Now she, with clasped hands, them on her breast encloses ! Gently the minister the Gospel read ; For he was near of kin to the sweet dead : Ah ! hers was kinship wide ; For who was not allied In love unto that beauteous girl, the country s pride ? THE BROKEN HOME. 95 The young men and the maidens, in a ring, Stood round her lone piano there, to sing The hymn she loved the best, Such hymn as calms the breast, And speaks of peace in God, and endless, endless rest. Then all arose, and went out at the door : Her gray horse faithfully as when, before, He drew her, crowned with flowers, To all the laughing bowers Unto the graveyard went to leave her evermore ! She sleeps, she sleeps : they know that she is gone ! They miss her in the evening and at morn : T^e stranger there who came, And heard them speak her name "With words so hushed and sweet, now tones his voice the same. Twas not her looks, though she of womanhood Was fairest ; nor her deeds, though she was good : It was because she loved, That, wheresoe er she moved, Amid the old and young, queen .o er all hearts she stood ! 96 PART II. NE\Y ENGLAND. She sleeps ; but she shall walk in loveliness Adown the future years, with fond caress From every passer-by On her sweet memory, Winning from mortals fairest immortality ! AN AUTUMN WALK. 97 AN AUTUMN WALK. WHAT aileth thee, thou art so sad to-night, Nature ? say, what is it weighs on thee ? Thou art as calm, and noiseless too, as death. 1 cannot even hear thee sigh amid The trees. If thou wouldst break thy apathy, Thy endless quietude, I d talk and weep with thee ; Nor ask one single, golden smile upon The river waiting here so patiently. And yet thou rt sweet, like a poor, love-crushed girl, Who careth not that she is beautiful ; And, all unmindful of the hand of friend, Or of the voice of childhood, still bespeaks A gentle, uninvited sympathy. I rustle mong the leaves to rouse thee up. Not that ! it minds thee how thou didst deck out The dying Summer, ere she did depart ; Who gave a sickly smile at her new. dress, With flush upon her cheek, and sank away. 98 PART II. NEW ENGLAND. I will betake me homeward ; for I see There is no high commune with thee to-night : But, when the gray Morn comes to meet thee, thou Perchance wilt burst into a shower of tears ! THE QUILTING. 99 QUILTING AND HUSKING, I. THE QUILTING. HIGH up among the attic beams There is a great old airy room : The golden sun in silence streams Adown the roof, and cheers the gloom. Tis lonely through the summer day ; Tis dreary at the winter night : It hears afar the children play, But never sees their wild delight. And yet a pleasant look and kind It hath, like some old-fashioned face, That calleth troublous days to mind, And wears a thousand memories. The ancient clock all hushed appears, And keenly stareth out the hours : The very Time he served for years Has paralyzed his vital powers. 100 PART II. NEW ENGLAND. The spinning-wheel is foundered on A crumbling shelf of brick and clay ; The wheel the sun doth gleam upon ; The shuttle fades in dark away. A pillion hangeth good as new ; A gilded coat that figured grand At country muster, to review The young militia of the land ; And books with covers stiff and hard As old theology therein ; Or scattered leaves of gentle bard, Who talks of love, and not of sin ; Or sorry pages of Romance, Blurred with the tears of stolen glance. The mice are pattering at their will Along the ledges, peeping down To watch the melons on the sill, Lest they perchance too ripe have grown ; While luscious odors go and come, Blent with the scent of herbs that dry Upon the floor, sweet marjoram And pleasant summer savory. But we are prosing on our way : The old room is not still to-day ! THE QUILTING. 101 Behold the Quilt that opens wide With joints that hoarsely creak, and sway It rickety from side to side ! The bustling housewife sitteth still Awhile from all her thousand cares, Driving her needle with the will That sent the broom along the stairs. And thin and sour maidenhood Is here with her forebodings ill, To drop them round in bitter mood, A wholesome and religious pill. And gentle single lady, best And sweetest being God has made ; Whom He hath left the loneliest To blossom pale within the shade, While all around with fruit are blest : That she afar such fragrance sweet May send, the young unto her feet Shall come to feel her sanctity, And learn of her to live and die. The village gossip prateth free And fearlessly of things that are, Or (what is better, sweeter far) So cautiously of what may be. 102 PART IT. NEW ENGLAND. And romping maidens sit and sew, With little smothered jests that half From nothing come, to nothing go, So easy tis for girls to laugh ! Yet it is hard for Meggie : see ! The one who works so pensively, The maiden with the deep-gray eyes, Who very quietly doth sew, Yet draws her breathing hard, as though She shut beneath a world of sighs. She thinks how Richard bowed to-day As they two met upon the way ; How quick he turned his looks in haste Aside, as though he said a fair " Good-morning " unto her, and there It ended, more he could not waste ! She hears the hum of talk go round ; Upon her ear as far-off speech It comes, a drowsy, murmuring sound, But not a word her soul doth reach ; Click go the needles in and out. " Say, Meggie, what dost think about ? " Said buxom Nell, who near her sat: " Thou draw st thy needle in without The thread, and what s the use of that ? " THE QUILTING. She starteth up with sudden flush Of fear, that spreadeth more and more, And runneth down with purple blush Upon her neck so white before ; And some confused words doth say, " Her head is aching dull to-day : " Yet back she fell into the maze Of tangled thoughts that set ablaze Her heart with little fears that grew To certainty within her view. The old room spun around her head ; Yet on she worked with nervous dread. And now at length the young men meet To join them in their simple treat ; But Meggie lifteth not her eye Till Richard ere long passes by, And calls " Good-even " cheerfully, As he were not ashamed to say It boldly, and go on his way. The girls from out their seats do run, Impatient for the sport and fun ; But Meggie s stint is never done. She sews, and passes now a joke A poor and pallid thing to choke 103 104 PART II. NEW ENGLAND. The fluttering in her bosom, lest The old ones see her throbbing breast. And Richard whiles the moments well : He laughs and talks with buxom Nell, And all the time in Meggie s view ! She s not afraid of Nell, tis true, Who giggles loud, and romps so too ; But little, sweet-mouthed, laughing Fan, He likes to be with her, tis plain : The smiles are always on her cheeks, Though very few the words she speaks. She s watching, wheresoe er she goes, Her old grandmother ; smooths her clothes, And threads her needle ; finds her case, With never spectacles therein, And looks for them in every place, Nor tires of putting them within. Ah ! Richard how can he but see How dutiful and sweet is she ? Poor Meggie ! keep the tear-drops back ! The gossip she will see, alack ! And count them o er, and they will grow So many that she cannot keep Them. Ere to-morrow night, she ll show How tis for love that Meg doth weep. THE QUILTING. 105 And on she stitched ; she worked away ; The little diamonds in she stitched ; So fast from out her fingers they Do grow, they think she is bewitched. The old ones say she quilts the best Of all, and is the handsomest. The centre is a golden star, Made up of rays from near and far ; It shineth into Meggie s face ; Before her eyes it seems to run, The colors blending all in one. A stitch or more within its place, And then, behold ! the Quilt is done ; A stitch or more from Meggie s hand ! Her dizzy brain is turning fast : The idle gazers round do stand. " The Quilt is done ! " they cry ; " and she Who chanced to put a stitch the last, The very first shall wedded be ! " Sweet Meggie starts in quick surprise: She seems to see the star arise, And gaze on her with tender eyes, Then slowly sink before her sight : So sinks her star of love and light, And youth and joy, in deepest night ! 106 PART II. NEW ENGLAND. II. THE HUSKING. They sit amid the silken corn : It is a sweet October morn ; The sky is warm and mellow neath The calm, benignant Autumn sun ; And not a whisper or a breath Of luscious, balmy air doth run Throughout the leaves to break the peace Of Nature s golden harvest ease. Sweet Meggie s head is very fair, And softer than the silken ear : A deeper gold is in her hair Than gleams from out the husks anear ; But, ah ! it fades, the ripening grace Of russet youth, that took the place Of paleness once upon her face. A pretty sight it is to see How all are working busily ; And, when the baskets hold no more, The sunburnt striplings heave their weight Ou trolled upon the granary floor, And come and go with shining freight. THE HUSKING. What -pleasant rustling all around, That mingles with a murmuring sound ! Like summer brook that hummeth on, Or laugheth out in sport anon, The tide of talk is rippling low ; Then onward, wilder, it doth go, And breaketh into noisy flow : And now it ebbs again ; and they, Industrious, rip the husks away. The air is still, except within The barn the cricket chirpeth in The new-mown hay ; and so he sings, And deeper silence on them brings. But what is this ? The Red Ear ! see ! And Meggie fmdeth it : tis she ! Oh ! what a boisterous, sudden shout From all the youths and maids comes out ! Up jump they quick in wild delight, And tip the baskets in their fun. A forfeit ! Draw the lots aright, And see who tis shall kiss her ! Run ! She blushes deep all o er her face, And creeps into a quiet spot. Look, look ! tis Richard draws the lot ! He runs into her hiding-place. 107 108 PART II. NEW ENGLAND. She trembles in a lovely fright ; And, as her cheek he kisses bold, * Her mouth is smiling so in spite Of her sweet modest self, behold ! He kisses her upon her lips ; And quick among the crowd he dips, To scape the showering jokes that fly From out the noisy company. And now the frolic is begun : Sweet Meggie dares not lift her eye ; For Richard he is always by. He helps her when she tears her gown, And drives the ugly nail adown ; He catches her at Fox and Geese ; And, in the dance, she ever sees Him opposite, or trembling feels Him watch to take her down the reels. The hours of day are fading fast ; The huskers now are turning home : Her sweet excitement cannot last ; The flush upon her cheek is past, And pale uncertainty is come. They leave the threshold one by one, And Meggie lingers there alone. THE HUSKING. She picks the Red Ear from the floor, And stands, and looks it o er and o er. But, hark ! a rustling she doth hear. She turns : tis Richard standing near. She drops the corn with arm that shook ; He with a sober face doth stand : " Fair Meggie, does it burn thy hand? Wast thou ashamed to have me look ? The Red Ear, was it so to blame, The little Red Ear, that it came To know how I have longed to kiss Thee, Meggie, and permitted this ? " \ Her tears are dropping on the ground ; But not a word she hath to say : Her head she will not turn around. " I love thee : go thou not away Till thou hast heard." She lifts her eyes, " Thou lovest me since yesterday" And looks at him in calm surprise. " O Me^ie ! did I give thee pain ? And so I would again, again, Could I those little tears behold. The young men said that thqu wast cold ; 110 PART II. NEW ENGLAND. Thou caredst not a single straw For all the gallants, young or old : Thy love twas folly waiting for." " And so for them I do not care ! " She says. He looks her in the face, The sweet confession rising there, And draws her quick to his embrace, And kisses off the tears that rise, And change to smiles within her eyes : " Dear love ! I was but trying thee." " Ah ! never, never jest," said she. " Dost think twas easy, then, for me ? Did I not know that thou wast fair, With all the rest beyond compare, The sweetest maiden quilting there ? And saw I not how swift did fly Thy little fingers silently ? None but the old ones staying by ; And I of envy like to die, That they could sit so near to thee ! I thought, If she would only drop One little look, this game I d stop. Ah, Meggie ! thou wast proud, wast proud ! " She gently smiled, and shook her head : Her face upon his neck he bowed. THE HUSKING. " I did not love thee less," he said, For that, thou little haughty maid." So on his arm sweet Meggie leant ; And forth, at set of sun, they went Along the meadow where the brook Was wandering in a willowy nook, And sang the lonely Whippoorwill Awhile, till all the night was still : Then rose the Hunter s Moon to light Them home to sweetly dreaming night. Ill 112 PART II. NEW ENGLAND. THE NORTHERN LIGHTS. Lo ! in the chambers of the North A wondrous brightness streameth forth ! Are those cold lands afraid of night, Impatient for the warm sunlight ? Can they not for Aurora wait, But must that wondrous light create ? Yes, strangely beautiful are ye, Nor ever chill or cold to me ; Those truly are not melting beams, But strong, inspiring radiant gleams. Yon Polar climes in earth or sky Speak words with meaning great and high. The Southern gales may gently fan The feeble breast of fainting man ; But, oh ! drink in, ye firm and strong ! That living breath, and ponder long Upon those stars so clear and bright, And on that mystic wall of light, THE NORTHERN LIGHTS. 113 Till in yourselves at length may be Some spark in which perchance ye ll see The grand old North s immensity. Remember him, that glowing heart, Who dared to make himself a part Of strong defiant Nature there ; And, mid the breath of Polar air, Did win her unto friendship by The earnest reverence of his eye, And showed her to the gaze of men, And died to live immortal then. The sons of Norway well might deem Those glittering spears the dazzling gleam From lances wielded by the hand Of heroes in Walhalla s land ; Or Indian see the red deer bound From arrows glancing all around In the Eternal Hunting-Ground. Nightly Aurora, Northern Light ! Exalt our souls to lofty flight ! 114 PART II. NEW ENGLAND. WAITING FOR DEATH. SHE was alone, save one who there did stand The strong old nurse all day with decent hand To smooth the pillow or to give the cup, The cordial which must hold her being up, Though she in death would gladly let it drop. The early raptures of foretasted heaven, When she herself to Death had willing given, Were fading ; for he tarried long and late : Her wings, once fluttering to the upper gate, At length hang heavy, for tis hard to wait. " Farewell, good Life ! " she said exultingly : " Thou hast been kind ; but they are calling me ! I leave the robes, which thou hast given, with thee ; And through the night haste, ere those voices fly ! " - But down she fell, upon the verge of it, So weary ; and Death would not take her yet ! WAITING FOU DEATH. 115 She beard the bell that told how cold did lie The little child, of late so warm his breast, With springing heart, quick gathered to his rest ; While she, unclothing of mortality, Was yet not as the fair immortals drest : Not claimed of Life or Death, midway between, She lived not with the unseen or the seen ! The Summer passed with balmy breath by her : She felt it warm her cheek, and heard it stir The curtains of her still and dusky room. But, ah ! in rosy bloom she saw it not ; And yet she lay not there inwrapt in gloom : " I shall go hence with it," she fondly thought. The Autumn winds sang over Summer s bier, And strewed the dry leaves for a winding-sheet ; But she, though faded too, must linger here : No dirge for her lost bloom was sounding yet. The Winter gathered darkly in the sky ; The snow-clouds thickened in the air around ; And lighter than the early flakes that lie In trembling haste, and melt upon the ground, Upon the lap of life she flattering-lay, Waiting in vain to be dissolved away. H6 PART II. NEW ENGLAND. Yet scorned she not the earth, nor did despise Our little mortal doings here below : She marked the blue of heaven, the glittering snow ; She hoped the bells rung merry to and fro ; And asked the maiden, with faint smiling eyes, How fared it with her lover, and if he Would come at Christmas, - or before, maybe. For childlike Patience on her sat, more sweet Than e en the high delight which once she wore, When she was borne in ardent thought before Unto the immortal life with eager feet. Ah ! many a one there is who sweetly dies In some strong hour of mighty sacrifice ; Or in the grasp of swift-descending fate, When terrors piled on terrors threatening wait ; Or in the eternal calm that falleth deep, When maddening fever ends its whirlwind sweep ! But she must feel for weeks and months his breath, And look for him at eve or morning light ; And lie, throughout the endless shadowy night, With senses all undimmed and vision bright, Figuring the ghastly semblances of death ; And meet the morrow, to replume anew Her spirit for the last great journey through. WAITING FOR DEATH. 117 There is release, there is release for all ; For when the Spring stole forth again, to call With gentle sighs the world from out its grave, It came that hour like half the things we crave, Yet dread, came lightly when she knew it not : That hour, for which her fainting soul had sought All of its scattered energies to save, Came like some flitting morning dream at last ; And so she to her Maker s bosom passed. 118 PART IT. NEW ENGLAND. SIMPLICITY. TO THE NEW-ENGLAND MAIDEN. KNOW thou, O Lady ! there is nought that sits On thee more comely than Simplicity : The Poet ever flingeth it o er thee ; And wilt thou cast it off, and say it fits Alone the rustic maid, who queens it in A robe twere well if thou again couldst win ? Hast thou known distant climes and pageantry ? Remember, thou hast never seen pretence In Nature s face ; and learn not to dispense (Because thou hast with courts perchance been free) Aught more refined than simple courtesy, Nor load thyself with foreign spoils from thence. Perhaps thou learned art in books ? canst speak Of all philosophies ? Bethink thee, then, How Wisdom sat upon those ancient men, In a simplicity serene and bare As beauty on the marble of the Greek, And bade the dullest one talk with her there. SIMPLICITY. 119 A genius art thou ? Let thy soul s firelight Play soft around, and come and go about, Unconscious as thy breathing, and without The thought of self; nor with display so bright Glare thou, that men, all shamed with their own night, Do fear thy greatness, nor their own find out. Canst walk in Beauty s airy triumph high, Crowds on thy skirts, whom thou dost stop and pay Now with a smile or two, to keep them by ? Thy noblest slaves will surely drop away, Dost thou thy fairness school with complex art, Nor let it speak itself unto the heart. But hast thou none of these, only a dear And lovely spirit which doth grateful meet The pleased heart of the world, as falleth sweet Childhood s fond utterance on the mother s ear ? Strongest art thou in Love s simplicity : Ah ! thou shalt win all men to worship thee ! 120 PART II. NEW ENGLAND. THE SPIRIT OF AUTUMN. BEHOLD the woodland tops that deck the land! See them burst forth in glory s ripening blaze ! How close yon brotherhood of trees doth stand, And put forth all its strength at once to raise Aloft that hanging of fair tapestries, With gold and red inwove, unto the skies ; As some old festive towers compactly rise On airy hillside, and afar are gleaming, One sheet of many-colored draperies streaming ! The sombre massive Pines stand low in front, Even as some stern, grim, iron portal, wont To fright away all entrance at the gate. But is it dark within with sombre state ? No, no ! above, those rainbow pennons call The guest at early morn and evening late. Is there not joy and highest festival In this and every radiant queenly hall, Where enters beauteous Autumn at the doors, And treads her crimson-leafe\l damask floors ? THE SPIRIT OF AUTUMN. 121 She is not gay : so her they do not meet With loudly echoing mirth and carolling, And freaks of laughter, as when sunny Spring Bounds forth so young and frolicsome and sweet ! But how subdued she steps, with gracious mien, Even as of olden days some sainted queen, Who walks adored with calm, majestic feet, While her deep eyes are full of peace serene ! A golden halo spreads around her face : She seems to hold communion with the unseen ; And, as she passeth in, she casts a grace Which doth with sudden glow irradiate The looks of those who in her presence wait ; And they, ere long, themselves do all subdue UntQ a sweet and high solemnity, Which melts into a mystic harmony, That, like the murmuring sea, doth whisper through The pinewood arches, and in lightness floats Mid the red-maple windows, till on high, Unto the grand mosaic roof, the notes At length rise up, a mighty symphony ! Hark ! hear them sing her praise exultingly, While she doth kneel, her face unto the sky, Inwrapt in dreams of immortality : 122 PART II. NEW ENGLAND. Glorious Lady ! sweeter far Than the Spring s young glances are, Or her winning coquetries, Is the light within thine eyes. Heavenlier than the ripening grace Of the ardent Summer s face Is the smile which, like a dream, Ever round thy lips doth gleam. Richer than May s flaxen hair, Waving sportive on the air, Is thy auburn brown so meek, Resting on thy brow and cheek. Lovelier than the flush of rose O er young June that comes and goes Are the deeper blooms that glance Over all thy countenance. Thou art holiest of the three ; They are children unto thee : Thou hast dreams which they know not ; Thou art touched with highest thought. THE SPIRIT OF AUTUMN. 123 But, beauteous saint ! to be In thy rapturous moods with thee ! Who could turn him from that hour, Stirred not by thy wondrous power ? When, before the silent sky, Thou in golden trance dost lie, In thy peace beatified, Who could tear him from thy side ? Let thy sisters, then, be gay, Happy spirits in their way : Thou hast found the better part, Autumn, for tliou blessed art. 124 PART II. NEW ENGLAND. SUNDAY. SWEET day ! shall I dare speak of thee, When holy Herbert sings so well, And far along the past I see A line of saintly souls, who tell Thy graces, breathing from their lyres High, aromatic, pious fires ? White-winged thou sitt st as cherub in Thy peaceful seat above the week, To brood in freshness o er the din Of daily heat, with pleadings meek ; And to the good man s fading eye Thou light st the track of memory. Thy vanished treasures at his touch Shed fragrant odors on his soul ; And, should his spirit faint o ermuch, The sacred Past shall make him whole, And drop on his discouragement As healing balm by angels sent. SUNDAY. 125 What stillness on the Country falls ! She folds her hands, and sayeth grace ; And e en the City smooths its walls, And frames its worldly battered face To piety, and so doth pray And sing the holy hours away. Day of the Lord ! when first he broke In beauteous majesty on men, And to the weeping Mary spoke, And glorified the earth again ! Shine on our land, that she may rest From sin and labor on his breast. Come, risen Master ! shine that we May see the truth that dwells above ! Lift all thy churches unto thee, And fold them on thy heart of love ! Come, sanctify them ever by The holy bonds of charity ! Beloved New England s old and young Go forth when morning bells do chime : There is no sound of noisy tongue, No masquerade of foreign clime. Lord Jesus ! pray with her that she May worship God in truth like thee ! 126 PART II. NEW ENGLAND. "THE SILENT WAY." IT is a little opening sweet That leads throughout the wood, and stills The weary heart : a presence fills This rare and wonderful retreat, Which all the very being thrills. Think not tis named because a gloom Is brooding o er it, like a bird Of night within the forest heard : Tis rather like a sacred room, Amid the noise of day unstirred. The winds of March come sweeping by ; But, ah ! they cannot enter there : The burning sun of August air Peeps through the leaves, and longs to lie And cool him, but he may not dare. THE SILENT WAY. The frosts of pale November chill The heart of earth : but there they fling Around a crimson carpeting ; And, last, a mantle white, that will Be never scanty there till Spring. But go at sweet Midsummer night : The pines with showers are spicy yet ; The birches tremble at the set Of sun, in pale transfigured light ; And low the savin clusters wet. Go on between the tangled walls Of shining twigs, that drop the rain ; Then round the hill, to greet again The purple day before it falls, And breathe the clover on the plain. 127 PART II. NEW ENGLAND. THE OLD FARMHOUSE. IT stands within the hollow by the road : See you not how the plenteous barn doth show Its turret, nestling warm in that abode, Secure from all the gusty winds that blow ? We seem to reach it ; yet we are not there, The path runs in and out so waywardly. But we shall tire not ; for the boundless air Sweeps on our cheeks from off the azure sea. The blithesome Apple-trees keep company Along the mossy wall, and beckon on With kindly looks that touch the passer-by With thoughts of rustic ease and harvests won ; And mellow cheer within the farmer s gate ; And lover in the kitchen, winter s night ; And schoolboy full his pocket running late, With stuffed-out cheek, like squirrel in a fright. THE OLD FARMHOUSE. Now come we to the lane : each side, abreast, They stand, with honest yeoman courtesy; And up we pass, until at length we rest Content beneath the great old Willow-tree, The Willow-tree that fronts the barn in pride, And rocks the simple farm-yard bird to sleep, And feels the gray cat scrambling up its side, Chasing her kitten, while the moonbeams creep. The Lilac clusters soft about the door, And swells her buds at dream of far-off Spring, To melt away in purple bloom, before The breath of June her scent of rose doth fling. The Oriole hangs his jaunty nest on high, And starts the modest Bluebird on her way, Till gold and blue are meeting in the sky, And ripple fast his notes with her smooth lay. The Ox quiescent in his manger looks, And ponders on the nothingness of man : " All flesh is grass." The God^of Brahmin books Shall find him wise disciple in his van. 9 130 PART II. NEW ENGLAND, Around, the Cows are cropping at their ease The spicy hay that showers adown the space, O erhung with spiders wreaths, that floating tease The farmer s eyes from every darksome place. Though, here and there, an eager mother stands With neck erect, and wandering, frenzied eye, Calling her little one, who in the hands Of stranger rude went out at morn to die. But when at eve the mellow sunlight streams Above the door, and climbs up slowly, where It plays in streaks of gold among the beams, One deep, soft rustle rises on the air From out the faithful herd, who trustfully Await their daily bread in peace from Heaven ; From Him who watcheth with a tender eye The little sparrow in his nest at even. No minster ever wore a sweeter calm ; No purer incense rose than their warm breath; No worshippers, unfearing every harm, Obey so well the God of Life and Death. THE OLD FARMHOUSE. 131 And here the tenants pass their peaceful days Within the raftered parlor long and low, And fain would fashion to it all their ways, And in the healthful olden spirit grow. So, should the comely housewife, stepping light, Or ancient goodman, from their shades appear, They may not turn away ashamed at sight Of such unwonted quiet dwellers here. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. THE WEDDING PRESENTS. GOOD Charlemagne was dead. The solemn chant Was lingering yet amid the stillness of The chapel aisles within the royal walls Of ancient Thermes, whence of late they bore Him to his resting-place, and left him there, The glorious monarch, dead and cold e en as The meanest fighter in his myriad ranks ; And colder, mayhap, since the vaults of Aix Relaxed them never to the warming sun, That gazed all day in friendliness upon The soldier s trampled grave of grass and stones ! And Louis sat upon his father s throne, Presumptuous, as though he d ruled the land For threescore years ; nor troubled he his head Once to bethink him how it chanced that death Took hence that grand old man,. else were he but A mean, disloyal subject still, and son ! 136 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. They called him, too, the Debonnaire, forsooth ! Men knew not why ; for he was cold and hard And sullen as old Thermes frowning walls, Save when he broke a keen and bitter jest, That chilly ran throughout his courtiers veins, And froze their smiles to pale obsequiousness. Sweet Gisla and Rotrude lived there within The castle-gates, the old King s daughters fair ; And emperors had sought to win their hands : But Charlemagne would have them mind their hearts, Nor sternly bade their hands go opposite ; Nor forced the gentle girls to wed, as kings And queens are wont to do, with made-up smiles Of courtly resignation on their brows. And so these emperors bowed themselves away, Much wondering at the curious maids, who seemed So weary when they talked of all their lands And pleasure-palaces, that were like heaven Compared unto these gloomy castle walls. Somehow they could not light them up, these fair Young sisters, unto talk and gayety ; And yet men said they were the stars that burned In roundelays, and gleamed athwart the sword Of many a frenzied knight, and twinkled round The brave and merry Tournament of France. THE WEDDING PRESENTS. 137 They felt there was a hidden smile, in truth, Beneath the changing rose upon the cheek Of hushed Rotrude ; and that a quiet fire Was slumbering in young Gisla s blacker eyes r That well might warm the paleness of her face. But, ah ! they could not wake it up, these poor Gay puppets in their lace and gold, who learned Their story, ere they came awa^ from home, Of councillors and tutors. So they went ; And chance may be the royal girls did laugh At all the bungling Teutons courtesies, They born among the flower of chivalry. The maids did love two plainer gentlemen, With nothing but good swords to call their own, And swinging forms, and eyes that dared the world, And big hearts throbbing in their manly breasts, And hands that played with ladies locks as light As they did boldly curb the restless steed. But Louis, this dear brother, knew how maids Would throw their beauteousness away, and did Bethink him brotherly how best to right This sad mistake. He frowned not on them ; no ! But, musing in a quiet, kingly way, He said the palace of his sisters was 138 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Not still enough, and he would make it seem As calm as any cloister, so there should Be nothing to disturb them. And he smiled ; And smiled the sisters too, they knew not why, Except they wished to please this strange good brother, Even though his pleasure felt so very like A shiver as it crept anear their hearts. * Two goodly knights, one eve, ride gayly up Unto the palace-gates : the seneschal Receives them with a grim civility Within the large and silent court. But, mark ! He bars the gates behind them with a clang ; And forthwith steps a second officer, And curtly bids them give to him their swords. They stand with looks amazed : "What mean ye, men ? We come as messengers from our good King ! " " Ay, even so, Sir Knights ? How fares he then ? Long life to him, Louis le Debonnaire ! " " He fares as well as any royal son Who has been smelling mong the tombs these six Weeks gone, and heard the chanting monks amid The dampness, till they left the old King there In peace. And Heaven have mercy on him now ! THE WEDDING PRESENTS. 139 But look ! take you this letter. Pray you, read, Nor be so careful in your dignities ; Seeing tis but your King no more, good sirs Who bids you ope his castle-doors, and have A little comfort for two gentlemen Who re cold and hungry. Read, nor wait all night : Yon cursed flambeau flickers in the court, And blurs the pages with a muddy light. A decent keeper does not stay to read A king s certificate, nor timorous keep The bearers standing in the courteous wind. Ho, now ! why do you look so blank, and stare On us as Christian on the Infidel ? No more of all your pretty ceremony ! We ll tell his Majesty, you re not a whit Behindhand in the rules of etiquette." He coughed a dry and cheerless cough, the grim Old seneschal, and led the way into A room with lofty arches, grand enough To suit the aiming of the proudest knight, Save that these riders dreamed of chimney-side, And forms, perchance, that moved in firelight sweet ; Not ancient, sculptured walls and solitude. Once more he raised the paper to the flame, And ran his old eyes o er the kingly page, 140 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. As reading to himself: " Raoul de Lys And Robert de Quercy." " Those are our names. We come announcing that the King will follow : Make haste, that we receive him not with thin And hungry looks and jaded courtesies." " Sir Knights, you are my prisoners ! Mark you, It is the King s command, writ on this page ! More, you must be apart : such is his word." " Tis plain as day," said Count de Quercy. " Look ! " " In faith," said Raoul de Lys, " tis written here." " Yes, there is no gainsaying it," said Quercy. " Nor understanding royal whims," quoth Raoul. " Haste, gentlemen ; tis late. Come you, De Quercy ; And stay you here, Baron de Lys." "Well, then, Good-night ! " said gay De Lys. " Be cheery, friend : 111 luck comes not within these walls, that hold My golden Butterfly with silken touch, That floats around the dark to light it up ! And there s a dark-eyed Nightingale, that sits, THE WEDDING PRESENTS. 141 And sings alone unto her faithful heart : You ll make her fill this forest of grim walls With sweetest music on the morrow, knight ! " The door swung close ; and Raoul sat alone Upon a step of stone, and pondered long. " Heyday ! " he said at length. " Fie, fie ! art thou A sick old woman, hearing sounds, who shakes At panelled doors, and ever thinks to run Away from Death ? That is the road to him ! Good knight doth never keep so far away From his dry bones as when he doth forget The very sound of his old rattling sides, And sleeps as free as though this Death were not ! " And so he slept, and dreamed he caught ah ! sweet The Butterfly within his longing hand ! She quivered softly, and was loath to go ; When, lo ! the Dragon-fly did prick his heart, And down she fluttered, leaving but the dust From off her wings to soothe the mortal pains ! He woke, then fell to troublous sleep again. But hark ! he starts from sleep ! " Speak ! who is there ? " He stares with blurred eyes upon a light 142 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. That breaks upon his dark and silent room. He shakes the haziness away, and sees A panel opening in the wall, so gray, So strong, and so relentless, when he slept. "Tis Gisla standing there, so fair and pale ; Her rich hair thrust beneath a golden comb ; Her beauteous throat half screened from midnight damp With silken scarf, that hung adown her arm And swept the floor, unheeded in her chill And trembling haste. She draws De Quercy by The hand, and gazes in such frighted love Upon him with her lustrous eyes, he goes In deep amazement whither way she leads. He leaped unto his feet, De Lys. Ah ! now He was awake, and forward rushed ! " But where Is she ? where is Eotrude ? " " Hush, hush ! she comes ! " And Gisla spoke in whispers. " Death is near ! Yes, Death is waiting for you, Count de Lys ! And him, for Robert ! O my Jesu ! quick ! He means to see you lying cold and still ! He hates you, knights ! You were his father s friends ! You love his daughters ! Sainted soul ! he left Them all alone, with none to care for them, His orphan children, save the two they love. THE WEDDING PRESENTS. 143 Save me ! O Robert ! tis a cruel life ! No : save thyself, I pray ! Go, go, with Raoul ! Go hence, while I can see thine eye is bright, Arid looks on me, and knows me yet thy Gisla ! For he will take thee if thou goest not ; And they will carry thee awaj r , so still, With not a word of anger from thy lips. Thou wilt not raise thy hand, or mind the road That leads where all is cold ; nor trouble thee About the sisters in the castle left. Thou wilt be dead, De Quercy ! hear st thou not ? " " Calm thee, dear Gisla! See! I kiss thy hand; And I will not be dead! Thou lt see me live To dare thy villain brother; ay, just Heaven ! " " Cursed be the prince who plays so foul with us, His royal father s friends ! " said Count de Lys. " We were his favored pages," said De Quercy. " Ah, yes ! " spoke Gisla softer through her tears ; " And many a night you told us how you watched The stars with him, till morning came upon The castle turrets, where he loved to be With none but you and his high thoughts, and Heaven." 144 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. " He dare not do the deed ! for Charlemagne Is scarcely gone from out his seat of glory, Or wonted to the grave s dead company; And Louis hath not got a hold upon The sceptre yet " " He holds it tight enough To punish coward subjects ! ha ! " And there He stood the King! upon the silent steps That ran back into darkness, dragging forth To light the fluttering and fair Rotrude, Surprised and spent with his unbending grasp : Her soft locks shook around the brother s arm, And swam her deep-blue eyes in tears of strange Amazement, as she looked into his face. Four solemn guards stood silently behind, Hooded, and waiting for the King s command. " Nay, sit you down, Rotrude, my little dove ! Of what are you afraid ? Is t not your brother ? So nestle down upon this seat of stone : We re not a hawk to scare the pretty birds. Come, hear you what we have to say : we know The way about here in the dark, yet came We not through all these winding stairways but To frighten our dear sisters. Look you here ! THE AVEDDING PRESENTS. These gentlemen will lay aside their hoods, And help us to a little ceremony." " A ceremony ? " quoth the knights at once. Ay ! surely as the nails did pierce Him on The cross, our reign we will inaugurate Ha, I with a double wedding. Gisla, you Shall marry Robert, Count de Quercy. You, Rotrude, will you not take Raoul de Lys? You might have looked a trifle higher ; but We will not quarrel with a lady s choice : And then these knights were loved of him, our Sire. Here are our wedding presents to your lords ! " And forth the guards presented to their gaze Two costly suits of armor finely wrought. They blushed, the knights, and thanked their gracious King, And eyed the pieces from afar, abashed, And stammered broken words of loyalty. " We have but little faith in human thanks," Said Louis ; " and we shall not look for much. Go you, good sisters ! wear what pleases you ; Stay not to look on men-at-arms, while they 10 146 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Are at their toilet, like the peasant girls Who stare upon the pikemen, curious To watch while they equip their boorish selves. Now, gentlemen ! will you put on your suits ? " The four attendants brought the pieces near. The knights surveyed them with delighted eyes ; Yet cautious moved, irresolute, and smiled With courteous grace; and lingering, half in doubt, Half in admiring joy, they stood awhile, As in a maze of sweet uncertainty. The King grew restless. Come, Sir Knights ! you are Not so impatient for your brides as we." So, then, the guards put on the thick brassards, That fitted wondrous well upon the knights ; And helmets, with the visor closed to light. Ere long they were equipped, and more, in faith, For battle than for wedding festival ! The four still men then led them to their seats, And touched a spring that shut with chilling sound : The bridegrooms with a nervous tremor start ; Then presently their heads sink drooping down Upon their breasts, as though they mused of love, And festive halls, and merry wedding bells. THE WEDDING PRESENTS. 147 The belfry of St. Jacques rang out the hour ; And in they came, the lovely, blushing brides ! The King turned round, and looked upon the knights, And smiled, and pointed to them, sitting on Their oaken chairs ; and so went gently out. And foremost was Rotrude: among her curls, So fair and light, a cord of blue and gold Lay hid, and wound above her starry eyes ; While on the cold and dusty floor she trailed The foldings of her silken azure gown. And Gisla lingered slow behind, with robe Of richest crimson, unadorned ; and but A gem, which "Robert gave her, in her hair. The lovers sprang not up to meet the brides ; But there they sat, and spoke they not a word. " Ah, Raoul ! wouldst thou make me think thou art Not glad ? Thou canst not cheat thy Rotrude so ! Through all thy heavy armor, I can tell How thou art smiling underneath. The saints ! How cold and stiff it is ! Thou canst not move : Thou look st as if thou wert arrayed for fight, And not to kiss Rotrude. Come, speak ! or I Shall weep ! Thou didst not use io tease me so ! 148 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. See ! I am crying now like foolish girl : Thou canst not feel the tears through all this steel." Then Gisla came anear with wondering eyes : God ! Robert ! Robert ! He is dead, is dead ! O Jesu ! Tear it off! He cannot breathe." And Gisla threw her arms, in frenzied strength, About his metal form, and wrenched the springs, And cold and pale and all unconscious fell Within her noble lover s warm, dead arms ! Ay ! they were all equipped for hardest fight ! Alone, beneath the armor s night, that shut So thick around, they fought for blessed air, One moment, in a desperate agony, And yielded to the awful conqueror, Death ! , NOTE. The author is indebted for the facts of this poem to Dr. Doran s " Knights and their Days." The two suits of armor were sent from Eavenna to Charlemagne. They were so constructed, that all their openings closed at once by a spring. TIME, THE HEALER. 149 TIME, THE HEALER. BLESSED be Time, that waiteth never, never; But stealeth, slow and sure, upon its way ! Yes, God be thanked that Now is not Forever ; That man can look up from his grief, and say, " It was ; " when, though his wounds be stiff and sore, They do not stare upon him, as before, With open, mocking eyes ! For thou, great Past ! Dost take our pains unto thy bosom vast. They come apace with rude and blasting breath : As the fell plague, that brings the thrill of death, Yet creepeth onward from the house, while men Pick up their dead, and dare to speak again ; So they to thy deep presence pass, and then We scan them with a close and steadfast glance, E en though, before, one look on them askance Was terrible, as on they did advance ! 150 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Ah, Past ! how still, serene, thou art always ! We, too, do grow serener as we gaze, And stand in statue-like repose the while, Even as the Virgin Mother in her shrine, With hands calm folded on her breast benign ; And dream of all the sacredness divine Around the martyr-heart, till we do smile Upon our earthly pains, and learn to know Joy is not best of all things here below ! THE ALPS. 151 THE ALPS. THROUGHOUT the early morn we crept along Amid the genial valleys decked with vines, And hamlets smiling in their peacefulness, And hoary towers o erlooking them above, With chapel readj r , as of old, for prayer. The song of Troubadour at break of day Chimed soft and plaintive through our morning dreams ; And Baron s blue-eyed daughters, gleaming out, Around gray turrets waved their golden hair ; While from dear kindly monks in cloister-walls Came soft and lulling Aves, intermixt With distant ring and clash of knightly sword. We seemed verily to steal among The mellow pages of old, fond Romance. But hush! rouse up, my heart! What sa\v we then, As forth we came from out the valley s depth ? The Alps ! the Alps ! Avaunt, old Past ! and take 152 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Thy mouldy relics all along with thee, And pray and mutter o er them as thou wilt ! Yes, there they stood together, side by side, Their foreheads bared to heaven as worshippers, Perennial freshness resting on their brows ; The glow of youth, the strength of manhood, there ; And there the deep serenity of age. My heart rang out in high festivity : I heard them sing a never-ending song, " There is no time with God ! His beauty was And is, and shall be ever, evermore ! " DANTE AND BEATRICE. 153 SCHEFFER S PICTURE OF DANTE AND BEATRICE. UPON the summit of celestial joy, Which doth begin and end in peace, she stands, And reaches out to him her blessed hands. The peace that groweth with the pains of earth Was hers ; and now the joy of purer rest, The peace that sinketh deeper in the breast. She whelmeth all his soul in tenderest awe And most unutterable reverence : lie gazeth breathless, lest she float from thence. " O woman ! freshening presence ! far more sweet Than the celestial gales to pilgrim given The flutter of thy garments throughout heaven." She raiseth up her finger in rebuke : " Thou must not look for me, but higher light ; Else will the Father veil me from thy sight." 154 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. And, oh ! she looks so far, so far beyond, An everlasting vision floating lies Mirrored within the azure of her eyes. He bows his head upon his ardent heart ; He calms it with a spirit struggling yet, And stands subdued before the Infinite. She watches him with parted lips, and smiles : He looks ; he catches quick the gleams that play Around her mouth ; and, lo ! she soars away. " O Love supreme ! " he cries, " thou rt all in all Yet thou hast deigned to robe thyself for me Within her angel-like humanity. Then bid this most tumultuous spirit lean Upon her calmness : so together we May go up to the heavenly mount and Thee." CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 155 CHARLOTTE BRONTE. I SEEM to stand upon Life s very verge ; I ve traversed all the experience which it brings r I am not old ; but I have seen all things. Strange waves have swept my youth with whelmin< surge, And washed it bare of all illusions sweet, Even as the ocean-rock stands bleak and cold ; Her young green moss, and pebbles all of gold, And rainbow-shells, swept off by tides that beat. I will not be like that gray rock at sea ! My rainbow-hopes I ll bring from out the deep, And lay them where Life s floods can never sweep : Though now my soul, and not my hair, is gray, When fades my hair, again my soul shall be All young and blooming for Eternal Day ! 156 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. TO THE book is laid within thy guiding hand ; Do with it what thou wilt, so I may see Thy smile approving, with a sweet command To high and nobler labors urging me. Along the golden heights of Poesy, Or tender vales of duty and of joy, In both my ways, it is thy earnest eye That points me upward in my loved employ : Dear Faith and Poesy ! may they abide With us until the night in day is glorified ! THE END. ERRATA. Page 59, line 2, for " some pale " read " the great. Page 77. line 1G, for " line read " lure." RETURN TO MAIN CIRCULATION ALL BOOKS ARE SUBJECT TO RECALL RENEW BOOKS BY CALLING 642-3405 DUE AS STAMPED BELOW SENT ON ILL rro n 1QQft FED i U 1330 I. C. BERKELEY FORM NO. DD6 BERKELEY, CA 94720 YB 1353! U.C.BERKELEY LIBRARIES