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THE POEMS 
 
 OF 
 
 BAYARD TAYLOR 
 
 WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY 
 
 ALBERT H. SMYTH 
 
 AUTHOR OF "THE LIFE OF BAYARD TAYLOR 
 EDITOR " SHAKESPEARIANA," ETC. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 THOMAS Y. CROWELL & CO. 
 
 PUBLISHERS 
 
Y^> 
 
 9.-^ 
 
 USRI^RY of CONGRESS 
 
 Two Cooies Received 
 
 JUN 10 1907 
 
 /tflASS <^ KXC, N«. 
 COPY B. 
 
 \\ 
 
 Copyright, 1907, 
 By THOMAS Y. CROWELL & CO. 
 
TO MY FRIENDS. 
 
 Shall this an emblem be of that blue sky 
 Wherein are set the golden stars of song ? 
 
 Drops the reluctant world its doubting cry, 
 To give me room among the shining throng ? 
 
 Ah, vain the question ! 'Tis enough to know 
 My heart in song has blossomed and has bled : 
 
 Has learned with love of living bards to glow, 
 And touched the garments of the laurelled dead. 
 
 You, also, Friends, that wear the Artist's crown, 
 Or, wearing not, the crown to others bring, 
 
 You do not ask my measure of renown. 
 But wait, content to hear, as I to sing. 
 
 Your love upholds me in the silent days. 
 And in the tuneful nights I give to Art ; 
 
 These leaves are yours, to whom their speech betrays 
 The changeful fancy and the changeless heart. 
 
 B. T. 
 Cedarcroft, May, 1864. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Introduction xi 
 
 The Poet's Journal ^. . . . i 
 
 Preface 3 
 
 Inscription ^ 
 
 First Evening 7 
 
 Darkness .13 
 
 The Torso 14 
 
 The Dead March 16 
 
 On the Headland 17 
 
 Marah 18 
 
 The Voice of the Tempter 19 
 
 Exorcism 20 
 
 Squandered Lives 22 
 
 Indifference . .23 
 
 A Symbol 24 
 
 Second Evening 29 
 
 Atonement 31 
 
 December 32 
 
 Sylvan Spirits 33 
 
 The Lost May 35 
 
 Churchyard Roses 36 
 
 Autumnal Dreams 38 
 
 In Winter 39 
 
 Young Love 40 
 
 The Chapel 42 
 
 If Love should come Again 43 
 
 Third Evening 47 
 
 The Return of Spring 5° 
 
 Morning . . . . . . . • • -5^ 
 
 Questions 53 
 
 The Vision 54 
 
 V 
 
Vi CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Love Returned 55 
 
 Love Justified 57 
 
 A Woman 5^ 
 
 The Count of Gleichen 59 
 
 Before the Bridal 6i 
 
 Possession 62 
 
 Under the Moon . . 63 
 
 The Mystic Summer 65 
 
 A Watch of the Night 68 
 
 The Father 68 
 
 The Mother 70 
 
 The Family 71 
 
 Poems of the Orient. 
 
 Proem Dedicatory 77 
 
 A Psean to the Dawn 81 
 
 The Poet in the East 83 
 
 The Temptation of Hassan ben Khaled .... 85 
 
 The Arab Warrior 97 
 
 Arab Prayer . 98 
 
 El Khalil 99 
 
 Ode to Indolence loi 
 
 Song 102 
 
 Amran's Wooing 103 
 
 A Pledge to Hafiz 116 
 
 The Garden of Irem 117 
 
 The Birth of the Horse 119 
 
 The Wisdom of Ali 1 20 
 
 An Oriental Idyl 122 
 
 The Angel of Patience 123 
 
 Bedouin Song 125 
 
 Desert Hymn to the Sun . . . . . . .126 
 
 Nilotic Drinking-Song 129 
 
 Camadeva 130 
 
 Nubia 131 
 
 Kilimandjaro . . . . . . . , .132 
 
 The Birth of the Prophet 134 
 
 To the Nile 137 
 
 Hassan to his Mare . . . . . . . -139 
 
 Charmian 140 
 
CONTENTS. vii 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Smyrna I43 
 
 To a Persian Boy I43 
 
 The GoV.let I44 
 
 The Arab to the Palm 147 
 
 Aurum Potabile 14^ 
 
 On the Sea 15^ 
 
 Tyre . . . . . . • • ■ • • 152 
 
 An Answer I53 
 
 Gulistan I54 
 
 Jerusalem 1 55 
 
 The Voyage of a Dream 158 
 
 L'Envoi i"2 
 
 Passing the Sirens 167 
 
 Romances and Lyrics. 
 
 Porphyrogenitus 'o' 
 
 Metempsychosis of the Pine 183 
 
 The Vineyard-Saint 187 
 
 Hylas ^90 
 
 Kubleh 194 
 
 Love and Solitude ^99 
 
 Mon-da-Min 207 
 
 The Soldier and the Pard 219 
 
 Ariel in the Cloven Pine 227 
 
 The Song of the Camp 230 
 
 Icarus 231 
 
 The Bath ^35 
 
 The Fountain of Trevi 237 
 
 My Mission 238 
 
 Proposal 240 
 
 Renunciation 24' 
 
 The Quaker Widow 24 5 
 
 Anastasia '^^ 
 
 The Palm and the Pine 2,9 
 
 Over-Possession 5' 
 
 On Leaving California ^53 
 
 Euphorion ^^5 
 
 Wind and Sea ^57 
 
 My Dead ^ 
 
vm 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 The Lost Crown 259 
 
 Studies for Pictures 261 
 
 Sunken Treasures 266 
 
 A laitasy 267 
 
 The Vu ag rs 268 
 
 Mem.)ry 269 
 
 The Mariners 
 Hymn to Air 
 Song . 
 
 270 
 
 272 
 
 274 
 
 The Mystery 275 
 
 A Picture 277 
 
 In the Meadows 278 
 
 The Winter Solstice 280 
 
 Saturday Night at Sea 281 
 
 Song 282 
 
 The Phantom 283 
 
 The Consolation of Song 285 
 
 Soldier's Song 286 
 
 The Shepherd's Lament 287 
 
 The Garden of Roses 288 
 
 The Three Songs 290 
 
 Californian Ballads and Poems. 
 
 Manuela 293 
 
 The Fight of Paso del Mar 296 
 
 The Pine Forest of Monterey 298 
 
 El Canelo 302 
 
 The Summer Camp 303 
 
 The Bison Track 309 
 
 Earlier Poems. 
 
 The Harp : An Ode 
 Serapion 
 Taurus . 
 The Odalisque 
 Sorrowful Music . 
 Autumnal Vespers 
 Ode to Shelley . 
 Sicilian Wine 
 Summer's Bacchanal 
 
 315 
 
 317 
 321 
 324 
 325 
 326 
 
 329 
 331 
 334 
 
CONTENTS. ix 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Storm-Lines -^c 
 
 The Two Visions ~^- 
 
 The Life of Earth -^g 
 
 Storm Song ^^^ 
 
 Song 
 
 The Waves 
 
 343 
 
 341 
 
 Song 
 
 Wordsworth ^.^ 
 
 Sonnet 344 
 
 The Tomb of Charlemagne -^aa 
 
 The W^ayside Dream ^45 
 
 Steyermark 340 
 
 To a Bavarian Girl ^co 
 
 In Italy ^cj 
 
 A Bacchic Ode •7C2 
 
 A Funeral Thought 3C4 
 
 An Hour 3^p 
 
 The Norseman's Ride ^cy 
 
 The Voice of the Fire 359 
 
 A Requiem in the North 361 
 
 The Continents 363 
 
 The Mountains 366 
 
 L'Envoi 366 
 
 Since 1861. 
 
 Through Baltimore 371 
 
 To the American People 373 
 
 Scott and the Veteran 375 
 
 March 378 
 
 A Thousand Years 379 
 
 A Day in March 381 
 
 The Test 382 
 
 The Neva 384 
 
INTRODUCTION.^ 
 
 Bayard Taylor was born in Kennett Square, Chester 
 County, Pennsylvania, January ii, 1825. The story of his 
 life is the history of a struggle. His career began in humble 
 circumstances, and ended in splendor. The love of letters 
 was awakened in him in childhood; he yielded passionate 
 homage to the great names of Hterature. When he was 
 seven years old he grieved over the death of Goethe and of 
 Scott, and in the same year (1832) composed his first poems. 
 His early surroundings tended to repress his enthusiasms. 
 He inherited two strains of blood, German and English. 
 By the first he was related to the Lancaster Mennonites 
 who had migrated from East Switzerland, and who spoke 
 the Pennsylvania Dutch dialect; by the other he was kin 
 to the seventeenth-century Mendenhall family of Wiltshire, 
 and the Cheshire Taylors. He was raised in a Quaker 
 atmosphere which suppressed imagination and emotion. 
 
 When he was nineteen years old, he said he felt as if he 
 were sitting in an exhausted receiver, while the air which 
 should nourish his spiritual life could only be found in 
 distant lands. The courage, restless curiosity, and push of 
 the country lad found a way to finer air. He published in 
 1844 a httle volume of poems called "Ximena, or the Battle 
 of the Sierra Morena." With the small profits of this 
 Hterary venture, and a few dollars advanced by Philadelphia 
 editors. Bayard Taylor, in company with two friends, left 
 New York, July i, 1844, bound for Liverpool. For two 
 1 Copyright, 1897, by R. S. Peale and J. A. HiU. 
 
xii INTRODUCTION. 
 
 years he travelled on foot through Europe, eagerly studying 
 the memorials of art and history, enduring every hardship 
 and privation, often penniless and hungry, never vvithout 
 hope and courage, and always welcoming returning joy. 
 
 "Born in the New World, ripened in the old," Berthold 
 Auerbach said of him. This first tramp trip abroad was 
 symbolic of his whole life. It showed splendid energy 
 and acute sensibility; and it was really Bayard Taylor's 
 university education, supplying the deficiencies of his simple 
 life and country schooling. Although a safe and at times 
 brilliant Hterary critic, and although his wide, reading quali- 
 fied him for the professorship of German literature at Cornell 
 University, he was not a scholar. He was never sure of his 
 Latin, and Greek he did not begin to study until he was 
 fifty. His education came largely from travel; he picked 
 his knowledge from the living bush. 
 
 It was as a traveller that he was most widely known, 
 though it was the reputation that he least cared for. His 
 great success as a public lecturer was largely due to his 
 fame as a traveller. He published eleven books of travel, 
 beginning with ''Views Afoot, or Europe seen with Knap- 
 sack and Staff" (1846), — a work so popular that it went 
 through twenty editions in ten years. 
 
 N. P. Willis introduced Bayard Taylor to the literary 
 society of New York; and before the end of January, 1848, 
 Horace Greeley offered him a situation on the Tribune. 
 In one capacity or another he continued to serve the Tribune 
 until his death; and he was one of the most eagerly indus- 
 trious and prolific writers on the staff. For the Tribune 
 he visited California in 1849; ^^^ his letters from the gold- 
 fields were repubhshed in "Eldorado, or Adventures in the 
 Path of Empire." 
 
 Two years of distant travel, in Syria, Palestine, and Egypt, 
 proceeding by the White Nile to the country of the Shillooks, 
 
INTRODUCTION. xiii 
 
 gave him the materials for "A Journey to Central Africa," 
 ''The Lands of the Saracen," and ''A Visit to India, China, 
 and Japan." 
 
 Subsequent journeys resulted in "Northern Travel," 
 ''Travels in Greece and Russia," "At Home and Abroad," 
 "Colorado: a Summer Trip," and "Byways of Europe." 
 The chief merit of Taylor's books of travel is repertorial. 
 They tell of adventure, of courage, and persistence. They 
 make no pretence to antiquarian knowledge, they attempt 
 no theory or speculation; but simply and vividly they tell 
 the visible aspects of the countries they describe. Archi- 
 tecture, scenery, and habits of life stand in clear outline, 
 and justify the criticism that has named Bayard Taylor 
 "the best American reporter of scenes and incidents." 
 
 Bayard Taylor's Hterary triumphs were not made in Eng- 
 lish literature alone. His inclinations were toward German 
 life and letters. Goethe was his chief literary passion. Like 
 him, he yearned after "the unshackled range of all expe- 
 rience." The calm self -poise and symmetrical culture of 
 Goethe fascinated him. He craved intellectual novelty, 
 and continually wheeled into new orbits; seeking, as he 
 wrote to E. C. Stedman, "the establishing of my own 
 entdecheia — the making of all that is possible out of such 
 powers as I may have, without violently forcing or distort- 
 ing them." Astonishing versatility is the chief note of his 
 life and of his inclusive literary career. He was famous 
 as a traveller, and successful as a diplomatist in Russia and 
 in Germany. To his eleven volumes of travels he added 
 four novels, several short stories, a history of Germany, 
 two volumes of critical essays and studies in German and 
 English Hterature, a famous translation of "Faust," and 
 thirteen volumes of poems comprising almost every variety 
 of verses — odes, idyls, ballads, lyrics, pastorals, dramatic 
 romances^ and lyrical dramas. 
 
xiv INTRODUCTION. 
 
 For seven years he worked upon his translation of "Faust," 
 which he completed in 1870. The immense difficulties of 
 the poem he attacked with unresting energy, and with a 
 singularly intimate knowledge of the German language. 
 He undertook to render the poem in the original metres, 
 and in this respect succeeded beyond all other translators. 
 The dedication ''An Goethe" which Taylor published in 
 his translation is a masterpiece of German verse. It can 
 stand side by side with Goethe's own dedication without 
 paling a syllable. Taylor was completely saturated with 
 German Hterature; and in his lectures upon Lessing, Klop- 
 stock, Schiller, and Goethe, his illustrative quotations were 
 the genuine droppings from the comb. He was widely read 
 and appreciated in Germany. When he delivered in Ger- 
 man, at Weimar, his lecture upon American literature, the 
 whole court was present; and among his auditors were the 
 grandchildren of Carl August, Goethe, Schiller, Herder, 
 and Wieland. When he was minister to Berlin, every 
 facility was given him to pursue those studies in the lives 
 of Goethe and Schiller which would have resulted in the 
 crowning work of his life, but which were destined never 
 to be completed. 
 
 It was partly with the hope of working a lucrative literary 
 vein that would take the place of the repugnant lecturing 
 trade, that he turned his attention to the novel. ''Hannah 
 Thurston" and "The Story of Kennett" are attempts to 
 interpret the life of his native region in Pennsylvania. The 
 beautiful pastoral landscapes of the Chester Valley, and the 
 homely life of its fertile farms, he dwells affectionately 
 upon; but the curious crotchets and fads of the Quaker 
 community in which he grew up are ridiculed and rebuked. 
 Spiritualism, vegetarianism, teetotalism, and all the troop 
 of unreasoning "isms" of the hour enter into the plot of 
 "Hannah Thurston." "John Godfrey's Fortunes" is con- 
 
INTRODUCTION. XV 
 
 structed out of the author's literary and social experiences 
 in New York about 1850, and is to a considerable extent 
 autobiographical. 
 
 Bayard Taylor's darling ambition was to be remembered 
 as a poet. However he might experiment in other fields 
 of literature, and however enviable the distinctions he might 
 win in statecraft and in scholarship, nothing could reconcile 
 him to the slightest sense of failure in his poetic endeavor. 
 He had real lyric genius, as is abundantly shown in the 
 '' Poems of the Orient." ''The Bedouin Song " — paralleled 
 only in Shelley — and "The Song of the Camp" are two 
 lyrics that will last as long as anything in American poetry. 
 The sadness of Bayard Taylor's life was its frustrated pur- 
 pose. It was a full and happy life as a whole, for his work 
 was a joy to him, and he dwelt always in an atmosphere of 
 generous and noble thoughts; yet the reward often seemed 
 inadequate to the high endeavor. He had a generous plan 
 of life, he was ambitious for himself and family. He ac- 
 quired a large estate, and built an expensive house — Cedar- 
 croft — at Kennett Square, and lived an open, generous, 
 hospitable life. Involved in heavy domestic expenses, he 
 never knew the value of freedom. His life became a struggle 
 for the means to live, and he had neither time nor oppor- 
 tunity to refine his exquisite sense of lyric harmony. 
 
 He planned great poems like "Prince Deukalion" and 
 "The Masque of the Gods," which insensibly convey the 
 impression of vast movements in human affairs, of the 
 strange stirrings of nations and races, but which are dis- 
 tinctly poems of the intellect. He had splendid rhetoric, 
 and his verse was sonorous, resonant, and at times — as in 
 the "National Ode " — stately. Had he devoted himself 
 to song, he would have been a noble poet; but he had a 
 dozen kinds of talent, and he had restless curiosity and 
 ambition. His health failed under the stress of labor and 
 
X\n INTR OD UC TION. 
 
 the strain of care. In 1878 he was appointed minister to 
 Germany. At last success seemed to be attained, and the 
 long struggle was over. But his vital powers were over- 
 taxed. He took the ovations of his friends with an abandon 
 which left him physically exhausted long before he sailed. 
 He died in Berlin, December 19, 1878. 
 
 Albert H. Smyth. 
 
THE POET'S JOURNAL. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 THE RETURN OF THE GODDESS. 
 
 Not as in youth, with steps outspeeding morn, 
 
 And cheeks all bright, from rapture of the way, 
 But in strange mood, half cheerful, half forlorn, 
 She comes to me to-day. 
 
 Does she forget the trysts we used to keep, 
 
 When dead leaves rustled on autumnal ground, 
 Or the lone garret, whence she banished sleep 
 With threats of silver sound ? 
 
 Does she forget how shone the happy eyes 
 
 When they beheld her, — how the eager tongue 
 Plied its swift oar through wave-like harmonies. 
 To reach her where she sung? 
 
 How at her sacred feet I cast me down? 
 
 How she upraised me to her bosom fair, 
 And from her garland shred the first light crown 
 That ever pressed my hair? 
 
 Though dust is on the leaves, her breath will bring 
 
 Their freshness back : why lingers she so long ? 
 The pulseless air is waiting for her wing, 
 Dumb with unuttered song. 
 3 
 
THE POET'S JOURNAL. 
 
 If tender doubt delay her on the road, 
 
 O let her haste to find the doubt belied 1 
 If shame for love unworthily bestowed, 
 
 That shame shall melt in pride. 
 
 If she but smile, the crystal calm shall break 
 
 In music, sweeter than it ever gave, 
 As when a breeze breathes o'er some sleeping lake, 
 And laughs in every wave. 
 
 The ripples of awakened song shall die 
 
 Kissing her feet, and woo her not in vain, 
 Until, as once, upon her breast I lie — 
 Pardoned, and loved again ! 
 
 B. T. 
 
INSCRIPTION. 
 
 TO THE MISTRESS OF CEDARCROFT. 
 
 I. 
 
 The evening shadows lengthen on the lawn : 
 Westward, our immemorial chestnuts stand, 
 
 A mount of shade; but o'er the cedars drawn, 
 Between the hedge-row trees, in many a band 
 
 Of brightening gold, the sunshine lingers on. 
 And soon will touch our oaks with parting hand 
 
 And down the distant valley all is still. 
 
 And flushed with purple smiles the beckoning hill. 
 
 II. 
 
 Come, leave the flowery terrace, leave the beds 
 Where Southern children wake to Northern air: 
 
 Let yon mimosas droop their tufted heads. 
 These myrtle-trees their nuptial beauty wear, 
 
 And while the dying day reluctant treads 
 From tree-top unto tree-top, with me share 
 
 The scene's idylHc peace, the evening 's close. 
 
 The balm of twilight, and the land's repose. 
 
 m. 
 Come, for my task is done : the task that drew 
 
 My footsteps from the chambers of the Day, — 
 That held me back, Beloved, even from you, 
 5 
 
THE POETS JOURNAL. 
 
 That are my daylight: for the Poet's way 
 Turns into many a lonely avenue 
 
 WTiere none may follow. He must sing his lay 
 First to himself, then to the One most dear; 
 Last, to the world. Come to my side, and hear! 
 
 IV. 
 
 The poems ripened in a heart at rest, 
 
 A life that first through you is free and strong. 
 
 Take them and warm them in your partial breast, 
 Before they try the common air of song ! 
 
 Fame won at home is of all fame the best: 
 Crown me your poet, and the critics wrong 
 
 Shall harmless strike where you in love have smiled. 
 
 Wife of my heart, and mother of my child ! 
 
THE POETS JOURNAL. 
 
 FIRST EVENING. 
 
 The day had come, the day of many years. 
 
 My bud of hope, thorned round with guarding fears, 
 
 And sealed with frosts of oft-renewed delay, 
 
 Burst into sudden bloom — it was the day 1 
 
 ''Ernest will come !" the early sunbeams cried; 
 
 "Will come!" was breathed through all the woodlands 
 
 wide; 
 "Will come, will come!" said cloud, and brook, and bird; 
 And when the hollow roll of wheels was heard 
 Across the bridge, it thundered, "He is near!" 
 And then my heart made answer, "He is here !" 
 
 Ernest was here, and now the day had gone 
 Like other days, yet wild and swift and sweet, — 
 And yet prolonged, as if with whirling feet 
 One troop of duplicated Hours sped on. 
 And one trod out the moments lingeringly : 
 So distant seemed the lonely dawn from me. 
 But all was well. He paced the new-mown lawn. 
 With Edith at his side, and, while my firs 
 Stood bronzed with sunset, happy glances cast 
 On the familiar landmarks of the Past. 
 I heard a gentle laugh : the laugh was hers. 
 
 7 
 
8 THE POET'S JOURNAL. 
 
 "Confess it," she exclaimed, "I recognize, 
 
 No less than you, the features of the place. 
 
 So often have I seen it with the eyes 
 
 Your memory gave me : yea, your very face. 
 
 With every movement of the theme, betrayed 
 
 That here the sunshine lay, and there the shade." 
 
 "A proof!" cried Ernest. "Let me be your guide," 
 
 She said, "and speak not: Philip shall decide." 
 
 To them I v^ent, at beckon of her hand. 
 
 A moment she the mellow landscape scanned 
 
 In seeming doubt, but only to prolong 
 
 A witching aspect of uncertainty, 
 
 And the soft smile in Ernest's watching eye: 
 
 "Yonder," she said, "(I see I am not wrong, 
 
 By Philip's face,) you built your hermit seat 
 
 Against the rock, among the scented fern, 
 
 Where summer lizards played about your feet; 
 
 And here, beside us, is the tottering urn 
 
 You cracked in fixing firmly on its base; 
 
 And here — yes, yes ! — this is the very place — 
 
 I know the wild vine and the sassafras — 
 
 Where you and Philip, lying in the grass, 
 
 Disowned the world, renounced the race of men, 
 
 And you all love, except your own for him. 
 
 Until, through that, all love came back again." 
 
 Here Edith paused; but Ernest's eyes were dim. 
 
 He kissed her, gave a loving hand to me, 
 
 And spoke: "Ah, Philip, Philip, those were days 
 
 We dare remember now, when only blaze 
 
 Far-ofiF, the storm's black edges brokenly. 
 
 Who thinks, at night, that morn will ever be? 
 
 Who knows, far out upon the central sea, 
 
 That anywhere is land ? And yet, a shore 
 
 Has set behind us, and will rise before : 
 
FIRST EVENING. 
 
 A past foretells a future." "Blessed be 
 That Past !" I answered, "on whose bosom lay- 
 Peace, like a new-born child : and now, I see, 
 The child is man, begetting day by day 
 Some fresher joy, some other bliss, to make 
 Your life the fairer for his mother's sake." 
 
 Deeper beneath the oaks the shadows grew : 
 
 The twilight glimmer from their tops withdrew. 
 
 And purple gloomed the distant hills, and sweet 
 
 The sudden breath of evening rose, with balm 
 
 Of grassy meadows : in the upper calm 
 
 The pulses of the stars began to beat : 
 
 The fire-flies twinkled : through the lindens went 
 
 A rustle, as of happy leaves composed 
 
 To airy sleep, of drowsy petals closed, 
 
 And the dark land lay silent and content. 
 
 We, too, were silent. Ernest walked, I knew, 
 
 With me, beneath the stars of other eves : 
 
 He heard, with me, the tongues of perished leaves: 
 
 Departed suns their trails of splendor drew 
 
 Across departed summers : whispers came 
 
 From voices, long ago resolved again 
 
 Into the primal Silence, and we twain, 
 
 Ghosts of our present selves, yet still the same, 
 
 As in a spectral mirror wandered there. 
 
 Its pain outlived, the Past was only fair. 
 
 Ten years had passed since I had touched his hand, 
 
 And felt upon my lips the brother-kiss 
 
 That shames not manhood, — years of quiet bliss 
 
 To me, fast-rooted on paternal land. 
 
 Mated, yet childless. He had journeyed far 
 
 Beyond the borders of my life, and whirled 
 
 Unresting round the vortex of the world, 
 
10 THE POET'S JOURNAL. 
 
 The reckless child of some eccentric star, 
 Careless of fate, yet with a central strength 
 I knew would hold his life in equipoise, 
 And bend his wandering energies, at length, 
 To the smooth orbit of serener joys. 
 Few were the winds that wafted to my nest 
 A leaf from him : I learned that he was blest, — 
 The late fulfilment of my prophecy, — 
 And then I felt that he must come to me, 
 The old, unswerving sympathy to claim; 
 And set my house in order for a guest 
 Long ere the message of his coming came. 
 
 In gentle terraces my garden fell 
 Down to the rolling lawn. On one side rose. 
 Flanking the layers of bloom, a bolder swell 
 With laurels clad, and every shrub that grows 
 Upon our native hills, a bosky mound. 
 Whence the commingling valleys might be seen 
 Bluer and lovelier through the gaps of green . 
 The rustic arbor which the summit crowned 
 Was woven of shining smilax, trumpet-vine, 
 Clematis, and the wild white eglantine. 
 Whose tropical luxuriance overhung 
 The interspaces of the posts, and made 
 For each sweet picture frames of bloom and shade. 
 It was my favorite haunt when I was young, 
 To read my poets, watch my sunset fade 
 Behind my father's hills, and, when the moon 
 Shed warmer silver through the nights of June, 
 Dream, as 'twere new, the universal dream. 
 This arbor, too, was Ernest's hermitage: 
 Here he had read to me his tear-stained page 
 Of sorrow, here renewed the pang supreme 
 
FIRST EVENING. U 
 
 Which burned his youth to ashes: here would try 
 To lay his burden in the hands of Song, 
 And make the Poet bear the Lover's wrong, 
 But still his heart impatiently would cry: 
 ''In vain, in vain ! You cannot teach to flow 
 In measured lines so measureless a woe. 
 First learn to slay this wild beast of despair, 
 Then from his harmless jaws your honey tear! " 
 
 Hither we came. Beloved hands had graced 
 
 The table with a flask of mellow juice, 
 
 Thereto the gentle herb that poets use 
 
 When Fancy droops, and in the corner placed 
 
 A lamp, that glimmered through its misty sphere 
 
 Like moonlit marble, on a pedestal 
 
 Of knotted roots, against the leafy wall. 
 
 The air was dry, the night was calm and clear, 
 
 And in the dying clover crickets chirped. 
 
 The Past, I felt, the Past alone usurped 
 
 Our thoughts, — the hour of confidence had come, 
 
 Of sweet confession, tender interchange. 
 
 Which drew our hearts together, yet with strange 
 
 Half-dread repelled them. Seeing Ernest dumb 
 
 With memories of the spot, as if to me 
 
 Belonged the right his secrets to evoke. 
 
 And Edith's eyes on mine, consentingly, 
 
 Conscious of all I wished to know, I spoke: 
 
 ''Dear Friend, one volume of your life I read 
 Beneath these vines : you placed it in my hand 
 And made it mine, — but how the tale has sped 
 Since then, I know not, or can understand 
 From this fair ending only. Let me see 
 The intervening chapters, dark and bright, 
 
1 2 THE POE T '5 JO URNAL. 
 
 In order, as you lived them. Give to-night 
 Unto the Past, dear Ernest, and to me!" 
 Thus I, with doubt and loving hesitance; 
 Lest I should touch a nerve he fain would hide; 
 But he, with calm and reassuring glance, 
 In which no troubled shadow lay, replied : 
 ''That mingled light and darkness are no more 
 In this new life, than are the sun and shade 
 Of painted landscapes : distant lies the shore 
 Where last we parted, Philip: how I made 
 The journey, what adventures on the road, 
 What haps I met, what struggles, what success 
 Of fame, or gold, or place, concerns you less. 
 Dear friend, than how I lost that sorest load 
 I started with, and came to dwell at last 
 In the House Beautiful. There but remains 
 A fragment here and there, — wild, broken strains 
 And scattered voices speaking from the Past." 
 **Let me those broken voices hear," I said, 
 ''And I shall know the rest." "Well — be it so. 
 You, who would write ' Resurgam ' o'er my dead, 
 The resurrection of my heart shall know." 
 
 Then Edith rose, and up the terraces 
 
 Went swiftly to the house; but soon we spied 
 
 Her white dress gleam, returning through the trees, 
 
 And, softly flushed, she came to Ernest's side, 
 
 A volume in her hand. But he delayed 
 
 Awhile his task, revolving leaf by leaf 
 
 With tender interest, now that ancient grief 
 
 No more had power to make his heart afraid; 
 
 For pain, that only lives in memory, 
 
 Like battle-scars, it is no pain to show. 
 
 "Here, Philip, are the secrets you would know," 
 
FIRST EVENING. 1 3 
 
 He said: ''However obscure the utterance be, 
 
 The lamp you lighted in the olden time 
 
 Will show my heart 's-blood beating through the rhyme: 
 
 A poet's journal, writ in fire and tears 
 
 At first, blind protestations, blinder rage, 
 
 (For you and Edith only, many a page !) 
 
 Then slow deliverance, with the gaps of years 
 
 Between, and final struggles into life. 
 
 Which the heart shrank from, as 'twere death instead." 
 
 Then, with a loving glance towards his wife. 
 
 Which she as fondly answered, thus he read : — 
 
 DARKNESS. 
 
 The thread I held has slipped from out my hand : 
 In this dark labyrinth, without a clew. 
 
 Groping for guidance, stricken blind, I stand, 
 A helpless child that knows not what to do. 
 
 When all the glory of the morn v/as mine, 
 The sudden night surprised me unawares: 
 
 I see no pitying star above me shine, 
 I hear no voice in answer to my prayers. 
 
 At every step, I stumble on the road; 
 
 Fain would I rest, the wild hours whirl me on; 
 What business have I in this blank abode, 
 
 Whence Love, and Hope, and even Faith, are gone ? 
 
 A child of summer, shivering in the cold, — 
 A son of light, by darkness overcome, — 
 
 A bird of air, my broken wings I fold, 
 A harp of joy, my shattered strings are dumb. 
 
1 4 THE POET'S JO VRNAL. 
 
 And every gift that Life to me had given 
 Lies at my feet, in useless fragments trod 
 
 There is no justice or in Earth or Heaven: 
 There is no pity in the heart of God. 
 
 THE TORSO. 
 I. 
 
 In clay the statue stood complete, 
 
 As beautiful a form, and fair, 
 As ever walked a Roman street 
 
 Or breathed the blue Athenian air: 
 
 The perfect limbs, divinely bare, 
 Their old, heroic freedom kept, 
 
 And in the features, fine and rare, 
 A calm, immortal sweetness slept. 
 
 n. 
 
 O'er common men it towered, a god. 
 And smote their meaner life with shame, 
 
 For while its feet the highway trod, 
 Its lifted brow was crowned with flame 
 And purified from touch of blame : 
 
 Yet wholly human was the face, 
 And over them who saw it came 
 
 The knowledge of their own disgrace. 
 
 III. 
 It stood, regardless of the crowd. 
 
 And simply showed what men might be: 
 Its solemn beauty disavowed 
 
 The curse of lost humanity. 
 
 Erect and proud, and pure and free. 
 
FIRST EVENING. 15 
 
 It overlooked each loathsome law 
 
 Whereunto others bend the knee, 
 And only what was noble saw. 
 
 IV. 
 
 The patience and the hope of years 
 Their final hour of triumph caught; 
 
 The clay was tempered with my tears, 
 The forces of my spirit wrought 
 With hands of fire to shape my thought, 
 
 That when, complete, the statue stood. 
 To marble resurrection brought. 
 
 The Master might pronounce it good. 
 
 But in the night an enemy. 
 
 Who could not bear the wreath should grace 
 My ready forehead, stole the key 
 
 And hurled my statue from its base; 
 
 And now its fragments strew the place 
 Where I had dreamed its shrine might be; 
 
 The stains of common earth deface 
 Its beauty and its majesty. 
 
 VI. 
 
 The torso prone before me lies; 
 
 The cloven brow is knit with pain : 
 Mute lips, and blank, reproachful eyes 
 
 Unto my hands appeal in vain. 
 
 My hands shall never work again : 
 My hope is dead, my strength is spent: 
 
 This fatal wreck shall now remain 
 The ruined sculptor's monument. 
 
1 6 THE POETS JOURNAL. 
 
 THE DEAD MARCH. 
 
 The April sky with sunshine filled the street, 
 And lightly fell the tread of pattering feet, 
 
 As on the last year's leaves the April rain. 
 The glaring houses wore a foreign grace; 
 A foreign sweetness shone on Labor's face. 
 
 And open lay, relaxed, the hand of Gain. 
 
 II. 
 
 My sorrow slept ; I breathed the peace of Spring. 
 One fledgling hope outreached a timorous wing: 
 
 Concealed, at least, and sacred was my pain, — 
 When, suddenly, the dreadful trumpets blew. 
 And every wind my gloomy secret knew. 
 
 And all the echoes hurled it back again. 
 
 m. 
 
 Before a stranger's corpse the trumpets cried 
 So bitterly, it seemed all love had died : 
 
 Then hollow horns took up the fatal strain. 
 Till tongues of fire went flashing through the air, 
 The myriad clamors of a sole despair. 
 
 The cry of grief that knows its cry is vain. 
 
 IV. 
 
 The dead was fortunate, — he could not hear : 
 The mourners comforted, behind his bier: 
 
 Thro' happy crowds advanced the funeral train 
 Mine was the sorrow, mine the deathlike pang. 
 And tears, that burned the eyelids as they sprang. 
 
 To hear the awful music of my pain. 
 
FIRST EVENING. 
 
 ON THE HEADLAND. 
 
 I SIT on the lonely headland, 
 Where the sea-gulls come and go : 
 
 The sky is gray above me, 
 And the sea is gray below. 
 
 There is no fisherman's pinnace 
 Homeward or outward bound; 
 
 I see no living creature 
 
 In the world's deserted round. 
 
 I pine for something human, 
 Man, woman, young or old, — 
 
 Something to meet and welcome, 
 Something to clasp and hold. 
 
 I have a mouth for kisses. 
 
 But there's no one to give and take; 
 I have a heart in my bosom 
 
 Beating for nobody's sake. 
 
 warmth of love that is wasted ! 
 Is there none to stretch a hand ? 
 
 No other heart that hungers 
 In all the Hving land? 
 
 1 could fondle the fisherman's baby. 
 And rock it into rest; 
 
 I could take the sunburnt sailor. 
 Like a brother, to my breast. 
 
 I could clasp the hand of any 
 
 Outcast of land or sea, 
 If the guilty palm but answered 
 
 The tenderness in me ! 
 
 17 
 
1 8 THE POE T'S JO UKNAL. 
 
 The sea might rise and drown me, — 
 Cliffs fall and crush my head, — 
 
 Were there one to love me, living, 
 Or weep to see me dead ! 
 
 MARAH. 
 
 The waters of my life were sweet. 
 Before that bolt of sorrow fell; 
 
 But now, though fainting with the heat, 
 I dare not drink the bitter well. 
 
 My God ! shall Sin across the heart 
 Sweep like a wind that leaves no trace. 
 
 But Grief inflict a rankling smart 
 No after blessing can efface? 
 
 I see the tired mechanic take 
 His evening rest beside his door, 
 
 And gentlier, for their father's sake, 
 His children tread the happy floor: 
 
 The kitchen teems with cheering smells, 
 With clash of cups and clink of knives, 
 
 And all the household picture teHs 
 Of humble yet contented lives. 
 
 Then in my heart the serpents hiss: 
 
 What right have these, who scarcely know 
 
 The perfect sweetness of their bliss, 
 To flaunt it thus before my woe? 
 
 Like bread. Love's portion they divide. 
 Like water drink his precious wine. 
 
 When the least crumb they cast aside 
 Were manna for these lips of mine. 
 
FIRST EVENING. 1 9 
 
 I see the friend of other days 
 
 Lead home his flushed and silent bride: 
 
 His eyes are suns of tender praise, 
 Her eyes are stars of tender pride. 
 
 Go, hide your shameless happiness, 
 The demon cries, within my breast; 
 
 Think not that I the bond can bless. 
 Which seeing, I am twice unblest. 
 
 The husband of a year proclaims 
 
 His recent honor, shows the boy, 
 And calls the babe a thousand names, 
 
 And dandles it in awkward joy: 
 
 And then — I see the wife 's pale cheek. 
 
 Her eyes of pure, celestial ray — 
 The curse is choked : I cannot speak. 
 
 But, weeping, turn my head away 1 
 
 THE VOICE OF THE TEMPTER. 
 
 Last night the Tempter came to me, and said: 
 
 ''Why sorrow any longer for the dead? 
 
 The wrong is done : thy tears and groans are naught : 
 
 Forget the Past, — thy pain but lives in thought. 
 
 Night after night, I hear thy cries implore 
 
 An answer: she will answer thee no more. 
 
 Give up thine idle prayer that Death may come 
 
 And thou mayst somewhere find her; Death is dumb 
 
 To those that seek him. Live : for youth is thine. 
 
 Let not thy rich blood, Hke neglected wine. 
 
 Grow thin and stale, but rouse thyself, at last, 
 
 And take a man's revenge upon the Past. 
 
 What have thy virtues brought thee ? Let them go, 
 
20 THE POETS JOURNAL. 
 
 And with them lose the burden of thy woe, 
 Their only payment for thy service hard : 
 They but exact, thou see'st, and not reward. 
 Thy life is cheated, thou art cast aside 
 In dust, the worn-out vessel of their pride. 
 Come, take thy pleasure : others do the same. 
 And love is theirs, and fortune, name and fame ! 
 Let not the name of Vice thine ear affright : 
 Vice is no darkness, but a different light, 
 Which thou dost need, to see thy path aright; 
 Or if some pang in this experience lie, 
 Through counter-pain thy present pain will die. 
 Bethink thee of the lost, the barren years, 
 Of harsh privations, unavailing tears. 
 The steady ache of strong desires restrained, 
 And what thou hast deserved, and what obtained 
 Then go, thou fool ! and, if thou canst, rejoice 
 To make such base ingratitude thy choice. 
 While each indulgence which thy brethren taste 
 But mocks thy palate, as it runs to waste!" 
 
 So spake the Tempter, as he held outspread 
 Alluring pictures round my prostrate head. 
 *Twixt sleep and waking, in my helpless ear 
 His honeyed voice rang musical and clear; 
 And half persuaded, shaken half with fear, 
 I heard him, till the Morn began to shine. 
 And found her brow less dewy-wet than mine. 
 
 EXORCISM. 
 
 O TONGUES of the Past, be still ! 
 
 Are the days not over and gone? 
 The joys have perished that were so sweet. 
 
 But the sorrow still lives on. 
 
FIRST EVENING, 21 
 
 I have sealed the graves of my hopes; 
 
 I have carried the pall of love : 
 Let the pains and pangs be buried as deep, 
 
 And the grass be as green above ! 
 
 But the ghosts of the dead arise: 
 
 They come when the board is spread: 
 They poison the wine of the banquet cups 
 
 With the mould their lips have shed. 
 
 The pulse of the bacchant blood 
 
 May throb in the ivy wreath, 
 But the berries are plucked from the nightshade bough 
 
 That grows in the gardens of Death. 
 
 I sleep with joy at my heart, 
 
 Warm as a new-made bride; 
 But a vampire comes to suck her blood, 
 
 And I wake with a corpse at my side. 
 
 O ghosts, I have given to you 
 
 The bUss of the faded years; 
 The sweat of my brow, the blood of my heart. 
 
 And manhood 's terrible tears ! 
 
 Take them, and be content: 
 
 I have nothing more to give: 
 My soul is chilled in the house of Death, 
 
 And 'tis time that I should live. 
 
 Take them, and let me be: 
 
 Lie still in the churchyard mould, 
 Nor chase from my heart each new delight 
 
 With the phantom of the old ! 
 
22 THE POET'S JOURNAL. 
 
 SQUANDERED LIVES. 
 
 The fisherman wades in the surges; 
 
 The sailor sails over the sea; 
 The soldier steps bravely to battle; 
 
 The woodman lays axe to the tree. 
 
 They are each of the breed of the heroes, 
 The manhood attempered in strife: 
 
 Strong hands, that go Hghtly to labor, 
 True hearts, that take comfort in life. 
 
 In each is the seed to replenish 
 
 The world with the vigor it needs, — 
 
 The centre of honest affections, 
 The impulse to generous deeds. 
 
 But the shark drinks the blood of the fisher; 
 
 The sailor is dropped in the sea; 
 The soldier lies cold by his cannon; 
 
 The woodman is crushed by his tree. 
 
 Each prodigal life that is wasted 
 
 In manly achievement unseen. 
 But lengthens the days of the coward, 
 
 And strengthens the crafty and mean. 
 
 The blood of the noblest is lavished 
 That the selfish a profit may find; 
 
 But God sees the lives that are squandered, 
 And we to His wisdom are blind. 
 
FIRST EVENING. 
 
 INDIFFERENCE. 
 
 23 
 
 I. 
 
 We Fools ! that meekly take the bit 
 And drag the burden all our lives ! 
 Poor, blinded steeds, we all submit, 
 Nor know our load, scarce seeing it. 
 Although with stinging lash Fate goads us as she drives. 
 
 II. 
 
 What does it help, the gold we bear, 
 
 When we are worn, and halt, and lean? 
 No fresher tastes the dusty air 
 When Fame's triumphant trumpets blare. 
 And we the road would leave, to lie in pastures green. 
 
 m. 
 
 Nor profits much a virtuous name, 
 
 So short a time the crown we wear: 
 In fifty years 'twill be the same 
 As if it were a crown of shame, 
 For none will know our lives, or, if they knew, would care. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Life came to me: why should I take 
 
 The tasks I did not seek to do? 
 I did them for another's sake 
 In vain : and now the yoke I break. 
 And let the world roll on, regardless of its crew. 
 
 V. 
 
 Here, take my days, whatever Fate 
 The worthless gift may choose to claim; 
 
24 THE POET'S JOURNAL. 
 
 For I am weary of their weight : 
 Alike to me is love or hate : 
 Do with me as you please, all fortunes are the same. 
 
 A SYMBOL. 
 
 Heavy, and hot, and gray, 
 Day following unto day, 
 A felon gang, their blind life drag away, — 
 
 Blind, vacant, dumb, as Time, 
 
 Lapsed from his wonted prime, 
 
 Begot them basely in incestuous crime: 
 
 So little life there seems 
 About the woods and streams, — 
 Only a sleep, perplexed with nightmare-dreams. 
 
 The burden of a sigh 
 Stifles the weary sky. 
 Where smouldering clouds in ashen masses lie: 
 
 The forests fain would groan, 
 But, silenced into stone. 
 Crouch, in the dull blue vapors round them thrown. 
 
 O light, more drear than gloom ! 
 Than death more dead such bloom: 
 Yet life — yet life — shall burst this gathering doom ! 
 
 n. 
 
 Behold ! a swift and silent fire 
 
 Yon dull cloud pierces, in the west, 
 And blackening, as with growing ire. 
 
 He lifts his forehead from his breast. 
 
FIRST EVENING. 
 
 He mutters to the ashy host 
 
 That all around him sleeping lie, — 
 
 Sole chieftain on the airy coast, 
 To fight the battles of the sky. 
 
 He slowly lifts his weary strength, 
 
 His shadow rises on the day, 
 And distant forests feel at length 
 
 A wind from landscapes far away. 
 
 in. 
 
 How shall the cloud unload its thunder? 
 
 How shall its flashes fire the air? 
 Hills and valleys are dumb with wonder: 
 
 Lakes look up with a leaden stare. 
 
 Hark ! the lungs of the striding giant 
 Bellow an angry answer back ! 
 
 Hurling the hair from his brows defiant, 
 Crushing the laggards along his track. 
 
 Now his step, like a batthng Titan's, 
 Scales in flame the hills of the sky; 
 
 Struck by his breath, the forest whitens; 
 Fluttering waters feel him nigh ! 
 
 Stroke on stroke of his thunder-hammer — 
 Sheets of flame from his anvil hurled — 
 
 Heaven's doors are burst in the clamor: 
 He alone possesses the world ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 Drowned woods, shudder no more: 
 Vexed lakes, smile as before: 
 Hills that vanished, appear again: 
 Rise for harvest, prostrate grain! 
 
 25 
 
26 THE POET'S JOURNAL. 
 
 Shake thy jewels, twinkling grass: 
 Blossoms, tint the winds that pass: 
 Sun, behold a world restored ! 
 World, again thy son is lord! 
 
 Thunder-spasms the waking be 
 Into Life from Apathy: 
 Life, not Death, is in the gale, — 
 Let the coming Doom prevail ! 
 
 Thus far he read : at first with even tone, 
 Still chanting in the old, familiar key, — 
 That golden note, whose grand monotony 
 Is musical in poets ' mouths alone, — 
 But broken, as he read, became the chime. 
 To speak, once more, in Grief's forgotten tongue, 
 And feel the hot reflex of passion flung 
 Back on the heart by every pulse of rhyme 
 Wherein it lives and burns, a soul might shake 
 More calm than his. With many a tender break 
 Of voice, a dimness of the haughty eye. 
 And pause of wandering memory, he read; 
 While I, with folded arms and downcast head. 
 In silence heard each blind, bewildered cry. 
 Thus far had Ernest read : but, closing now 
 The book, and lifting up a calmer brow, 
 "Forgive me, patient God, for this!" he said: 
 "And you forgive, dear friend, and dearest wife, 
 If I have marred an hour of this sweet life 
 With noises from the valley of the Dead. 
 Long, long ago, the Hand whereat I railed 
 In blindness gave me courage to subdue 
 This wild revolt : I see wherein I failed : 
 
FIRST EVENING. 
 
 My heart was false, when most I thought it true, 
 My sorrow selfish, when I thought it pure. 
 For those we lose, if still their love endure 
 Translation to that other land, where Love 
 Breathes the immortal wisdom, ask in heaven 
 No greater sacrifice than we had given 
 On earth, our love's integrity to prove. 
 If we are blest to know the other blest, 
 Then treason lies in sorrow. Vainly said ! 
 Alone each heart must cover up its dead ; 
 Alone, through bitter toil, achieve its rest: 
 Which I have found — but still these records keep, 
 Lest I, condemning others, should forget 
 My own rebellion. From these tares I reap, 
 In evil days, a fruitful harvest yet. 
 
 ''But 'tis enough, to-night. Nay, Philip, here 
 A chapter closes. See ! the moon is near : 
 Your laurels glitter: come, my darling, sing 
 The hymn I wrote on such a night as this ! " 
 Then Edith, stooping first to take his kiss, 
 Drew from its niche of woodbine her guitar, 
 With chords prelusive tuned a slackened string, 
 And sang, clear-voiced, as some melodious star 
 Were dropping silver sweetness from afar: 
 
 God, to whom we look up blindly, 
 Look Thou down upon us kindly: 
 We have sinned, hut not designedly. 
 
 If our faith in Thee was shaken, 
 Pardon Thou our hearts mistaken, 
 Our obedience reawaken. 
 
 27 
 
28 THE POET'S JOURNAL. 
 
 We are sinful, Thou art holy: 
 Thou art mighty, we are lowly: 
 Let us reach Thee, climbing slowly. 
 
 Our ingratitude confessing, 
 
 On Thy mercy still transgressing. 
 
 Thou dost punish us with blessing/ 
 
SECOND EVENING. 
 
 It was the evening of the second day, 
 Which swifter, sweeter than the first had fled: 
 My heart's delicious tumult passed away 
 And left a sober happiness instead. 
 For Ernest's voice was ever in mine ear. 
 His presence mingled as of old with mine, 
 But stronger, manlier, brighter, more divine 
 Its effluence now : within his starry sphere 
 Of love new-risen my nature too was drawn, 
 And warmed with rosy flushes of the dawn. 
 
 All day we drove about the lovely vales, 
 Under the hill-side farms, through summer woods, 
 The land of mingled homes and solitudes 
 That Ernest loved. We told the dear old tales 
 Of childhood, music new to Edith's ear, 
 Sang olden songs, lived old adventures o'er. 
 And, when the hours brought need of other cheer, 
 Spread on the ferny rocks a tempting store 
 Of country dainties. 'Twas our favorite dell, 
 Cut by the trout-stream through a wooded ridge : 
 Above, the highway on a mossy bridge 
 Strode o'er it, and below, the water fell 
 Through hornblende boulders, where the dircus flun^ 
 His pliant rods, the berried spice-wood grew, 
 And tulip-trees and smooth magnolias hung 
 A million leaves between us and the blue. 
 29 
 
30 THE POET'S JOURNAL. 
 
 The silver water-dust in puffs arose 
 
 And turned to dust of jewels in the sun, 
 
 And like a canon, in its close begun 
 
 Afresh, the stream's perpetual lullaby 
 
 Sang down the dell, and deepened its repose. 
 
 Here, till the western hours had left the sky, 
 
 We sat: then homeward loitered through the dusk 
 
 Of chestnut woods, along the meadow-side. 
 
 And lost in lanes that breathed ambrosial musk 
 
 Of wild-grape blossoms: and the twilight died. 
 
 Long after every star came out, we paced 
 The terrace, still discoursing on the themes 
 The day had started, intermixed with dreams 
 Born of the summer night. Then, golden-faced, 
 Behind her daybreak of auroral gleams, 
 The moon arose: the bosom of the lawn 
 Whitened beneath her silent snow of light. 
 Save where the trees made isles of mystic night, 
 Dark blots against the rising splendor drawn, 
 And where the eastern wall of woodland towered, 
 Blue darkness, filled with undistinguished shapes : 
 But elsewhere, over all the landscape showered — 
 A silver drizzle on the distant capes 
 Of hills — the glory of the moon. We sought, 
 Drawn thither by the same unspoken thought. 
 The mound, where now the leaves of laurel clashed 
 Their dagger-points of light, around the bower, 
 And through the nets of leaf and elfin flower. 
 Cold fire, the sprinkled drops of moonshine flashed. 
 
 Erelong in Ernest's hand the volume lay, 
 (I did not need a second time to ask,) 
 And he resumed the intermitted task. 
 
SECOND EVENING. 31 
 
 ''This night, dear Philip, is the Poet's day," 
 He said: "the world is one confessional: 
 Our sacred memories as freely fall 
 As leaves from o'er-ripe blossoms: we betray 
 Ourselves to Nature, who the tale can win 
 We shrink from uttering in the daylight's din. 
 So, Friend, come back with me a little way 
 Along the years, and in these records find 
 The sole inscriptions they have left behind." 
 
 ATONEMENT. 
 
 If thou hadst died at midnight. 
 With a lamp beside thy bed; 
 
 The beauty of sleep exchanging 
 For the beauty of the dead : 
 
 When the bird of heaven had called thee, 
 And the time had come to go. 
 
 And the northern lights were dancing 
 On the dim December snow, — 
 
 If thou hadst died at midnight, 
 I had ceased to bid thee stay. 
 
 Hearing the feet of the Father 
 Leading His child away. 
 
 I had knelt, in the awful Presence, 
 
 And covered my guilty head, 
 And received His absolution 
 
 For my sins toward the dead. 
 
 But the cruel sun was shining 
 In the cold and windy sky, 
 
32 THE POET'S JOURNAL. 
 
 And Life, with his mocking voices, 
 Looked in to see thee die. 
 
 God came and went unheeded ; 
 
 No tear repentant shone; 
 And he took the heart from my bosom. 
 
 And left in its place a stone. 
 
 Each trivial promise broken, 
 Each tender word unsaid, 
 
 Must be evermore unspoken, — 
 Unpardoned by the dead. 
 
 Unpardoned ? No : the struggle 
 Of years was not in vain, — 
 
 The patience that wearies passion, 
 And the prayers that conquer pain. 
 
 This tardy resignation 
 
 May be the blessed sign 
 Of pardon and atonement. 
 
 Thy spirit sends to mine. 
 
 Now first I dare remember 
 That day of death and woe : 
 
 Within, the dreadful silence. 
 Without, the sun and snow ! 
 
 DECEMBER. 
 
 The beech is bare, and bare the ash, 
 
 The thickets white below; 
 The fir-tree scowls with hoar moustache. 
 
 He cannot sing for snow. 
 
SECOND EVENING. 33 
 
 The body-guard of veteran pines, 
 
 A grim battalion, stands; 
 They ground their arms, in ordered lines, 
 
 For Winter so commands. 
 
 The waves are dumb along the shore, 
 
 The river's pulse is still; 
 The north-wind's bugle blows no more 
 
 Reveille from the hill. 
 
 The rusthng sift of falling snow. 
 
 The muffled crush of leaves, 
 These are the sounds suppressed, that show 
 
 How much the forest grieves; 
 
 But, as the blind and vacant Day 
 
 Crawls to his ashy bed, 
 I hear dull echoes far away, 
 
 Like drums above the dead. 
 
 Sigh with me, Pine that never changed ! 
 
 Thou wear'st the Summer's hue; 
 Her other loves are all estranged. 
 
 But thou and I are true ! 
 
 SYLVAN SPIRITS. 
 
 The gray stems rise, the branches braid 
 A covering of deepest shade. 
 Beneath these old, inviolate trees 
 There comes no stealthy, sliding breeze, 
 To overhear their mysteries. 
 
34 THE POET'S JOURNAL. 
 
 Steeped in the fragrant breath of leaves, 
 My heart a hermit peace receives: 
 The sombre forest thrusts a screen 
 My refuge and the world between, 
 And beds me in its balmy green. 
 
 No fret of life may here intrude. 
 
 To vex the sylvan solitude. 
 
 Pure spirits of the earth and air, 
 
 From hollow trunk and bosky lair 
 
 Come forth, and hear your lover's prayer! 
 
 Come, Druid soul of ancient oak. 
 Thou, too, hast felt the thunder-stroke; 
 Come, Hamadryad of the beech. 
 Nymph of the burning maple, teach 
 My heart the solace of your speech ! 
 
 Alas ! the sylvan ghosts preserve 
 The natures of the race they serve. 
 Not only Dryads, chaste and shy. 
 But piping Fauns, come dancing nigh. 
 And Satyrs of the shaggy thigh. 
 
 Across the calm, the holy hush. 
 And shadowed air, there darts a flush 
 Of riot, from the lawless brood, 
 And rebel voices in my blood 
 Salute these orgies of the wood. 
 
 Not sacred thoughts alone engage 
 
 The saint in silent hermitage: 
 
 The soul within him heavenward strives, 
 
 Yet strong, as in profaner lives. 
 
 The giant of the flesh survives. 
 
SECOND EVENING. 
 
 35 
 
 From Nature, as from human haunts, 
 That giant draws his sustenance. 
 By her own elves, in woodlands wild 
 She sees her robes of prayer defiled : 
 She is not purer than her child. 
 
 THE LOST MAY. 
 
 When May, with cowsHp-braided locks. 
 
 Walks through the land in green attire, 
 And burns in meadow-grass the phlox 
 His torch of purple fire : 
 
 When buds have burst the silver sheath, 
 And shifting pink, and gray, and gold 
 Steal o'er the woods, while fair beneath 
 The bloomy vales unfold: 
 
 When, emerald-bright, the hemlock stands 
 
 New-feathered, needled new the pine; 
 And, exiles from the orient lands, 
 The turbaned tulips shine: 
 
 When wild azaleas deck the knoll, 
 
 And cinque-foil stars the fields of home. 
 And winds, that take the white-weed, roll 
 The meadows into foam : 
 
 Then from the jubilee I turn 
 
 To other Mays that I have seen. 
 Where more resplendent blossoms burn. 
 And statelier woods are green ; — 
 
36 THE POET'S JOURNAL. 
 
 Mays, when my heart expanded first, 
 A honeyed blossom, fresh with dew; 
 And one sweet wind of heaven dispersed 
 The only clouds I knew. 
 
 For she, whose softly-murmured name 
 The music of the month expressed. 
 Walked by my side, in holy shame 
 Of girlish love confessed. 
 
 The budding chestnuts overhead, 
 
 Their sprinkled shadows in the lane, - 
 Blue flowers along the brooklet's bed, — 
 I see them all again ! 
 
 The old, old tale of girl and boy, 
 
 Repeated ever, never old: 
 To each in turn the gates of joy, 
 The gates of heaven unfold. 
 
 And when the punctual May arrives, 
 With cowslip-garland on her brow. 
 We know what once she gave our lives, 
 And cannot give us now ! 
 
 CHURCHYARD ROSES. 
 
 The woodlands wore a gloomy green. 
 The tawny stubble clad the hill, 
 
 And August hung her smoky screen 
 Above the valleys, hot and still. 
 
 No life was in the fields that day; 
 
 My steps were safe from curious eyes: 
 I wandered where, in churchyard clay, 
 
 The dust of love and beauty lies. 
 
SECOND EVENING. 
 
 Around me thrust the nameless graves 
 Their fatal ridges, side by side, 
 
 So green, they seemed but grassy waves, 
 Yet quiet as the dead they hide. 
 
 And o'er each pillow of repose 
 Some innocent momento grew. 
 
 Of pansy, pink, or lowly rose. 
 Or hyssop, lavender, and rue. 
 
 What flower is hers, the maiden bride? 
 
 What sacred plant protects her bed ? 
 I saw, the greenest mound beside, 
 
 A rose of dark and lurid red. 
 
 An eye~of fierce demoniac stain. 
 
 It mocked my calm and chastened grief; 
 I tore it, stung with sudden pain. 
 
 And stamped in earth each bloody leaf. 
 
 And down upon that trampled grave 
 
 In recklessness my body cast: 
 "Give back the life I could not save, 
 
 Or give deliverance from the Past!" 
 
 But something gently touched my cheek, 
 Caressing while its touch reproved : 
 
 A rose, all white and snowy-meek. 
 It grew upon the dust I loved ! 
 
 A breeze the holy blossom pressed 
 Upon my lips: dear Saint, I cried, 
 
 Still blooms the white rose, in my breast, 
 Of Love that Death has sanctified ! 
 
 37 
 
38 THE POET'S JOURNAL. 
 
 AUTUMNAL DREAMS. 
 
 I. 
 
 When the maple turns to crimson 
 And the sassafras to gold; 
 
 When the gentian's in the meadow, 
 And the aster on the wold; 
 
 When the noon is lapped in vapor, 
 And the night is frosty-cold: 
 
 II. 
 
 When the chestnut-burs are opened, 
 And the acorns drop like hail, 
 
 And the drowsy air is startled 
 With the thumping of the flail, — 
 
 With the drumming of the partridge 
 And the whistle of the quail : 
 
 Ill- 
 Through the rustling woods I wander. 
 
 Through the jewels of the year. 
 From the yellow uplands calling, 
 
 Seeking her that still is dear: 
 She is near me in the autumn, 
 
 She, the beautiful, is near. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Through the smoke of burning summer. 
 When the weary winds are still, 
 
 I can see her in the valley, 
 I can hear her on the hill, — 
 
 In the splendor of the woodlands. 
 In the whisper of the rill. 
 
SECOND EVENING. 
 V. 
 
 For the shores of Earth and Heaven 
 Meet, and mingle in the blue: 
 
 She can wander down the glory 
 To the places that she knew, 
 
 Where the happy lovers wandered 
 In the days when life was true. 
 
 VI. 
 
 So I think, when days are sweetest, 
 And the world is wholly fair, 
 
 She may sometime steal upon me 
 Through the dimness of the air. 
 
 With the cross upon her bosom 
 And the amaranth in her hair. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Once to meet her, ah ! to meet her, 
 
 And to hold her gently fast 
 Till I blessed her, till she blessed me, — 
 
 That were happiness, at last: 
 That were bHss beyond our meetings 
 
 In the autumns of the Past ! 
 
 IN WINTER. 
 
 The valley stream is frozen. 
 The hills are cold and bare. 
 
 And the wild white bees of winter 
 Swarm in the darkened air. 
 
 I look on the naked forest: 
 Was it ever green in June? 
 
 39 
 
40 THE POET'S JOURNAL. 
 
 Did it burn with gold and crimson 
 In the dim autumnal noon ? 
 
 I look on the barren meadow : 
 Was it ever heaped with hay? 
 
 Did it hide the grassy cottage 
 Where the skylark's children lay? 
 
 I look on the desolate garden : 
 Is it true the rose was there? 
 
 And the woodbine's musky blossoms, 
 And the hyacinth's purple hair? 
 
 I look on my heart, and marvel 
 If Love were ever its own, — 
 
 If the spring of promise brightened, 
 And the summer of passion shone? 
 
 Is the stem of bliss but withered, 
 And the root survives the blast ? 
 
 Are the seeds of the Future sleeping 
 Under the leaves of the Past ? 
 
 Ah, yes ! for a thousand Aprils 
 The frozen germs shall grow, 
 
 And the dews of a thousand summers. 
 Wait in the womb of the snow ! 
 
 YOUNG LOVE. 
 
 We are not old, we are not cold. 
 
 Our hearts are warm and tender yet; 
 
 Our arms are eager to enfold 
 More bounteous love than we have met. 
 
SECOND EVENING. 41 
 
 Still many another heart lays bare 
 
 Its secret chamber to our eyes, 
 Though dim with passion's lurid air, 
 
 Or pure as morns of Paradise. 
 
 They give the love, whose glory lifts 
 
 Desire beyond the realm of sense; 
 They make us rich with lavish gifts, 
 
 The wealth of noble confidence. 
 
 We must be happy, must be proud, 
 
 So crowned with human trust and truth; 
 
 But ah ! the love that first we vowed, 
 The dear religion of our youth ! 
 
 Voluptuous bloom and fragrance rare 
 
 The summer to its rose may bring; 
 Far sweeter to the wooing air 
 
 The hidden violet of the spring. 
 
 Still, still that lovely ghost appears. 
 
 Too fair, too pure, to bid depart; 
 No riper love of later years 
 
 Can steal its beauty from the heart. 
 
 O splendid sun that shone above ! 
 
 O green magnificence of Earth ! 
 Born once into that land of love. 
 
 No life can know a second birth. 
 
 Dear, boyish heart, that trembled so 
 With bashful fear and fond unrest, — 
 
 More frightened than a dove, to know 
 Another bird within its nest 1 
 
42 THE POET'S JOURNAL. 
 
 Sharp thrills of doubt, wild hopes that came, 
 Fond words addressed, — each word a pang 
 
 Then — hearts, baptized in heavenly flame, 
 How like the morning stars ye sang ! 
 
 Love bound ye with his hoHest Hnk, 
 The faith in each that asks no more, 
 
 And led ye from the sacred brink 
 Of mysteries he held in store. 
 
 Love led ye, children, from the bowers 
 
 Where Strength and Beauty find his crown : 
 
 Ye were not ripe for mortal flowers; 
 
 God's angel brought an amaranth down. 
 
 Our eyes are dim with fruitless tears, 
 Our eyes are dim, our hearts are sore : 
 
 That lost religion of our years 
 Comes never, never, nevermore ! 
 
 THE CHAPEL. 
 
 Like one who leaves the trampled street 
 For some cathedral, cool and dim. 
 
 Where he can hear in music beat 
 
 The heart of prayer, that beats for him; 
 
 And sees the common light of day. 
 
 Through painted panes, transfigured, shine, 
 
 And casts his human woes away, 
 In presence of the Woe Divine: 
 
 So I, from life's tormenting themes 
 Turn where the silent chapel lies, 
 
SECOND EVENING. 43 
 
 Whose windows burn with vanished dreams, 
 Whose altar-lights are memories. 
 
 There, watched by pitying cherubim, 
 
 In sacred hush, I rest awhile, 
 Till solemn sounds of harp and hymn 
 
 Begin to sweep the haunted aisle: 
 
 A hymn that once but breathed complaint, 
 
 And breathes but resignation now, 
 Since God has heard the pleading saint, 
 
 And laid His hand upon my brow. 
 
 Restored and comforted, I go 
 
 To grapple with my tasks again; 
 Through silent worship taught to know 
 
 The blessed peace that follows pain. 
 
 IF LOVE SHOULD COME AGAIN. 
 
 If Love should come again, I ask my heart 
 In tender tremors, not unmixed with pain, 
 Couldst thou be calm, nor feel thine ancient smart, 
 If Love should come again ? 
 
 Couldst thou unbar the chambers where his nest 
 
 So long was made, and made, alas ! in vain. 
 Nor with embarrassed welcome chill thy guest. 
 If Love should come again ? 
 
 Would Love his ruined quarters recognize. 
 
 Where shrouded pictures of the Past remain, 
 And gently turn them with forgiving eyes, 
 If Love should come again ? 
 
44 THE POETS JOURNAL, 
 
 Would bliss, in milder type, spring up anew, 
 
 As silent craters with the scarlet stain 
 Of flowers repeat the lava's ancient hue, 
 If Love should come again? 
 
 Would Fate, relenting, sheathe the cruel blade 
 
 Whereby the angel of thy youth was slain, 
 That thou might'st all possess him, unafraid. 
 If Love should come again ? 
 
 In vain I ask : my heart makes no reply, 
 But echoes evermore the sweet refrain; 
 Till, trembling lest it seem a wish, I sigh : 
 If Love should come again ! 
 
 "The darkness and the twilight have an end," 
 
 Said Ernest, as he laid the book aside. 
 
 And, with a tenderness he could not hide, 
 
 Smiled, seeing in the eyes of wife and friend 
 
 The same soft dew that made his own so dim. 
 
 My heart was strangely moved, but not for him. 
 
 The holy night, the stars that twinkled faint, 
 
 Serfs of the regnant moon, the slumbering trees 
 
 And silvery hills, recalled fair memories 
 
 Of her I knew, his Hfe's translated saint, 
 
 Who seemed too sacred now, too far removed. 
 
 To be by him lamented or beloved. 
 
 And yet she stood, I knew, by Ernest's side 
 
 Invisible, a glory in the heart, 
 
 A light of peace, the inner counterpart 
 
 Of that which round us poured its radiant tide. 
 
 We sat in silence, till a wind, astray 
 From some uneasy planet, shook the vines 
 
SECOND EVENING, 45 
 
 And sprinkled us with snow of eglantines. 
 
 The laurels rustled as it passed away, 
 
 And, million-tongued, the woodland whisper crept 
 
 Of leaves that turned in sleep, from tree to tree 
 
 All down the lawn, and once again they slept. 
 
 Then Edith from her tender fantasy 
 
 Awoke, yet still her pensive posture kept, 
 
 Her white hands motionless upon her knee, 
 
 Her eyes upon a star that sparkled through 
 
 The mesh of leaves, and hummed a wandering air, 
 
 (As if the music of her thought it were,) 
 
 Low, sweet, and sad, until to words it grew 
 
 That made it sweeter, — words that Ernest knew : 
 
 Love^ I follow, follow thee, 
 
 Wipe thine eyes and thou shalt see: 
 
 Sorrow makes thee blind to me. 
 
 I am with thee, blessing, blest; 
 Let thy doubts be laid to rest: 
 Rise, and take me to thy breast! 
 
 In thy bliss my steps behold: 
 Stretch thine arms and bliss enfold: 
 ^Tis thy sorrow makes me cold. 
 
 Life is good, and life is fair. 
 Love awaits thee everywhere: 
 Love! is Lovers immortal prayer. 
 
 Live for love, and thou shalt be, 
 Loving others, true to me: 
 Love, I follow, follow thee! 
 
46 THE POET'S JOURNAL. 
 
 Thus Edith sang: the stars heard, and the night, 
 The happy spirits, leaning from the wall 
 Of Heaven, the saints, and God above them all, 
 Heard what she sang. She ceased : her brow was bright 
 With other splendor than the moon's : she rose, 
 Gave each a hand, and silently we trod 
 The dry, white gravel and the dewy sod, 
 And silently we parted for repose. 
 
THIRD EVENING. 
 
 For days before, the wild-dove cooed for rain. 
 The sky had been too bright, the world too fair. 
 We knew such loveliness could not remain: 
 We heard its ruin by the flattering air 
 Foretold, that o'er the field so sweetly blew, 
 Yet came, at night, a banshee, moaning through 
 The chimney's throat, and at the window wailed: 
 We heard the tree-toad trill his piercing note : 
 The sound seemed near us, when, on farms remote, 
 The supper-horn the scattered workmen hailed: 
 Above the roof the eastward-pointing vane 
 Stood fixed : and still the wild-dove cooed for rain. 
 
 So, when the morning came, and found no fire 
 Upon her hearth, and wrapped her shivering form 
 In cloud, and rising winds in many a gyre 
 Of dust foreran the footsteps of the storm, 
 And woods grew dark, and flowery meadows chill, 
 And gray annihilation smote the hill, 
 I said to Ernest: '^'Twas my plan, you see: 
 Two days to Nature, and the third to me. 
 For you must stay, perforce: the day is doomed. 
 No visitors shall yonder valley find. 
 Except the spirits of the rain and wind : 
 Here you must bide, my friends, with me entombed 
 In this dim crypt, where shelved around us He 
 47 
 
48 THE POET'S JOURNAL. 
 
 The mummied authors." "Place me, when I die," 
 
 Laughed Ernest, "in as fair a catacomb, 
 
 I shall not call posterity unjust, 
 
 That leaves my bones in Shakespeare's, Goethe's home, 
 
 Like king and beggar mixed in Memphian dust. 
 
 But you are right : this day we well may give 
 
 To you, dear Philip, and to those who stand 
 
 Protecting Nature with a jealous hand, 
 
 At once her subjects and her haughty lords; 
 
 Since, in the breath of their immortal words 
 
 Alone, she first begins to speak and live." 
 
 I know not, if that day of dreary rain 
 
 Was not the happiest of the happy three. 
 
 For Nature gives, but takes away again : 
 
 Sound, odor, color — blossom, cloud, and tree 
 
 Divide and scatter in a thousand rays 
 
 Our individual being: but, in days 
 
 Of gloom, the wandering senses crowding come 
 
 To the close circle of the heart. So we. 
 
 Cosily nestled in the library, 
 
 Enjoyed each other and the warmth of home. 
 
 Each window was a picture of the rain : 
 
 Blown by the wind, tormented, wet, and gray, 
 
 Losing itself in cloud, the landscape lay; 
 
 Or wavered, blurred, behind the streaming pane; 
 
 Or, with a sudden struggle, shook away 
 
 Its load, and like a foundering ship arose 
 
 Distinct and dark above the driving spray. 
 
 Until a fiercer onset came, to close 
 
 The hopeless day. The roses writhed about 
 
 Their stakes, the tall laburnums to and fro 
 
 Rocked in the gusts, the flowers were beaten low. 
 
 And from his pygmy house the wren looked out 
 
THIRD EVENING. 
 
 With dripping bill: each living creature fled, 
 To seek some sheltering cover for its head: 
 Yet colder, drearier, wilder as it blew 
 We drew the closer, and the happier grew. 
 
 She with her needle, he with pipe and book. 
 My guests contented sat : my cheerful dame. 
 Intent on household duties, went and came, 
 And I unto my childless bosom took 
 The Httle two-year Arthur, Ernest's child, 
 A darling boy, to both his parents true, — 
 With father's brow, and mother's eyes of blue, 
 And the same dimpled beauty when he smiled. 
 Ah me ! the father's heart within me woke : 
 The child that never was, I seemed to hold : 
 The withered tenderness that bloomed of old 
 In vain, revived when little Arthur spoke 
 Of ''Papa Philip!" and his balmy kiss 
 Renewed lost yearnings for a father's bliss. 
 And something glittered in the boy's bright hair: 
 I kissed him back, but turned away my head 
 To hide the pang I would not have thee share. 
 Dear wife ! from whom the dearest promise fled. 
 God cannot chide so sacred a despair. 
 But still I dream that somewhere there must be 
 The spirit of a child that waits for me. 
 
 And evening fell, and Arthur, rosy-limbed 
 And snowy-gowned, in human beauty sweet. 
 Came pattering up with little naked feet 
 To kiss the good-night cup, that overbrimmed 
 With love two fathers and two mothers gave. 
 The steady rain against the windows drave. 
 And round the house the noises of the night 
 
 49 
 
50 THE POET'S JOURNAL. 
 
 Mixed in a lulling music : dry old wood 
 
 Burned on the hearth in leaps of ruddy light, 
 
 And on the table purple beakers stood 
 
 Of harmless wine, from grapes that ripened on 
 
 The sunniest hillsides of the smooth Garonne. 
 
 When Arthur slept, and doors were closed, and we 
 
 Sat folded in a sweeter privacy 
 
 Than even the secret-loving moon bestows. 
 
 Spoke Ernest: ''Edith, shall I read the rest?" 
 
 She, while the spirit of a happy rose 
 
 Visited her cheeks, consenting smiled, and pressed 
 
 The hand he gave. ''With what I now shall read," 
 
 He added, "Phihp, you must be content. 
 
 No further runs my journal, nor, indeed, 
 
 Beyond this chapter is there further need; 
 
 Because the gift of Song was chiefly lent 
 
 To give consoling music for the joys 
 
 We lack, and not for those which we possess: 
 
 I now no longer need that gift, to bless 
 
 My heart, — your heart, my Edith, and your boy's!" 
 
 Therewith he read : the fingers of the rain 
 In light staccatos on the window played. 
 Mixed with the flame's contented hum, and made 
 Low harmonies to suit the varied strain. 
 
 THE RETURN OF SPRING. 
 
 Have I passed through Death's unconscious birth. 
 
 In a dream the midnight bare? 
 I look on another and fairer Earth: 
 
 I breathe a wondrous air ! 
 
THIRD EVENING. 51 
 
 A spirit of beauty walks the hills, 
 
 A spirit of love the plain; 
 The shadows are bright, and the sunshine fills 
 
 The air with a diamond rain ! 
 
 Before my vision the glories swim, 
 To the dance of a tune unheard : 
 
 Is an angel singing where woods are dim, 
 Or is it an amorous bird ? 
 
 Is it a spike of azure flowers. 
 
 Deep in the meadows seen. 
 Or is it the peacock's neck, that towers 
 
 Out of the spangled green ? 
 
 Is a white dove glancing across the blue, 
 
 Or an opal taking wing? 
 For my soul is dazzled through and through, 
 
 With the splendor of the Spring. 
 
 Is it she that shines, as never before. 
 
 The tremulous hills above, — 
 Or the heart within me, awake once more 
 
 To the dawning light of love? 
 
 MORNING. 
 
 Along the east, where late the dark impended, 
 
 A dusky gleam is born : 
 The watchers of the night are ended. 
 
 And heaven foretells the morn ! 
 
52 THE POET'S JOURNAL. 
 
 The hills of home, no longer hurled together, 
 
 In one wide blotch of night, 
 Lift up their heads through misty ether, 
 
 Distinct in rising light. 
 
 Then, after pangs of darkness slowly dying. 
 
 O'er the delivered world 
 Comes Morn, with every banner flying 
 
 And every sail unfurled ! 
 
 So long the night, so chill, so blank and dreary, 
 
 I thought the sun was dead; 
 But yonder burn his beacons cheery 
 
 On peaks of cloudy red : 
 
 And yonder fly his scattered golden arrows, 
 
 And smite the hills with day. 
 While Night her vain dominion narrows 
 
 And westward wheels away. 
 
 A sweeter air revives the new creation. 
 
 The dews are tears of bliss, 
 And Earth, in amorous palpitation. 
 
 Receives her bridegroom's kiss. 
 
 Bathed in the morning, let my heart surrender 
 
 The doubts that darkness gave. 
 And rise to meet the advancing splendor — 
 
 O Night ! no more thy slave. 
 
 I breathe at last, thy gloomy reign forgetting, 
 
 Thy weary watches done. 
 Thy last pale star behind me setting, 
 
 The freedom of the sun ! 
 
THIRD EVENING, 53 
 
 QUESTIONS. 
 
 One thought sits brooding in my bosom, 
 
 As broodeth in her nest the dove; 
 A strange, dehcious doubt o'ercomes me, — 
 But is it love? 
 
 I see her, hear her, daily, nightly: 
 
 My secret dreams around her move. 
 Still nearer drawn in sweet attraction ; — 
 Can this be love? 
 
 Is't love without his tender tumult? 
 
 Or passion purified from pain ? 
 In calmer forms the old emotions 
 Returned again? 
 
 So still the stream, towards her setting, 
 
 I whisper: Can it rise above 
 Her banks, and flood the guarded island 
 Where blooms her love? 
 
 Will she, to hear a voice so timid, 
 
 A shy and doubtful heart incline. 
 Though desperate hope and endless longing 
 Awake in mine? 
 
 I breathe but peace when she is near me, — 
 
 A peace her "absence takes away: 
 My heart commands her constant presence: 
 Will hers obey? 
 
54 THE POET'S JOURNAL, 
 
 THE VISION. 
 
 I. 
 
 She came, long absent from my side, 
 And absent from my dreams, she came, 
 
 The earthly and the heavenly bride, 
 
 In maiden beauty glorified: 
 
 She looked upon me, angel-eyed : 
 She called me by my name. 
 
 II. 
 
 But I, whose heart to meet her sprang 
 
 And shook the fragile house of dreams. 
 Stood, smitten with a guilty pang: 
 In other groves and temples rang 
 The songs that once for her I sang, 
 By woods and faery streams. 
 
 III. 
 
 Her eyes had power to lift my head, 
 
 And, timorous as a truant child, 
 I met the sacred light they shed. 
 The light of heaven around her spread: 
 She read my face ; no word she said : 
 I only saw she smiled. 
 
 IV. 
 
 'Xanst thou forgive me. Angel mine,'* 
 I cried; "that Love at last beguiled 
 
 My heart to build a second shrine? 
 
 See, still I kneel and weep at thine. 
 
 But I am human, thou divine I " 
 Still silently she smiled. 
 
THIRD EVENING. 
 V. 
 
 *'Dost undivided worship claim, 
 
 To keep thine altar undefiled? 
 Or must I bear thy tender blame, 
 And in thy pardon feel my shame, 
 Whene'er I breathe another name ? " 
 
 She looked at me, and smiled. 
 
 VI. 
 
 ''Speak, speak!" and then my tears came fast, 
 
 My troubled heart with doubt grew wild : 
 ''Will't vex the love, which still thou hast. 
 To know that I have peace at last?" 
 And from my dream the vision passed. 
 And still, in passing, smiled. 
 
 LOVE RETURNED. 
 
 I. 
 
 He was a boy when first we met; 
 
 His eyes were mixed of dew and fire. 
 And on his candid brow was set 
 
 The sweetness of a chaste desire : 
 But in his veins the pulses beat 
 
 Of passion, waiting for its wing. 
 As ardent veins of summer heat 
 
 Throb through the innocence of spring. 
 
 n. 
 
 As manhood came, his stature grew. 
 And fiercer burned his restless eyes, 
 
 Until I trembled, as he drew 
 From wedded hearts their young disguise. 
 
 55 
 
56 THE POE T'S JO URNAL. 
 
 Like wind-fed flame his ardor rose, 
 
 And brought, Hke flame, a stormy rain: 
 
 In tumuh, sweeter than repose, 
 He tossed the souls of joy and pain. 
 
 III. 
 
 So many years of absence change ! 
 
 I knew him not when he returned: 
 His step was slow, his brow was strange, 
 
 His quiet eye no longer burned. 
 When at my heart I heard his knock, 
 
 No voice within his right confessed : 
 I could not venture to unlock 
 
 Its chambers to an alien guest. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Then, at the threshold, spent and worn 
 
 With fruitless travel, down he lay: 
 And I beheld the gleams of morn 
 
 On his reviving beauty play. 
 I knelt, and kissed his holy lips, 
 
 I washed his feet with pious care; 
 And from my life the long eclipse 
 
 Drew off, and left his sunshine there. 
 
 V. 
 
 He burns no more with youthful fire; 
 
 He melts no more in foolish tears; 
 Serene and sweet, his eyes inspire 
 
 The steady faith of balanced years. 
 His folded wings no longer thrill. 
 
 But in some peaceful flight of prayer : 
 He nestles in my heart so still, 
 
 I scarcely feel his presence there. 
 
THIRD EVENING. 
 
 VI. 
 
 57 
 
 O Love, that stern probation o'er, 
 
 Thy calmer blessing is secure ! 
 Thy beauteous feet shall stray no more, 
 
 Thy peace and patience shall endure ! 
 The lightest wind deflowers the rose, 
 
 The rainbow with the sun departs. 
 But thou art centred in repose. 
 
 And rooted in my heart of hearts ! 
 
 LOVE JUSTIFIED. 
 
 Within my heart 'tis clear at last : 
 The haunting doubt in peace is laid, 
 
 Of faithlessness towards the Past, 
 Which made reviving love afraid. 
 
 For Love in abnegation lives; 
 
 His eye no sacrifice can dim; 
 He most is blessed when he gives 
 
 A greater bliss than comes to him; 
 
 And true to him is true to all 
 
 Whose brows are worth his crown to wear. 
 His chosen are not those who fall, 
 
 Through loss of him, to blank despair, 
 
 But those whom he has left awhile, 
 That in the dark their faith be tried, — 
 
 On whom his blessing yet shall smile. 
 If in the dark their faith abide. 
 
 No treason in my love I see. 
 For treason cannot dwell with truth; 
 
5 8 THE POE T 'S JO URNAL. 
 
 But later blossoms crown a tree 
 Too deeply set to die in youth. 
 
 The blighted promise of the old 
 In this new love is reconciled; 
 
 For, when my heart confessed its hold, 
 The lips of ancient sorrow smiled ! 
 
 It brightens backward through the Past 
 And gilds the gloomy path I trod, 
 
 And forward, till it fades at last 
 In light, before the feet of God, 
 
 Where stands the saint, whose radiant brow 
 This solace beams, while I adore: 
 
 Be happy: if thou lovedst not now. 
 Thou never couldst have loved before ! 
 
 A WOMAN. 
 
 She is a woman: therefore, I a man. 
 In so much as I love her. Could I more. 
 
 Then I were more a man. Our natures ran 
 Together, brimming full, not flooding o'er 
 
 The banks of life, and evermore will run 
 
 In one full stream until our days are done. 
 
 II. 
 
 She is a woman, but of spirit brave 
 To bear the loss of girlhood's giddy dreams; 
 
 The regal mistress, not the yielding slave 
 Of her ideal, spurning that which seems 
 
THIRD EVENING. 50 
 
 For that which is, and, as her fancies fall, 
 Smiling : the truth of love outweighs them all. 
 
 III. 
 
 She looks through life, and with a balance just 
 Weighs men and things, beholding as they are 
 
 The lives of others : in the common dust 
 She finds the fragments of the ruined star: 
 
 Proud, with a pride all feminine and sweet, 
 
 No path can soil the whiteness of her feet. 
 
 IV. 
 
 The steady candor of her gentle eyes 
 Strikes dead deceit, laughs vanity away; 
 
 She hath no room for petty jealousies, 
 Where Faith and Love divide their tender sway 
 
 Of either sex she owns the nobler part : 
 
 Man's honest brow and woman's faithful heart. 
 
 V. 
 
 She is a woman, who, if Love were guide, 
 Would climb to power, or in obscure content 
 
 Sit down : accepting fate with changeless pride, — 
 A reed in calm, in storm a staff unbent: 
 
 No pretty plaything, ignorant of life, 
 
 But Man's true mother, and his equal wife. 
 
 THE COUNT OF GLEICHEN. 
 
 I READ that story of the Saxon knight, 
 
 Who, leaving spouse and feudal fortress, made 
 
 The Cross of Christ his guerdon in the fight, 
 And joined the last Crusade : 
 
60 THE POETS JOURNAL. 
 
 Whom, in the chase on Damietta's sands 
 Estrayed, the Saracens in ambush caught, 
 
 And unto Cairo, to the Soldan's hands, 
 A wretched captive brought: 
 
 Whom then the Soldan's child, a damsel brave, 
 Savi^, pitied, comforted, and made him free. 
 
 And with him fled, herself a willing slave 
 In Love's captivity. 
 
 I read how he to bless her love was fain, 
 To whom his renovated life he owed. 
 
 Yet with a pang the towers beheld again 
 Where still his wife abode: 
 
 The wife whom first he loved : would she not scorn 
 The second bride he could not choose but wed. 
 
 The second mother to his children, born 
 In her divided bed? 
 
 Lo 1 at his castle's foot the noble dame 
 With tears of blessing, holy, undefiled 
 
 By human pain, received him when he came, 
 And kissed the Soldan's child ! 
 
 My tears were on the pages as I read 
 The touching close: I made the story mine, 
 
 Within whose heart, long plighted to the dead, 
 Love built his living shrine. 
 
 I too had dared, a captive in the land, 
 
 To pay with love the love that broke my chain : 
 
 Would she, who waited, stretch the pardoning hand, 
 W^hen I returned again? 
 
THIRD EVENING. 6i 
 
 Would she, my freedom and my bliss to know, 
 
 With my disloyalty be reconciled, 
 And from her bower in Eden look below, 
 
 And bless the Soldan's child ? 
 
 For she is lost : but she, the later bride, 
 Who came my ruined fortune to restore, 
 
 Back from the desert wanders at my side. 
 And leads me home once more. 
 
 If human love, she sighs, could move a wife 
 The holiest sacrifice of love to make. 
 
 Then the transfigured angel of thy life 
 Is happier for thy sake ! 
 
 BEFORE THE BRIDAL. 
 
 Now the night is overpast. 
 And the mist is cleared away: 
 
 On my barren life at last 
 Breaks the bright, reluctant day. 
 
 Day of payment for the wrong 
 I was doomed so long to bear; 
 
 Day of promise, day of song, 
 Day that makes the future fair ! 
 
 Let me wake to bliss alone: 
 
 Let me bury every fear: 
 What I prayed for, is my own; 
 
 What was distant, now is near. 
 
 For the happy hour that waits 
 No reproachful shade shall bring, 
 
62 THE POETS JOURNAL. 
 
 And I hear forgiving Fates 
 In the happy bells that ring. 
 
 Leave the song that now is mute, 
 For the sweeter song begun : 
 
 Leave the blossom for the fruit. 
 And the rainbow for the sun ! 
 
 POSSESSION, 
 
 *'It was our wedding-day 
 
 A month ago," dear heart, I hear you say. 
 
 If months, or years, or ages since have passed, 
 
 I know not: I have ceased to question Time. 
 
 I only know that once there pealed a chime 
 
 Of joyous bells, and then I held you fast, 
 
 And all stood back, and none my right denied, 
 
 And forth we walked: the world was free and wide 
 
 Before us. Since that day 
 
 I count my life : the Past is washed away. 
 
 It was no dream, that vow: 
 
 It was the voice that woke me from a dream, — 
 
 A happy dream, I think; but I am waking now, 
 
 And drink the splendor of a sun supreme 
 
 That turns the mist of former tears to gold. 
 
 Within these arms I hold 
 
 The fleeting promise, chased so long in vain : 
 
 Ah, weary bird ! thou wilt not fly again : 
 
 Thy wings are clipped, thou canst no more depart, 
 
 Thy nest is builded in my heart ! 
 
THIRD EVENING. 
 
 III. 
 
 I was the crescent; thou 
 
 The silver phantom of the perfect sphere, 
 
 Held in its bosom : in one glory now 
 
 Our lives united shine, and many a year — 
 
 Not the sweet moon of bridal only — we 
 
 One lustre, ever at the full, shall be : 
 
 One pure and rounded light, one planet whole, 
 
 One life developed, one completed soul ! 
 
 For I in thee, and thou in me, 
 
 Unite our cloven halves of destiny. 
 
 IV. 
 
 God knew His chosen time: 
 
 He bade me slowly ripen to my prime. 
 
 And from my boughs withheld the promised fruit, 
 
 Till storm and sun gave vigor to the root. 
 
 Secure, O Love! secure 
 
 Thy blessing is : I have thee day and night : 
 
 Thou art become my blood, my life, my light: 
 
 God's mercy thou, and therefore shalt endure ! 
 
 UNDER THE MOON. 
 
 From you and home I sleep afar. 
 Under the light of a lonely star. 
 Under the moon that marvels why 
 Away from you and home I lie. 
 Ah ! love no language can declare. 
 The hovering warmth, the tender care, 
 The yielding, sweet, invisible air 
 
 63 
 
64 THE POETS JOURNAL. 
 
 That clasps your bosom, and fans your cheek 
 With the breath of words I cannot speak, — 
 Such love I give, such warmth impart: 
 The fragrance of a blossomed heart. 
 
 II. 
 
 The moon looks in upon my bed. 
 Her yearning glory rays my head, 
 And round me clings, a lonely light, 
 The aureole of the winter night; 
 But in my heart a gentle pain, 
 A balmier splendor in my brain. 
 Lead me beyond the frosty plane, — 
 Lead me afar, to mellower skies. 
 Where under the moon a palace lies; 
 Where under the moon our bed is made, 
 Half in splendor and half in shade. 
 
 III. 
 
 The marble flags of the corridor 
 Through open windows meet the floor. 
 And Moorish arches in darkness rise 
 Against the gleam of the silver skies: 
 Beyond, in flakes of starry light, 
 A fountain prattles to the night, 
 And dusky cypresses, withdrawn 
 In silent conclave, stud the lawn; 
 While mystic woodlands, more remote, 
 In seas of airy silver float. 
 So hung in heaven, the stars that set 
 Seem glossy leaves the dew has wet 
 On topmost boughs, and sparkling yet. 
 
THIRD EVENING. 5. 
 
 IV. 
 
 In from the terraced garden blows 
 
 The spicy soul of the tuberose, 
 
 As if 'twere the odor of strains that pour 
 
 From the nightingale's throat as never before; 
 
 For he sings not now of wounding thorn, 
 
 He sings as the lark in the golden morn, — 
 
 A song of joy, a song of bliss. 
 
 Passionate notes that clasp and kiss. 
 
 Perfect peace and perfect pride, 
 
 Love rewarded and satisfied. 
 
 For I see you, darling, at my side. 
 
 I see you, darling, at my side: 
 I clasp you closer, in sacred pride. 
 I shut my eyes, my senses fail, 
 Becalmed by Night's ambrosial gale. 
 Softer than dews the planets weep. 
 Descends a sweeter peace than sleep; 
 All wandering sounds and motions die 
 In the silent glory of the sky; 
 But, as the moon goes down the West, 
 Your heart, against my happy breast. 
 Says in its beating: Love is Rest. 
 
 THE MYSTIC SUMMER. 
 
 'Tis not the dropping of the flower. 
 The blush of fruit upon the tree, 
 
 Though Summer ripens, hour by hour, 
 The garden's sweet maternity: 
 
66 THE POET'S JOURNAL. 
 
 'Tis not that birds have ceased to build, 
 And wait their brood with tender care; 
 
 That corn is golden in the field, 
 And clover balm is in the air ; — 
 
 Not these the season's splendor bring, 
 And crowd with life the happy year, 
 
 Nor yet, where yonder fountains sing, 
 The blaze of sunshine, hot and clear. 
 
 In thy full womb, O Summer ! lies 
 A secret hope, a joy unsung. 
 
 Held in the hush of these calm skies. 
 And trembling on the forest's tongue. 
 
 The lands of harvest throb anew 
 In shining pulses, far away; 
 
 The Night distils a dearer dew. 
 And sweeter eyelids has the Day. 
 
 And not in vain the peony burns 
 In bursting globes, her crimson fire 
 
 Her incense-dropping ivory urns 
 The lily lifts in many a spire: 
 
 And not in vain the tulips clash 
 In revelry the cups they hold 
 
 Of fiery wine, until they dash 
 With ruby streaks the splendid gold ! 
 
 Send down your roots the mystic charm 
 That warms and flushes all your flowers, 
 
 And with the summer's touch disarm 
 The thraldom of the under powers, 
 
THIRD EVENING. 
 
 6; 
 
 Until, in caverns, buried deep, 
 
 Strange fragrance reach the diamond's home. 
 And murmurs of the garden sweep 
 
 The houses of the frighted gnome ! 
 
 For, piercing through their black repose, 
 And shooting up beyond the sun, 
 
 I see that Tree of Life, which rose 
 Before the eyes of Solomon : 
 
 Its boughs, that, in the light of God, 
 
 Their bright, innumerous leaves display, — 
 
 Whose hum of life is borne abroad 
 By winds that shake the dead away. 
 
 And, trembling on a branch afar. 
 The topmost nursling of the skies, 
 
 I see my bud, the fairest star 
 That ever dawned for watching eyes. 
 
 Unnoticed on the boundless tree. 
 
 Its fragrant promise fills the air; 
 Its little bell expands, for me, 
 
 A tent of silver, lily-fair. 
 
 All life -to that one centre tends; 
 
 All joy and beauty thence outflow; 
 Her sweetest gifts the summer spends, 
 
 To teach that sweeter bud to blow. 
 
 So, compassed by the vision's gleam, 
 In trembling hope, from day to day, 
 
 As in some bright, bewildering dream, 
 The mystic summer wanes away. 
 
6S THE POET'S JOURNAL. 
 
 A WATCH OF THE NIGHT. 
 
 Blow, winds of midnight, blow ! 
 The clouds, fast-flying, chase 
 Across the pallid face 
 Of yonder moon, and go ! 
 
 Sweep, as ye list, the land : 
 Hurl down the heavy corn. 
 And wrench the trees forlorn 
 That struggle where they stand ! 
 
 Though mighty to destroy. 
 To me ye bring no fear; 
 But in your voice I hear 
 An echo of my joy. 
 
 Life — life to me ye bring : 
 The precious soul, that takes 
 Its life from mine, awakes, 
 And soon will crown me king. 
 
 I stand with silent breath, 
 To hear one little cry 
 Ring through the roaring sky, 
 And worlds of Life and Death. 
 
 Wake, timid soul, and be ! 
 Two Fathers wait thy birth : 
 The love of Heaven and Earth 
 Stands by to welcome thee ! 
 
 THE FATHER. 
 
 The fateful hour, when Death stood by 
 And stretched his threatening hand in vain, 
 
THIRD EVENING, 69 
 
 Is over now, and Life's first cry 
 
 Speaks feeble triumph through its pain. 
 
 But yesterday, and thee the Earth 
 
 Inscribed not on her mighty scroll: 
 To-day she opes the gate of birth, 
 
 And gives the spheres another soul. 
 
 But yesterday, no fruit from me 
 
 The rising winds of Time had hurled: 
 
 To-day, a father, — can it be 
 A child of mine is in the world? 
 
 I look upon the little frame, 
 
 As helpless on my arm it lies: 
 Thou giv'st me, child, a father's name, 
 
 God's earliest name in Paradise. 
 
 Like Him, creator too I stand : 
 
 His Power and Mystery seem more near; 
 
 Thou giv'st me honor in the land. 
 And giv'st my life duration here. 
 
 But love, to-day, is more than pride; 
 
 Love sees his star of triumph shine. 
 For Life nor Death can now divide 
 
 The souls that wedded breathe in thine: 
 
 Mine and thy mother's, whence arose 
 
 The copy of my face in thee; 
 And as thine eyelids first unclose, 
 
 My own young eyes look up to me. 
 
 Look on me, child, once more, once more, 
 Even with those weak, unconscious eyes: 
 
 Stretch the small hands that help implore; 
 Salute me with thy wailing cries ! 
 
70 THE POET'S JOURNAL. 
 
 This is the blessing and the prayer 
 A father's sacred place demands: 
 
 Ordain me, darling, for thy care. 
 And lead me with thy helpless hands ! 
 
 THE MOTHER. 
 
 Paler, and yet a thousand times more fair 
 Than in thy girlhood's freshest bloom, art thou 
 
 A softer sun-flush tints thy golden hair, 
 A sweeter grace adorns thy gentle brow. 
 
 Lips that shall call thee "mother!" at thy breast 
 Feed the young life, wherein thy nature feels 
 
 Its dear fulfilment : little hands are pressed 
 On the white fountain Love alone unseals. 
 
 Look down, and let Life's tender daybreak throw 
 A second radiance on thy ripened hour: 
 
 Retrace thine own forgotten advent so. 
 And in the bud behold thy perfect flower. 
 
 Nay, question not: whatever lies beyond 
 God will dispose. Sit thus, Madonna mine. 
 
 For thou art haloed with a love as fond 
 As Jewish Mary gave the Child Divine. 
 
 I lay my own proud title at thy feet; 
 
 Thine the first, holiest right to love shalt be : 
 Though in his heart our wedded pulses beat. 
 
 His sweetest life our darling draws from thee. 
 
 The father in his child beholds this truth, 
 His perfect manhood has assumed its reign : 
 
 Thou wear'st anew the roses of thy youth, — 
 The mother in her child is born again. 
 
THIRD EVENING. 
 
 THE FAMILY. 
 
 71 
 
 Dear Love, whatever fate 
 
 The flying years unfold, 
 There's none can dissipate 
 
 The happiness we hold. 
 Whatever cloud may rise, 
 
 The very storms grow mild 
 Where bend the blissful skies 
 
 O'er Husband, Wife, and Child. 
 
 The errant dreams that failed, 
 
 The promises that fled, 
 The roseate hopes that paled. 
 
 The loves that now are dead, 
 The treason of the Past, — 
 
 All, all are reconciled: 
 Life's glory shines at last 
 
 On Father, Mother, Child ! 
 
 To meet the days and years, 
 With hands that never part; 
 
 To shed no secret tears. 
 To hide no lonely heart: 
 
 To know our longing stilled, 
 To feel that God has smiled: 
 
 These are the dreams fulfilled 
 In Husband, Wife, and Child, — 
 In Father, Mother, Child ! 
 
 Thus came the Poet's Journal to an end. 
 His heart's completed music ceased to flow 
 From Ernest's lips: the tale I wished to know 
 
72 THE POET'S JOURNAL. 
 
 Was wholly mine. ''I am content, dear friend," 
 
 I said: ''to me no voice can be obscure 
 
 Wherein your nature speaks : the chords I hear, 
 
 Too far and frail to strike a stranger's ear." 
 
 With that, I bowed to Edith's forehead pure, 
 
 And kissed her with a brother's blameless kiss: 
 
 "To you the fortune of these days I owe. 
 
 My other Ernest, like him most in this, 
 
 That you can hear the cries of ancient woe 
 
 With holy pity, free from any blame 
 
 Of jealous love, and find your highest bhss 
 
 To know, through you his life's fulfilment came." 
 
 ''And through him, mine," the woman's heart replied; 
 
 For Love's humility is Love's true pride. 
 
 "These are your sweetest poems, and your best," 
 To him I said. "I know not," answered he, 
 "They are my truest. I have ceased to be 
 The ambitious knight of Song, that shook his crest 
 In public tilts: the sober hermit I, 
 Whose evening songs but few approach to hear, — 
 Who, if those few should cease to lend an ear, 
 Would sing them to the forest and the sky 
 Contented : singing for myself alone. 
 No fear that any poet dies unknown. 
 Whose songs are written in the hearts that know 
 And love him, though their partial verdict show 
 The tenderness that moves the critic's blame. 
 Those few have power to lift his name above 
 Forgetfulness, to grant that noblest fame 
 Which sets its trumpet to the lips of Love!" 
 
 "Nay, then," said I, "you are already crowned. 
 If your ambition in the loving pride 
 Of us, your friends, is cheaply satisfied, 
 
THIRD EVENING. 
 
 73 
 
 We are those trumpets: do you hear them sound?" 
 
 And Edith smiHngly together wound 
 
 Light stems of ivy to a garland fair, 
 
 And pressed it archly on her husband's hair; 
 
 But he, with earnest voice, though in his eyes 
 
 A happy laughter shone, protesting, said : 
 
 ''Respect, dear friends, the Muse's sanctities. 
 
 Nor mock, with wreaths upon a living head, 
 
 The holy laurels of the deathless Dead. 
 
 Crown Love, crown Truth when first her brow appears, 
 
 And crown the Hero when his deeds are done: 
 
 The Poet's leaves are gathered one by one, 
 
 In the slow process of the doubtful years. 
 
 Who seeks too eagerly, he shall not find : 
 
 Who, seeking not, pursues with single mind 
 
 Art's lofty aim, to him will she accord. 
 
 At her appointed time, the sure reward." 
 
 The tall clock, standing sentry in the hall. 
 
 Struck midnight: on the panes no longer beat 
 
 The weary storm : the wind began to fall. 
 
 And through the breaking darkness glimmered, sweet 
 
 With tender stars, the flying gleams of sky. 
 
 "Come, Edith, lend your voice to crown the night, 
 
 And give the new day sunny break," said I: 
 
 She listening first in self-deceiving plight 
 
 Of young maternal trouble, for a cry 
 
 From Arthur's crib, sat down in happy calm. 
 
 And sang to Ernest's heart his own thanksgiving psalm. 
 
 Thou who sendest sun and rain, 
 Thou who spendest bliss and pain, 
 Good with bounteous hand bestowing, 
 Evil for Thy will allowing, — 
 
74 THE POET'S JOURNAL. 
 
 Though Thy ways we cannot see. 
 All is just that comes from Thee. 
 
 In the peace of hearts at rest, 
 In the child at mother^s breast, 
 In the lives that now surround us, 
 In the deaths that sorely wound us, 
 Though we may not understand, 
 Father, we behold Thy hand! 
 
 Hear the happy hymn we raise; 
 Take the love which is Thy praise; 
 Give content in each condition; 
 Bend our hearts in sweet submission, 
 And Thy trusting children prove 
 Worthy oj the Father^ s love! 
 
POEMS OF THE ORIENT. 
 
 Da der West war durchekos tet, 
 Hat er nun den Ost entomostet. 
 
 RiJCKERT. 
 
PROEM DEDICATORY. 
 AN EPISTLE FROM MOUNT TMOLUS. 
 TO RICHARD HENRY STODDARD. 
 
 O FRIEND, were you but couched on Tmolus' side, 
 In the warm myrtles, in the golden air 
 Of the declining day, which half lays bare. 
 
 Half drapes, the silent mountains and the wide 
 
 Embosomed vale, that wanders to the sea; 
 And the far sea, with doubtful specks of sail, 
 
 And farthest isles, that slumber tranquilly 
 Beneath the Ionian autumn's violet veil; — 
 
 Were you but with me, little were the need 
 Of this imperfect artifice of rhyme, 
 Where the strong Fancy peals a broken chime 
 
 And the ripe brain but sheds abortive seed. 
 
 But I am solitary, and the curse. 
 
 Or blessing, which has clung to me from birth — 
 
 The torment and the ecstasy of verse — 
 Comes up to me from the illustrious earth 
 
 Of ancient Tmolus; and the very stones. 
 
 Reverberant, din the mellow air with tones 
 
 Which the sweet air remembers; and they blend 
 With fainter echoes, which the mountains fling 
 
 From far oracular caverns: so, my Friend, 
 I cannot choose but sing 1 
 77 
 
yS POEMS OF THE ORIENT. 
 
 II. 
 
 Unto mine eye, less plain the shepherds be, 
 
 Tending their browsing goats amid the broom, 
 Or the slow camels, travelling towards the sea. 
 
 Laden with bales from Baghdad's gaudy loom, 
 Or yon nomadic Turcomans, that go 
 
 Down from their summer pastures — than the twain 
 Immortals, who on Tmolus' thymy top 
 
 Sang, emulous, the rival strain ! 
 Down the charmed air did light Apollo drop; 
 Great Pan ascended from the vales below. 
 I see them sitting in the silent glow; 
 I hear the alternating measures flow 
 From pipe and golden lyre ; — the melody 
 
 Heard by the Gods between their nectar bowls, 
 Or when, from out the chambers of the sea. 
 
 Comes the triumphant Morning, and unrolls 
 A pathway for the sun; then, following swift, 
 
 The daedal harmonies of awful caves 
 Cleft in the hills, and forests that uplift 
 
 Their sea-like boom, in answer to the waves, 
 With many a lighter strain, that dances o'er 
 The wedded reeds, till Echo strives in vain 
 To follow : 
 Hark! once more. 
 How floats the God's exultant strain 
 In answer to Apollo ! 
 
 '' The wind in the reeds and the rushes^ 
 The hees on the hells of thyme, 
 The birds on the myrtle bushes, 
 The cicale above in the lime, 
 And the lizards below in the grass 
 Are as silent as ever old Tmolus was, 
 Listening to my sweet pipings.^' 
 
PROEM DEDICATORY. 
 
 in. 
 
 I cannot separate the minstrels' worth; 
 Each is ahke transcendent and divine. 
 
 What were the Day, unless it lighted Earth.? 
 
 And what were Earth, should Day forget to shine > 
 
 But were you here, my Friend, we twain would build 
 Two altars, on the mountain's sunward side : 
 There Pan should o'er my sacrifice preside, ' 
 
 And there Apollo your oblation gild. 
 
 He is your God, but mine is shaggy Pan ; 
 Yet, as their music no discordance made. 
 So shall our offerings side by side be laid, 
 
 And the same wind the rival incense fan. 
 
 IV. 
 
 You strain your ear to catch the harmonies 
 That in some finer region have their birth; 
 
 I turn, despairing, from the quest of these, 
 And seek to learn the native tongue of Earth. 
 
 In ''Fancy's tropic clime" your castle stands, 
 A shining miracle of rarest art; 
 
 I pitch my tent upon the naked sands, 
 
 And the tall palm, that plumes the orient lands, 
 Can with its beauty satisfy my heart. 
 
 You, in your starry trances, breathe the air 
 Of lost Elysium, pluck the snowy bells 
 Of lotus and Olympian asphodels, 
 
 And bid us their diviner odors share. 
 
 I at the threshold of that world have lain. 
 Gazed on its glory, heard the grand acclaim 
 Wherewith its trumpets hail the sons of Fame, 
 
 And striven its speech to master — but in vain. 
 
 And now I turn, to find a late content 
 
80 POEMS OF THE ORIENT. 
 
 In Nature, making mine her myriad shows; 
 
 Better contented with one living rose 
 Than all the Gods' ambrosia; sternly bent 
 On wresting from her hand the cup, whence flow 
 
 The flavors of her ruddiest life — the change 
 
 Of climes and races — the unshackled range 
 Of all experience ; — that my songs may show 
 The warm red blood that beats in hearts of men, 
 And those who read them in the festering den 
 
 Of cities, may behold the open sky, 
 And hear the rhythm of the winds that blow. 
 
 Instinct with Freedom. Blame me not, that I 
 Find in the forms of Earth a deeper joy 
 Than in the dreams which lured me as a boy, 
 And leave the Heavens, where you are wandering still 
 
 With bright Apollo, to converse with Pan; 
 
 For, though full soon our courses separate ran, 
 We Hke the Gods, can meet on Tmolus' hill. 
 
 V, 
 
 There is no jealous rivalry in Song: 
 
 I see your altar on the hill-top shine. 
 
 And mine is built in shadows of the Pine, 
 Yet the same worships unto each belong. 
 Different the Gods, yet one the sacred awe 
 
 Their presence brings us, one the reverent heart 
 Wherewith we honor the immortal law 
 
 Of that high inspiration, which is Art. 
 Take, therefore. Friend ! these Voices of the Earth, 
 
 The rhythmic records of my life's career, 
 Humble, perhaps, yet wanting not the worth 
 
 Of Truth, and to the heart of Nature near. 
 Take them, and your acceptance, in the dearth 
 
 Of the world's tardy praise, shall make them dear. 
 
POEMS OF THE ORIENT. 
 A P^AN TO THE DAWN. 
 
 The dusky sky fades into blue, 
 
 And bluer waters bind us; 
 The stars are glimmering faint and few, 
 
 The night is left behind us ! 
 Turn not where sinks the sullen dark 
 
 Before the signs of warning. 
 But crowd the canvas on our bark 
 
 And sail to meet the morning. 
 Rejoice ! rejoice ! the hues that fill 
 
 The orient, flush and lighten; 
 And over the blue Ionian hill 
 
 The Dawn begins to brighten ! 
 
 II. 
 
 We leave the Night, that weighed so long 
 
 Upon the soul's endeavor. 
 For Morning, on these hills of Song, 
 
 Has made her home forever. 
 Hark to the sound of trump and lyre. 
 
 In the olive-groves before us. 
 And the rhythmic beat, the pulse of fire, 
 
 Throb in the full-voiced chorus ! 
 Si 
 
82 POEMS OF THE ORIENT. 
 
 More than Memnonian grandeur speaks 
 In the triumph of the paean, 
 
 And all the glory of the Greeks 
 Breathes o'er the old iEgean. 
 
 III. 
 
 Here shall the ancient Dawn return, 
 
 That lit the earliest poet, 
 Whose very ashes in his urn 
 
 Would radiate glory through it, — 
 The dawn of Life, w^hen Life was Song, 
 
 And Song the life of Nature, 
 And the Singer stood amid the throng, — 
 
 A God in every feature ! 
 When Love was free, and free as air 
 
 The utterance of Passion, 
 And the heart in every fold lay bare. 
 
 Nor shamed its true expression. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Then perfect limb and perfect face 
 
 Surpassed our best ideal; 
 Unconscious Nature's law was grace, — 
 
 The Beautiful was real. 
 For men acknowledged true desires, 
 
 And light as garlands wore them; 
 They were begot by vigorous sires. 
 
 And noble mothers bore them. 
 O, when the shapes of Art they planned 
 
 Were living forms of passion, 
 Impulse and Deed went hand in hand. 
 
 And Life was more than Fashion ! 
 
THE POET IN THE EAST. 83 
 
 V. 
 
 The seeds of Song they scattered first 
 
 Flower in all later pages; 
 Their forms have woke the Artist's thirst 
 
 Through the succeeding ages : 
 But I will seek the fountain-head 
 
 Whence flowed their inspiration, 
 And lead the unshackled life they led, 
 
 Accordant with Creation. 
 The World's false life, that follows still. 
 
 Has ceased its chain to tighten, 
 And over the blue Ionian hill 
 
 I see the sunrise brighten ! 
 
 THE POET IN THE EAST. 
 
 The Poet came to the Land of the East, 
 
 When Spring was in the air : 
 The Earth was dressed for a wedding feast, 
 
 So young she seemed, and fair; 
 And the Poet knew the Land of the East, — 
 
 His soul was native there. 
 
 All things to him were the visible forms 
 Of early and precious dreams, — 
 
 Familiar visions that mocked his quest 
 Beside the Western streams. 
 
 Or gleamed in the gold of the clouds, unrolled 
 In the sunset's dying beams. 
 
 He looked above in the cloudless calm, 
 And the Sun sat on his throne; 
 
84 POEMS OF THE ORIENT. 
 
 The breath of gardens, deep in balm, 
 
 Was all about him blown. 
 And a brother to him was the princeh- Palm, 
 
 For he cannot live alone. 
 
 His feet went forth on the myrtled hills, 
 And the flowers their welcome shed; 
 
 The meads of milk-white asphodel 
 They knew the Poet's tread, 
 
 And far and wide, in a scarlet tide, 
 The poppy's bonfire spread. 
 
 And, half in shade and half in sun, 
 
 The Rose sat in her bower. 
 With a passionate thrill in her crimson heart — 
 
 She had waited for the hour ! 
 And, like a bride's, the Poet kissed 
 
 The lips of the glorious flower. 
 
 Then the Nightingale, who sat above 
 In the boughs of the citron-tree, 
 
 Sang: We are no rivals, brother mine. 
 Except in minstrelsy; 
 
 For the rose you kissed with the kiss of love. 
 She is faithful still to me. 
 
 And further sang the Nightingale : 
 
 Your bower not distant hes. 
 I heard the sound of a Persian lute 
 
 From the jasmined window rise. 
 And, twin-bright stars, through the lattice-bars, 
 
 I saw the Sultana's eyes. 
 
 The Poet said : I will here abide, 
 In the Sun's unclouded door: 
 
TEMPTATION OF HASSAN BEN KHALED. 85 
 
 Here are the wells of all delight 
 
 On the lost Arcadian shore : 
 Here is the light on sea and land, 
 
 And the dream deceives no more. 
 
 THE TEMPTATION OF HASSAN BEN KHALED. 
 
 Hassan Ben Khaled, singing in the streets 
 
 Of Cairo, sang these verses at my door: 
 
 "Blessed is he, who God and Prophet greets 
 
 Each morn with prayer; but he is blest much more 
 
 Whose conduct is his prayer's interpreter. 
 
 Sweeter than musk, and pleasanter than myrrh, 
 
 Richer than rubies, shall his portion be. 
 
 When God bids Azrael, 'Bring him unto mel' 
 
 But woe to him whose life casts dirt upon 
 
 The Prophet's word ! When all his days are done, 
 
 Him shall the Evil Angel trample down 
 
 Out of the sight of God." Thus, with a frown 
 
 Of the severest virtue, Hassan sang 
 
 Unto the people, till the markets rang. 
 
 II. 
 
 But two days after this, he came again 
 And sang, and I remarked an altered strain. 
 Before my shop he stood, with forehead bent 
 Like one whose sin hath made him penitent, — 
 In whom the pride, that like a stately reed 
 Lifted his head, is broken. "Blest, indeed," 
 (These were his words,) "is he who never fell, 
 But blest much more, who from the verge of Hell 
 Climbs up to Paradise: for Sin is sweet; 
 
86 POEMS OF THE ORIENT. 
 
 Strong is Temptation; willing are the feet 
 
 That follow Pleasure, manifold her snares, 
 
 And pitfalls lurk beneath our very prayers: 
 
 Yet God, the Clement, the Compassionate, 
 
 In pity of our weakness keeps the gate 
 
 Of Pardon open, scorning not to wait 
 
 Till the last moment, when His mercy flings 
 
 A splendor from the shade of Azrael's wings." 
 
 "Wherefore, O Poet!" I to Hassan said, 
 
 "This altered measure? Wherefore hang your head, 
 
 Hassan 1 whom the pride of virtue gives 
 The right to face the holiest man that lives ? 
 Enter, I pray thee : this poor house will be 
 Honored henceforth, if it may shelter thee." 
 Hassan Ben Khaled lifted up his eyes 
 
 To mine, a moment : then, in cheerful guise, 
 He passed my threshold with unslippered feet. 
 
 III. 
 
 1 led him from the noises of the street 
 
 To the cool inner chambers, where my slave 
 Poured out the pitcher's rosy-scented wave 
 Over his hands, and laid upon his knee 
 The napkin, silver-fringed: and when the pipe 
 ;3^^ifhaled a grateful odor from the ripe 
 I^takian leaves, said Hassan unto me : 
 "Listen, O Man! no man can truly say 
 That he hath wisdom. What I sang to-day 
 Was not less truth than what I sang before, 
 But to Truth's house there is a single door, 
 Which is Experience. He teaches best. 
 Who feels the hearts of all men in his breast. 
 And knows their strength or weakness through his own. 
 The holy pride, that never was o'erthrown, 
 
TEMPTATION OF HASSAN BEN KHALED, 8/ 
 
 Was never tempted, and its words of blame 
 
 Reach but the dull ears of the multitude: 
 
 The admonitions, fruitful unto good, 
 
 Come from the voice of him who conquers shame." 
 
 IV. 
 
 "Give me, O Poet! (if thy friend may be 
 Worthy such confidence,)" I said, "the key 
 Unto thy words, that I may share with thee 
 Thine added wisdom." Hassan's kindly eye 
 Before his lips unclosed, spake willingly, 
 And he began: "But two days since, I went 
 Singing what thou didst hear, with soul intent 
 On my own virtue, all the markets through; 
 And when about the time of prayer, I drew 
 Near to the Gate of Victory, behold ! 
 There came a man, whose turban fringed with gold 
 And golden cimeter, bespake his wealth: 
 'May God prolong thy days, O Hassan! Health 
 And Fortune be thy wisdom's aids!' he cried; 
 'Come to my garden by the river's side. 
 Where other poets wait thee. Be my guest. 
 For even the Prophets had their times of rest, 
 And Rest, that strengthens unto virtuous deeds, 
 Is one with Prayer.' Two royal-blooded steeds, 
 Held by his grooms, were waiting at the gate, 
 And though I shrank from such unwonted state 
 The master's words were manna to my pride. 
 And, mounting straightway, forth we twain did ride 
 Unto the garden by the river's side. 
 
 V. 
 
 "Never till then had I beheld such bloom. 
 The west-wind sent its heralds of perfume 
 
88 POEMS OF THE ORIENT. 
 
 To bid us welcome, midway on the road. 
 
 Full in the sun the marble portal glowed 
 
 Like silver, but within the garden wall 
 
 No ray of sunshine found a place to fall, 
 
 So thick the crowning foliage of the trees, 
 
 Roofing the walks with twilight; and the air 
 
 Under their tops was greener than the seas, 
 
 And cool as they. The forms that wandered there 
 
 Resembled those who populate the floor 
 
 Of Ocean, and the royal Hneage own 
 
 That gave a Princess unto Persia's throne. 
 
 All fruits the trees of this fair garden bore, 
 
 Whose balmy fragrance lured the tongue to taste 
 
 Their flavors : there bananas flung to waste 
 
 Their golden flagons with thick honey filled; 
 
 From splintered cups the ripe pomegranates spilled 
 
 A shower of rubies; oranges that glow 
 
 Like globes of fire, enclosed a heart of snow 
 
 Which thawed not in their flame; like balls of gold 
 
 The peaches seemed, that had in blood been rolled; 
 
 Pure saffron mixed with clearest amber stained 
 
 The apricots; bunches of amethyst 
 
 And sapphire seemed the grapes, so newly kissed 
 
 That still the mist of Beauty's breath remained; 
 
 And where the lotus slowly swung in air 
 
 Her snowy-bosomed chalice, rosy-veined, 
 
 The golden fruit swung softly-cradled there, 
 
 Even as a bell upon the bosom swings 
 
 Of some fair dancer, — happy bell, that sings 
 
 For joy, its golden tinkle keeping time 
 
 To the heart's beating and the cymbal's chime ! 
 
 There dates of agate and of jasper lay, 
 
 Dropped from the bounty of the pregnant palm. 
 
 And all ambrosial trees, all fruits of balm, 
 
TEMPTA TION OF HASSAN BEN KHALED. 89 
 
 All flowers of precious odors, made the day 
 Sweet as a morn of Paradise. My breath 
 Failed with the rapture, and with doubtful mind 
 I turned to where the garden's lord reclined, 
 And asked, 'Was not that gate the Gate of Death?' 
 
 VI. 
 
 "The guests were near a fountain. As I came 
 
 They rose in welcome, wedding to my name 
 
 Titles of honor, linked in choicest phrase, 
 
 For Poets' ears are ever quick to Praise, 
 
 The ' Open Sesame ! ' whose magic art 
 
 Forces the guarded entrance of the heart. 
 
 Young men were they, whose manly beauty made 
 
 Their words the sweeter, and their speech displayed 
 
 Knowledge of men, and of the Prophet's laws. 
 
 Pleasant our converse was, where every pause 
 
 Gave to the fountain leave to sing its song. 
 
 Suggesting further speech; until, erelong. 
 
 There came a troop of swarthy slaves, who bore 
 
 Ewers and pitchers all of silver ore, 
 
 Wherein we washed our hands; then, tables placed, 
 
 And brought us meats of every sumptuous taste 
 
 That makes the blood rich, — pheasants stuffed with spice; 
 
 Young lambs, whose entrails were of cloves and rice; 
 
 Ducks bursting with pistachio nuts, and fish 
 
 That in a bed of parsley swam. Each dish. 
 
 Cooked with such art, seemed better than the last. 
 
 And our indulgence in the rich repast 
 
 Brought on the darkness ere we missed the day: 
 
 But lamps were lighted in the fountain's spray. 
 
 Or, pendent from the boughs, their colors told 
 
 What fruits unseen, of crimson or of gold. 
 
 Scented the gloom. Then took the generous host 
 
90 
 
 POEMS OF THE ORIENT. 
 
 A basket filled with roses. Every guest 
 
 Cried, 'Give me roses!' and he thus addressed 
 
 His words to all: 'He who exalts them most 
 
 In song, he only shall the roses wear.' 
 
 Then sang a guest: 'The rose's cheeks are fair; 
 
 It crowns the purple bowl, and no one knows 
 
 If the rose colors it, or it the rose.' 
 
 And sang another : ' Crimson is its hue, 
 
 And on its breast the morning's crystal dew 
 
 Is changed to rubies.' Then a third replied: 
 
 'It blushes in the sun's enamored sight, 
 
 As a young virgin on her wedding night, 
 
 When from her face the bridegroom lifts the veil.' 
 
 When all had sung their songs, I, Hassan, tried. 
 
 'The Rose,' I sang, 'is either red or pale, 
 
 Like maidens whom the flame of passion burns. 
 
 And Love or Jealousy controls, by turns. 
 
 Its buds are lips preparing for a kiss; 
 
 Its open flowers are like the blush of bliss 
 
 On lovers' cheeks; the thorns its armor are. 
 
 And in its centre shines a golden star. 
 
 As on a favorite's cheek a sequin glow^s; — 
 
 And thus the garden's favorite is the Rose.' 
 
 vn. 
 
 "The master from his open basket shook 
 
 The roses on my head. The others took 
 
 Their silver cups, and fiUing them with wine. 
 
 Cried, 'Pledge our singing, Hassan, as we thine!' 
 
 But I exclaimed, 'What is it I have heard? 
 
 Wine is forbidden by the Prophet's word: 
 
 Surely, O Friends ! ye would not lightly break 
 
 The laws which bring ye blessing?' Then they spake: 
 
 'O Poet, learn thou that the law was made 
 
TEMPTATION OF HASSAN BEN K HALED. 91 
 
 For men, and not for poets. Turn thine eye 
 
 Within, and read the nature there displayed; 
 
 The gifts thou hast doth Allah's grace deny 
 
 To common men; they lift thee o'er the rules 
 
 The Prophet fixed for sinners and for fools. 
 
 The vine is Nature's poet: from his bloom 
 
 The air goes reeling, tipsy with perfume, 
 
 And when the sun is warm within his blood 
 
 It mounts and sparkles in a crimson flood; 
 
 Rich with dumb songs he speaks not, till they find 
 
 Interpretation in the Poet's mind. 
 
 If Wine be evil, Song is evil too; 
 
 Then cease thy singing, lest it bring thee sin; 
 
 But wouldst thou know the strains which Hafiz knew, 
 
 Drink as he drank, and thus the secret win.' 
 
 They clasped my glowing hands; they held the bowl 
 
 Up to my lips, till, losing all control 
 
 Of the fierce thirst, which at my scruples laughed, 
 
 I drained the goblet at a single draught. 
 
 It ran through every limb like fluid fire: 
 
 ' More, O my Friends ! ' I cried, the new desire 
 
 Raging within me : ' this is life indeed ! 
 
 From blood like this is coined the nobler seed 
 
 Whence poets are begotten. Drink again, 
 
 And give us music of a tender strain, 
 
 Linking your inspiration unto mine, 
 
 For music hovers on the lips of Wine 1 ' 
 
 VIII. 
 
 " 'Music!' they shouted, echoing my demand, 
 And answered with a beckon of his hand 
 The gracious host, whereat a maiden, fair 
 As the last star that leaves the morning air, 
 Came down the leafy paths. Her veil revealed 
 
92 POEMS OF THE ORIENT. 
 
 The beauty of her face, which, hah concealed 
 
 Behind its thin blue folds, showed like the moon 
 
 Behind a cloud that will forsake it soon. 
 
 Her hair w^as braided darkness, but the glance 
 
 Of lightning eyes shot from her countenance, 
 
 And showed her neck, that like an ivory tower 
 
 Rose o'er the twin domes of her marble breast. 
 
 Were all the beauty of this age compressed 
 
 Into one form, she would transcend its power. 
 
 Her step was lighter than the young gazelle's. 
 
 And as she walked, her anklet's golden bells 
 
 Tinkled with pleasure, but were quickly mute 
 
 With jealousy, as from a case she drew 
 
 With snowy hands the pieces of her lute. 
 
 And took her seat before me. As it grew 
 
 To perfect shape, her lovely arms she bent 
 
 Around the neck of the sweet instrument. 
 
 Till from her soft caresses it awoke 
 
 To consciousness, and thus its rapture spoke: 
 
 'I was a tree within an Indian vale. 
 
 When first I heard the love-sick nightingale 
 
 Declare his passion : every leaf was stirred 
 
 With the melodious sorrow of the bird, 
 
 And w^hen he ceased, the song remained with me. 
 
 Men came anon, and felled the harmless tree. 
 
 But from the memory of the songs I heard, 
 
 The spoiler saved me from the destiny 
 
 Whereby my brethren perished. O'er the sea 
 
 I came, and from its loud, tumultuous moan 
 
 I caught a soft and solemn undertone; 
 
 And when I grew beneath the maker's hand 
 
 To what thou seest, he sang (the while he planned) 
 
 The mirthful measures of a careless heart, 
 
 And of my soul his songs became a part. 
 
TEMTPATION OF HASSAN BEN KHALED. 
 
 Now they have laid my head upon a breast 
 Whiter than marble, I am wholly blest. 
 The fair hands smite me, and my strings complain 
 With such melodious cries, they smite again, 
 Until, with passion and with sorrow swayed, 
 My torment moves the bosom of the maid. 
 Who hears it speak her own. I am the voice 
 Whereby the lovers languish or rejoice; 
 And they caress me, knowing that my strain 
 Alone can speak the language of their pain.' 
 
 IX. 
 
 '' Here ceased the fingers of the maid to stray 
 
 Over the strings ; the sweet song died away 
 
 In mellow, drowsy murmurs, and the lute 
 
 Leaned on her fairest bosom, and was mute. 
 
 Better than wine that music was to me: 
 
 Not the lute only felt her hands, but she 
 
 Played on my heart-strings, till the sounds became 
 
 Incarnate in the pulses of my frame. 
 
 Speech left my tongue, and in my tears alone 
 
 Found utterance. With stretched arms I implored 
 
 Continuance, whereat her fingers poured 
 
 A tenderer music, answering the tone 
 
 Her parted lips released, the while her throat 
 
 Throbbed, as a heavenly bird were fluttering there, 
 
 And gave her voice the wonder of his note. 
 
 * His brow,' she sang, 'is white beneath his hair; 
 
 The fertile beard is soft upon his chin, 
 
 Shading the mouth that nestles warm within, 
 
 As a rose nestles in its leaves; I see 
 
 His eyes, but cannot tell what hue they be. 
 
 For the sharp eyelash, like a sabre, speaks 
 
 The martial law of Passion ; in his cheeks 
 
 93 
 
94 POEMS OF THE ORIENT. 
 
 The quick blood mounts, and then as quickly goes, 
 
 Leaving a tint like marble when a rose 
 
 Is held beside it : — bid him veil his eyes, 
 
 Lest all my soul should unto mine arise, 
 
 And he behold it !' As she sang, her glance 
 
 Dwelt on my face; her beauty, like a lance, 
 
 Transfixed my heart. I melted into sighs, 
 
 Slain by the arrows of her beauteous eyes. 
 
 'Why is her bosom made' (I cried) 'a snare? 
 
 Why does a single ringlet of her hair 
 
 Hold my heart captive?' 'Would you know?' she said; 
 
 *It is that you are mad with love, and chains 
 
 Were made for madmen.' Then she raised her head 
 
 With answering love, that led to other strains. 
 
 Until the lute, which shared with her the smart. 
 
 Rocked as in storm upon her beating heart. 
 
 Thus to its wires she made impassioned cries: 
 
 *I swear it by the brightness of his eyes; 
 
 I swear it by the darkness of his hair; 
 
 By the warm bloom his limbs and bosom wear; 
 
 By the fresh pearls his rosy lips enclose; 
 
 By the calm majesty of his repose; 
 
 By smiles I coveted, and frowns I feared. 
 
 And by the shooting myrtles of his beard, — 
 
 I swear it, that from him the morning drew 
 
 Its freshness, and the moon her silvery hue. 
 
 The sun his brightness, and the stars their fire, 
 
 And musk and camphor all their odorous breath: 
 
 And if he answer not my love's desire. 
 
 Day will be night to me, and Life be Death ! ' 
 
 X. 
 
 "Scarce had she ceased, when, overcome, I fell 
 Upon her bosom, where the lute no more 
 
TEMPTATION OF HASSAN BEN K HALED. 95 
 
 That night was cradled ; song was silenced well 
 With kisses, each one sweeter than before, 
 Until their fiery dew so long was quaffed, 
 I drank delirium in the infectious draught. 
 The guests departed, but the sounds they made 
 I heard not; in the fountain-haunted shade 
 The lamps burned out; the moon rode far above, 
 But the trees chased her from our nest of love. 
 Dizzy with passion, in mine ears the blood 
 Tingled and hummed in a tumultuous flood, 
 Until from deep to deep I seemed to fall, 
 Like him, who from El Sirat's hair-drawn wall 
 Plunges to endless gulfs. In broken gleams 
 Glimmered the things I saw, so mixed with dreams 
 The vain confusion blinded every sense. 
 And knowledge left me. Then a sleep intense 
 Fell on my brain, and held me as the dead, 
 Until a sudden tumult smote my head, 
 And a strong glare, as when a torch is hurled 
 Before a sleeper's eyes, brought back the world. 
 
 XI. 
 
 ''Most wonderful! The fountain and the trees 
 
 Had disappeared, and in the place of these 
 
 I saw the well-known Gate of Victory. 
 
 The sun was high; the people looked at me. 
 
 And marvelled that a sleeper should be there 
 
 On the hot pavement, for the second prayer 
 
 Was called from all the minarets. I passed 
 
 My hand across my eyes, and found at last 
 
 What man I w^as. Then straightway through my heart 
 
 There rang a double pang, — the bitter smart 
 
 Of evil knowledge, and the unhealthy lust 
 
 Of sinful pleasure; and I threw the dust 
 
96 POEMS OF THE ORIENT. 
 
 Upon my head, the burial of my pride, — 
 
 The ashen soil, wherein, I plant the tree 
 
 Of Penitence. The people saw, and cried, 
 
 ' May God reward thee, Hassan ! Truly, thou, 
 
 Whom men have honored, addest to thy brow 
 
 The crowning lustre of Humihty: 
 
 As thou abasest, God exalteth thee ! ' 
 
 Which when I heard, I shed such tears of shame 
 
 As might erase the record of my blame, 
 
 And from that time I have not dared to curse 
 
 The unrighteous, since the man who seemeth worse 
 
 Than I, may purer be; for, when I fell, 
 
 Temptation reached a loftier pinnacle. 
 
 Therefore, O Man ! be Charity thy aim : 
 
 Praise cannot harm, but weigh thy words of blame. 
 
 Distrust the Virtue that itself exalts. 
 
 But turn to that which doth avow its faults, 
 
 And from Repentance plucks a wholesome fruit. 
 
 Pardon, not Wrath, is God's best attribute." 
 
 XII. 
 
 ''The tale, O Poet! which thy lips have told," 
 
 I said, "is words of rubies set in gold. 
 
 Precious the wisdom which from evil draws 
 
 Strength to fulfil the good, of Allah's laws. 
 
 But lift thy head, O Hassan ! Thine own words 
 
 Shall best console thee, for my tongue affords 
 
 No phrase but thanks for what thou hast bestowed; 
 
 And yet I fain would have thee shake the load 
 
 Of shame from off thy shoulders, seeing still 
 
 That by this fall thou hast increased thy will 
 
 To do the work which makes thee truly blest." 
 
 Hassan Ben Khaled wept, and smote his breast: 
 
 "Hold! hold, O Man!" he cried: "why make me feel 
 
THE ARAB WARRIOR. 97 
 
 A deeper shame ! Why force me to reveal 
 
 That Sin is as the leprous taint no art 
 
 Can cleanse the blood from? In my secret heart 
 
 I do believe I hold at dearer cost 
 
 The vanished Pleasure, than the Virtue lost/' 
 
 So saying, he arose and went his way; 
 And Allah grant he go no more astray. 
 
 THE ARAB WARRIOR. 
 
 FROM THE ARABIC. 
 
 Go, ask of men that know my name, 
 
 And they the truth will speak, 
 That I'm the terror of the strong, 
 
 The helper of the weak. 
 
 My spear has made the dragon brood 
 
 Succumb to galling bands, 
 And tossed before the jaws of War 
 
 The forage he demands. 
 
 I steer my horse through stormy fights, 
 
 As a seaman steers his craft; 
 ^y joy? to splinter on my breast 
 
 The foeman's flying shaft. 
 
 I am the latest laid to rest. 
 
 The earliest in the fight. 
 And while the others idly feast, 
 
 I rub my harness bright. 
 
 And while the booty they divide 
 
 I heap the ranks of slain, 
 And when they scorn my poverty, 
 
 I scorn their greed of gain. 
 
98 POEMS OF THE ORIENT, 
 
 ARAB PRAYER. 
 
 *'La illah W Allah!" the muezzin's call 
 Comes from the minaret, slim and tall, 
 That looks o'er the distant city's wall. 
 
 "La illah il' Allah!" the Faithful heed, 
 
 With God and the Prophet this hour to plead: 
 
 Whose ear is open to hear their need. 
 
 The sun is sunken; no vapor mars 
 The path of his going with dusky bars. 
 The silent Desert awaits the stars. 
 
 I bend the knee and I stretch the hand, 
 I strike my forehead upon the sand, 
 And I pray aloud, that He understand. 
 
 Not for my father, for he is dead; 
 
 Not in my wandering brothers' stead, — 
 
 For myself alone I bow the head. 
 
 God is Great, and God is Just: 
 
 He knoweth the hearts of the children of dust, 
 
 He is the helper; in Him I trust. 
 
 My sword is keen and my arm is strong 
 With the sense of unforgotten wrong, 
 And the hate that waits and watches long. 
 
 God, let me wait for year on year, 
 
 But let the hour at last appear, 
 
 When Vengeance makes my honor clear. 
 
EL KHALIL. 
 
 Once let me strike till he is slain; 
 
 His blood will cleanse my sabre's stain, 
 
 And I shall stand erect again. 
 
 Till then, I wander to and fro, 
 Wide as the desert whirlwinds go. 
 And seek, by the sun and stars, my foe. 
 
 Better than Stamboul's courts of gold. 
 Whose harems the Georgian girls infold, 
 Whiter than snow, but not so cold : 
 
 Better than Baghdad's garden bowers. 
 
 Or fountains that play among Persian flowers; 
 
 Better than all delights and powers, 
 
 The deed God's justice will abide, — 
 The stern atonement, long denied. 
 That righteous Vengeance gives to Pride. 
 
 EL KHALIL. 
 
 I AM no chieftain, fit to lead 
 
 Where spears are hurled and warriors bleed; 
 
 No poet, in my chanted rhyme 
 
 To rouse the ghosts of ancient time; 
 
 No magian, with a subtle ken 
 
 To rule the thoughts of other men; 
 
 Yet far as sounds the Arab tongue 
 
 My name is known to old and young. 
 
 My form has lost its pliant grace, 
 There is no beauty in my face, 
 There is no cunning in my arm, 
 
 tore 
 
 99 
 
100 POEMS OF THE ORIENT. 
 
 The Children of the Sun to charm ; 
 Yet, where I go, my people's eyes 
 Are lighted with a glad surprise, 
 And in each tent a couch is free, 
 And by each fire a place, for me. 
 
 They watch me from the palms, and some 
 Proclaim my coming ere I come. 
 The children lift my hand to meet 
 The homage of their kisses sweet; 
 With manly warmth the men embrace. 
 The veiled maidens seek my face, 
 And eyes, fresh kindled from the heart. 
 Keep loving watch when I depart. 
 
 On God, the Merciful, I call, 
 To shed His blessing over all : 
 I praise His name, for He is Great, 
 And Loving, and Compassionate; 
 And for the gift of love I give — 
 The breath of life whereby I live — 
 He gives me back, in overflow, 
 His children's love, where'er I go. 
 
 Deep sunk in sin the man must be 
 That has no friendly word for me. 
 I pass through tribes whose trade is death, 
 And not a sabre quits the sheath; 
 For, strong and cruel as they prove. 
 The sons of men are weak to Love. 
 The humblest gifts to them I bring; 
 Yet in their hearts I rule, a king. 
 
ODE TO INDOLENCE. lOI 
 
 ODE TO INDOLENCE. 
 
 Find me a bower, in silent dells embayed, 
 
 And trebly guarded from each wind that blows, 
 
 Where the blue noon o'erroofs the tranquil shade, 
 And poppies breathe an odor of repose; 
 
 Where never noises from the distant world 
 Disturb the happy calm of soul and sense, 
 
 But in thy haven every sail is furled, 
 Divinest Indolence ! 
 
 There shall I summon all melodious measures, 
 
 And ]eel the hymns to thee, I sing to other Pleasures. 
 
 n. 
 
 Within thy realm the vexing tempests die 
 
 That strip the leaves from Life's aspiring tree, 
 
 And fairer blossoms open in thy sky. 
 To richer fruits maturing peacefully. 
 
 What is the clangor of Ambition's car 
 To thine eternal silence ? To thy rest, 
 What are the stormy joys that shake the breast. 
 
 And Passion's cloud, that leaves the thunder-scar? 
 
 On brows that burn with Toil's relentless fever 
 
 Thy pitying hand is laid, and they have peace forever. 
 
 III. 
 
 Far from thee drift the shattered hulks of life; 
 
 But the wrecked spirit slumbers at thy feet. 
 And, harbored now from every wave of strife. 
 
 Feels the strong pulses of Existence beat. 
 There hears the heart its native language, free 
 
102 POEMS OF THE ORIENT. 
 
 From the world's clamor; with enlightened eyes 
 There doth the soul its features recognize, 
 And read its destiny ! 
 The dark enigmas which perplexed the sense 
 Fade in the wisdom, born of Indolence. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Yea, let men struggle, toil, exult, and win 
 The pygmy triumphs which they fret to wear; 
 
 But I will fly the curse of primal sin, 
 And in thy lap the peace of Eden share. 
 
 Serener than a star on Twilight's breast, 
 A sea-flower, deep below the tropic waves, 
 Or sparry foliage of the daedal caves. 
 
 My life shall blossom in thine arms of rest. 
 
 My breath grows calm; my weary eyelids close; 
 
 And the pursuing Fates have left me to repose. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Daughter of Eygpt, veil thine eyes ! 
 
 I cannot bear their fire; 
 Nor will I touch with sacrifice 
 
 Those altars of Desire. 
 For they are flames that shun the day 
 
 And their unholy light 
 Is fed from natures gone astray 
 
 In passion and in night. 
 
 The stars of Beauty and of Sin, 
 
 They burn amid the dark, 
 Like beacons that to ruin win 
 
 The fascinated bark. 
 
AMRAN'S WOOING. 103 
 
 Then veil their glow, lest I forswear 
 
 The hopes thou canst not crown, 
 And in the black waves of thy hair 
 
 My struggling manhood drown I 
 
 AMRAN'S WOOING. 
 
 You ask, O Frank ! how Love is born 
 Within these glowing climes of Morn, 
 Where envious veils conceal the charms 
 That tempt a Western lover's arms. 
 And how, without a voice or sound, 
 From heart to heart the path is found. 
 Since on the eye alone is flung 
 The burden of the silent tongue. 
 You hearken with a doubtful smile 
 Whene'er the wandering bards beguile 
 Our evening indolence with strains 
 Whose words gush molten through our veins, 
 The songs of Love, but half confessed, 
 Where Passion sobs on Sorrow's breast. 
 And mighty longings, tender fears. 
 Steep the strong heart in fire and tears. 
 The source of each accordant strain 
 Lies deeper than the Poet's brain. 
 First from the people's heart must spring 
 The passions which he learns to sing; 
 They are the wind, the harp is he, 
 To voice their fitful melody, — 
 The language of their varying fate. 
 Their pride, grief, love, ambition, hate, — 
 
104 POEMS OF THE ORIENT. 
 
 The talisman which holds inwrought 
 
 The touchstone of the listener's thought; 
 
 That penetrates each vain disguise, 
 
 And brings his secret to his eyes. 
 
 For, like a solitary bird 
 
 That hides among the boughs unheard 
 
 Until some mate, whose carol breaks. 
 
 Its own betraying song awakes, 
 
 So, to its echo in those lays, 
 
 The ardent heart itself betrays. 
 
 Crowned with a prophet's honor, stands 
 
 The Poet, on Arabian sands; 
 
 A chief, whose subjects love his thrall, — 
 
 The sympathizing heart of all. 
 
 n. 
 
 Vaunt not your Western maids to me, 
 Whose charms to every gaze are free : 
 My love is selfish, and would share 
 Scarce with the sun, or general air. 
 The sight of beauty which has shone 
 Once for mine eyes, and mine alone. 
 Love likes concealment; he can dress 
 With fancied grace the loveliness 
 That shrinks behind its virgin veil. 
 As hides the moon her forehead pale 
 Behind a cloud, yet leaves the air 
 Softer than if her orb were there. 
 And as the splendor of a star. 
 When sole in heaven, seems brighter far, 
 So shines the eye, Love's star and sun, 
 The brighter, that it shines alone. 
 The light from out its darkness sent 
 Is Passion's life and element; 
 
AMR AN' S WOOING. 105 
 
 And when the heart is warm and young, 
 
 Let but that single ray be flung 
 
 Upon its surface, and the deep 
 
 Heaves from its unsuspecting sleep, 
 
 As heaves the ocean when its floor 
 
 Breaks over the volcano's core. 
 
 Who thinks if cheek or lip be fair? 
 
 Is not all beauty centred where 
 
 The soul looks out, the feelings move. 
 
 And Love his answer gives to love? 
 
 Look on the sun, and you will find 
 
 For other sights your eyes are blind. 
 
 Look — if the colder blood you share 
 
 Can give your heart the strength to dare — 
 
 In eyes of dark and tender fire : 
 
 What more can blinded love desire? 
 
 ni. 
 
 I was a stripHng, quick and bold. 
 And rich in pride as poor in gold. 
 When God's good will my journey bent 
 One day to Shekh Abdallah's tent. 
 My only treasure was a steed 
 Of Araby's most precious breed; 
 And whether 'twas in boastful whim 
 To show his mettled speed of limb. 
 Or that presumption, which, in sooth, 
 Becomes the careless brow of youth, — 
 Which takes the world as birds the air, 
 And moves in freedom everywhere, — 
 It matters not. But 'midst the tents 
 I rode in easy confidence, 
 Till to Abdallah's door I pressed 
 And made myself the old man's guest. 
 
I06 POEMS OF THE ORIENT. 
 
 My ''Peace be with you!" was returned 
 With the grave courtesy he learned 
 From age and long authority, 
 And in God's name he welcomed me. 
 The pipe replenished, with its stem 
 Of jasmine wood and amber gem. 
 Was at my lips, and while I drew 
 The rosy-sweet, soft vapor through 
 In ringlets of dissolving blue, 
 Waiting his speech with reverence meet, 
 A woman's garments brushed my feet. 
 And first through boyish senses ran 
 The pulse of love which made me man, 
 ■ The handmaid of her father's cheer. 
 With timid grace she glided near, 
 And, lightly dropping on her knee, 
 Held out a silver zerf to me. 
 Within whose cup the fragrance sent 
 From Yemen's sunburnt berries blent 
 With odors of the Persian rose. 
 That picture still in memory glows 
 With the same heat as then, — the gush 
 Of fever, with its fiery flush 
 Startling my blood ; and I can see — 
 As she this moment knelt to me — 
 The shrouded graces of her form; 
 The half-seen arm, so round and warm; 
 The little hand, whose tender veins 
 Branched through the henna's orange stains; 
 The head, in act of offering bent; 
 And through the parted veil, which lent 
 A charm for what it hid, the eye. 
 Gazelle-like, large, and dark, and shy. 
 That with a soft, sweet tremble shone 
 
AMR AN' S WOOING. 107 
 
 Beneath the fervor of my own, 
 
 Yet could not, would not, turn away 
 
 The fascination of its ray. 
 
 But half in pleasure, half in fright. 
 
 Grew unto mine, and builded bright 
 
 From heart to heart a bridge of light. 
 
 IV. 
 
 From the fond trouble of my look 
 
 The zerf within her fingers shook, 
 
 As with a start, like one who breaks 
 
 Some happy trance of thought, and wakes 
 
 Unto forgotten toil, she rose 
 
 And passed. I saw the curtains close 
 
 Behind her steps: the light was gone, 
 
 But in the dark my heart dreamed on. 
 
 Some random words — thanks ill expressed — 
 
 I to the stately Shekh addressed, 
 
 With the intelligence which he, 
 
 My host, could not demand of me; 
 
 How, wandering in the desert chase, 
 
 I spied from far his camping-place, 
 
 And Arab honor bade me halt 
 
 To break his bread and share his salt. 
 
 Thereto, fit reverence for his name, 
 
 The praise our speech is quick to frame, 
 
 Which, empty though it seem, was dear 
 
 To the old warrior's willing ear, 
 
 And led his thoughts, by many a track. 
 
 To deeds of ancient prowess back, 
 
 Until my love could safely hide 
 
 Beneath the covert of his pride. 
 
 And when his ''Go with God!" was said, 
 
 Upon El-Azrek's back I sped 
 
I08 POEMS OF THE ORIENT. 
 
 Into the desert, wide and far, 
 Beneath the silver evening-star, 
 And, fierce with passion, without heed 
 Urged o'er the sands my snorting steed, 
 As if those af rites, feared of man, — 
 Who watch the lonely caravan. 
 And, if a loiterer lags behind. 
 Efface its tracks with sudden wind. 
 Then fill the air with cheating cries, 
 And make false pictures to his eyes 
 Till the bewildered sufferer dies, — 
 Had breathed on me their demon breath. 
 And spurred me to the hunt of Death. 
 
 Yet madness such as this was worth 
 All the cool wisdom of the earth, 
 And sweeter glowed its wild unrest 
 Than the old calm of brain and breast. 
 The image of that maiden beamed 
 Through all I saw, or thought, or dreamed. 
 Till she became, like Light or Air, 
 A part of life. And she shall share, 
 I vowed, my passion and my fate. 
 Or both shall fail me, soon or late. 
 In the vain effort to possess; 
 For Life lives only in success. 
 I could not, in her father's sight. 
 Purchase the hand which was his right; 
 And well I knew how quick denied 
 The prayer would be to empty pride; 
 But Heaven and Earth shall sooner move 
 Than bar the energy of Love. 
 The sinews of my life became 
 
AMRAN'S WOOING. 1 09 
 
 Obedient to that single aim, 
 
 And desperate deed and patient thought 
 
 Together in its service wrought. 
 
 Keen as a falcon, when his eye 
 
 In search of quarry reads the sky, 
 
 I stole unseen, at eventide. 
 
 Behind the well, upon whose side. 
 
 The girls their jars of water leaned. 
 
 By one long, sandy hillock screened, 
 
 I watched the forms that went and came, 
 
 With eyes that sparkled with the flame 
 
 Up from my heart in flashes sent. 
 
 As one by one they came and went 
 
 Amid the sunset radiance cast 
 
 On the red sands: they came and passed. 
 
 And she, — thank God ! — she came at last ! 
 
 VI. 
 
 Then, while her fair companion bound 
 
 The cord her pitcher's throat around, 
 
 And steadied with a careful hand 
 
 Its slow descent, upon the sand 
 
 At the Shekh's daughter's feet, I sped 
 
 A slender arrow, shaft and head 
 
 With breathing jasmine-flowers entwined, 
 
 And roses such as on the wind 
 
 Of evening with rich odors fan 
 
 The white kiosks of Ispahan. 
 
 A moment, fired with love and hope, 
 
 I stayed upon the yellow slope 
 
 El-Azrek's hoofs, to see her raise 
 
 Her startled eyes in sweet amaze, — 
 
 To see her make the unconscious sign 
 
 Which recognized the gift as mine. 
 
no POEMS OF THE ORIENT. 
 
 And place, before she turned to part, 
 The flowery barb against her heart. 
 
 vn. 
 
 Again the Shekh's divan I pressed : 
 
 The jasmine pipe was brought the guest 
 
 And Mariam, lovelier than before, 
 
 Knelt with the steamy cup once more. 
 
 O bliss ! within those eyes to see 
 
 A soul of love look out on me, — 
 
 A fount of passion, which is truth 
 
 In the wild dialect of Youth, — 
 
 Whose rich abundance is outpoured 
 
 Like worship at a shrine adored. 
 
 And on its rising deluge bears 
 
 The heart to raptures or despairs. 
 
 While from. the cup the zerf contained 
 
 The foamy amber juice I drained, 
 
 A rose-bud in the zerf expressed 
 
 The sweet confession of her breast. 
 
 One glance of glad intelligence. 
 
 And silently she glided thence. 
 
 *'0 Shekh!" I cried, as she withdrew, 
 
 (Short is the speech where hearts are true,) 
 
 *'Thou hast a daughter; let me be 
 
 A shield to her, a sword to thee!" 
 
 Abdallah turned his steady eye 
 
 Full on my face, and made reply : 
 
 "It cannot be. The treasure sent 
 
 By God must not be idly spent. 
 
 Strong men there are, in service tried. 
 
 Who seek the maiden for a bride; 
 
 And shall I slight their worth and truth 
 
 To feed the passing flame of youth ? " 
 
AMRAN'S WOOING. m 
 
 vm. 
 
 '*No passing flame!" my answer ran; 
 "But love which is the life of man, 
 Warmed with his blood, fed by his breath, 
 And, when it fails him, leaves but Death. 
 
 Shekh, I hoped not thy consent; 
 But having tasted in thy tent 
 
 An Arab welcome, shared thy bread, 
 
 1 come to warn thee I shall wed 
 Thy daughter, though her suitors be 
 As leaves upon the tamarind-tree. 
 Guard her as thou mayst guard, I swear 
 No other bed than mine shall wear 
 Her virgin honors, and thy race 
 Through me shall keep its ancient place. 
 Thou'rt warned, and duty bids no more; 
 For, when I next approach thy door. 
 Her child shall intercessor be 
 
 To build up peace 'twixt thee and me." 
 
 A Httle flushed my boyish brow; 
 
 But calmly then I spake, as now. 
 
 The Shekh, with dignity that flung 
 
 Rebuke on my impetuous tongue. 
 
 Replied: ''The young man's hopes are fair; 
 
 The young man's blood would all things dare. 
 
 But age is wisdom, and can bring 
 
 Confusion on the soaring wing 
 
 Of reckless youth. Thy words are just, 
 
 But needless; for I still can trust 
 
 A father's jealousy to shield 
 
 From robber grasp the gem concealed 
 
 Within his tent, till he may yield 
 
 To fitting hands the precious store. 
 
 Go, then, in peace; but come no more." 
 
POEMS OF THE ORIENT. 
 
 IX. 
 
 My only sequin served to bribe 
 A cunning mother of the tribe 
 To Mariam's mind my plan to bring. 
 A feather of the wild dove's wing, 
 A lock of raven gloss and stain 
 Sheared from El-Azrek's flowing mane, 
 And that pale flower whose fragrant cup 
 Is closed until the moon comes up, — 
 But then a tenderer beauty holds 
 Than any flower the sun unfolds, — 
 Declared my purpose. Her reply 
 Let loose the winds of ecstasy: 
 Two roses and the moonlight flower 
 Told the acceptance, and the hour, — 
 Two daily suns to waste their glow, 
 And then, at moonrise, bliss — or woe. 
 
 El-Azrek now, on whom alone 
 The burden of our fate was thrown, 
 Claimed from my hands a double meed 
 Of careful training for the deed. 
 I gave him of my choicest store, — 
 No guest was ever honored more. 
 With flesh of kid, with whitest bread 
 And dates of Egypt was he fed; 
 The camel's heavy udders gave 
 Their frothy juice his thirst to lave: 
 A charger, groomed with better care. 
 The Sultan never rode to prayer. 
 My burning hope, my torturing fear, 
 I breathed in his sagacious ear; 
 
AMR AN 'S WOOING. 
 
 Caressed him as a brother might, 
 Implored his utmost speed in flight, 
 Hung on his neck with many a vow, 
 And kissed the white star on his brow. 
 His large and lustrous eyeball sent 
 A look which made me confident, 
 As if in me some doubt he spied. 
 And met it with a human pride. 
 ''Enough: I trust thee. 'Tis the hour, 
 And I have need of all thy power. 
 Without a wing, God gives thee wings. 
 And Fortune to thy forelock chngs." 
 
 XI. 
 
 The yellow moon was rising large 
 Above the Desert's dusky marge. 
 And save the jackal's whining moan. 
 Or distant camel's gurgling groan. 
 And the lamenting monotone 
 Of winds that breathe their vain desire 
 And on the lonely sands expire, 
 A silent charm, a breathless spell. 
 Waited with me beside the well. 
 She is not there, — not yet, — but soon 
 A white robe glimmers in the moon. 
 Her little footsteps make no sound 
 On the soft sand; and with a bound. 
 Where terror, doubt, and love unite 
 To blind her heart to all but flight. 
 Trembling, and panting, and oppressed, 
 She threw herself upon my breast. 
 By Allah ! like a bath of flame 
 The seething blood tumultuous came 
 From life's hot centre as I drew 
 
 113 
 
14 POEMS OF THE ORIENT. 
 
 Her mouth to mine : our spirits grew 
 Together in one long, long kiss, — 
 One swooning, speechless pulse of bliss, 
 That, throbbing from the heart's core, met 
 In the united lips. O, yet 
 The eternal sweetness of that draught 
 Renews the thirst with which I quaffed 
 Love's virgin vintage: starry fire 
 Leapt from the twilights of desire. 
 And in the golden dawn of dreams 
 The space grew warm with radiant beams. 
 Which from that kiss streamed o'er a sea 
 Of rapture, in whose bosom we 
 Sank down, and sank eternally. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Now nerve thy limbs, El-Azrek ! Fling 
 Thy head aloft, and like a wing 
 Spread on the wind thy cloudy mane ! 
 The hunt is up : their stallions strain 
 The urgent shoulders close behind. 
 And the wide nostril drinks the wind. 
 But thou art, too, of Nedjid's breed. 
 My brother ! and the falcon's speed 
 Slant down the storm's advancing line 
 Would laggard be if matched with thine. 
 Still leaping forward, whistling through 
 The moonlight-laden air, we flew; 
 And from the distance, threateningly, 
 Came the pursuer's eager cry. 
 Still forward, forward, stretched our fliglit 
 Through the long hours of middle night; 
 One after one the followers lagged. 
 And even my faithful Azrek flagged 
 
AMR AN 'S WOOING. 115 
 
 Beneath his double burden, till 
 
 The streaks of dawn began to fill 
 
 The East, and, freshening in the race, 
 
 Their goaded horses gained apace. 
 
 I drew my dagger, cut the girth. 
 
 Tumbled my saddle to the earth. 
 
 And clasped with desperate energies 
 
 My stallion's side with iron knees; 
 
 While Mariam, clinging to my breast. 
 
 The closer for that peril pressed. 
 
 They come ! they come ! Their shouts we hear. 
 
 Now faint and far, now fierce and near, 
 
 O brave El-Azrek ! on the track 
 
 Let not one fainting sinew slack, 
 
 Or know thine agony of flight 
 
 Endured in vain ! The purple light 
 
 Of breaking morn has come at last. 
 
 O joy! the thirty leagues are past; 
 
 And, gleaming in the sunrise, see. 
 
 The white tents of the Aneyzee ! 
 
 The warriors of the waste, the foes 
 
 Of Shekh Abdallah's tribe, are those 
 
 Whose shelter and support I claim. 
 
 Which they bestow in Allah's name; 
 
 While, wheeling back, the baffled few 
 
 No longer venture to pursue. 
 
 xm. 
 
 And now, O Frank ! if you would see 
 How soft the eyes that looked on me 
 Through Mariam's silky lashes, scan 
 Those of my little Solyman. 
 And should you marvel if the child 
 His stately grandsire reconciled 
 
Il6 POEMS OF THE ORIENT. 
 
 To that bold theft, when years had brought 
 The golden portion which he sought, 
 And what upon this theme befell, 
 The Shekh himself can better tell. 
 
 A PLEDGE TO HAFIZ. 
 
 Brim the bowls with Shiraz wine ! 
 Roses round your temples twine; 
 Brim the bowels with Shiraz wine, — 
 Hafiz pledge we. Bard divine ! 
 With the summer w^armth that glows 
 In the wine and on the rose. 
 Blushing, fervid, ruby-bright, 
 We shall pledge his name aright. 
 
 Hafiz, in whose measures move 
 Youth and Beauty, Song and Love, — 
 In his veins the nimble flood 
 Was of wine, and not of blood. 
 All the songs he sang or thought 
 In his brain were never wrought. 
 But like rose-leaves fell apart 
 From that bursting rose, his heart. 
 
 Youth is morning's transient ray; 
 
 Love consumes itself away; 
 
 Time destroys what Beauty gives; 
 
 But in Song the Poet Hves. 
 
 While we pledge him — thus — and thus 
 
 He is present here in us; 
 
 'Tis his voice that cries, not mine: 
 
 Brim the bowls with Shiraz wine ! 
 
THE GARDEN OF IREM. 
 
 THE GARDEN OF IREM. 
 
 I. 
 
 Have you seen the Garden of Irem? 
 
 No mortal knoweth the road thereto. 
 
 Find me a path in the mists that gather 
 
 When the sunbeams scatter the morning dew, 
 
 And I will lead you thither. 
 
 Give me a key to the halls of the sun 
 
 When he goes behind the purple sea, 
 
 Or a wand to open the vaults that run 
 
 Down to the afrite-guarded treasures, 
 
 And I will open its doors to thee. 
 
 Who hath tasted its countless pleasures? 
 
 Who hath breathed, in its winds of spice, 
 
 Raptures deeper than Paradise? 
 
 Who hath trodden its ivory floors. 
 
 Where the fount drops pearl from a golden shell, 
 
 And heard the hinges of diamond doors 
 
 Swing to the music of Israfel? 
 
 Its roses blossom, its palms arise, 
 
 By the phantom stream that flows so fair 
 
 Under the Desert's burning skies. 
 
 Can you reach that flood, can you drink its tide, 
 
 Can you swim its waves to the farther side, 
 
 Your feet may enter there. 
 
 II. 
 
 I have seen the Garden of Irem. 
 
 I found it, but I sought it not : 
 
 Without a path, without a guide, 
 
 I found the enchanted spot : 
 
 Without a key its golden gate stood wide. 
 
 I was young, and strong, and bold, and free 
 
 117 
 
Il8 POEMS OF THE ORIENT. 
 
 As the milk-white foal of the Nedjidee, 
 
 And the blood in my veins was like sap of the vine, 
 
 That stirs, and mounts, and will not stop 
 
 Till the breathing blossoms that bring the wine 
 
 Have drained its balm to the last sweet drop. 
 
 Lance and barb were all I knew, 
 
 Till deep in the Desert the spot I found, 
 
 Where the marvellous gates of Irem threw 
 
 Their splendors over an unknown ground. 
 
 Mine were the pearl and ivory floors, 
 
 Mine the music of diamond doors, 
 
 Turning each on a newer glory: 
 
 Mine were the roses whose bloom outran 
 
 The spring-time beauty of Gulistan, 
 
 And the fabulous flowers of Persian story. 
 
 Mine were the palms of silver stems, 
 
 And blazing emerald for diadems ; 
 
 The fretted arch and the gossamer wreath. 
 
 So light and frail you feared to breathe; 
 
 Yet o'er them rested the pendent spars 
 
 Of domes bespangled with silver stars, 
 
 And crusted gems of rare adorning : 
 
 And ever higher, like a shaft of fire, 
 
 The lessening links of the golden spire 
 
 Flamed in the myriad-colored morning! 
 
 Like one who lies on the marble lip 
 
 Of the blessed bath in a tranquil rest, 
 
 And stirs not even a finger's tip 
 
 Lest the beatific dream should slip. 
 
 So did I lie in Irem's breast. 
 
 Sweeter than Life and stronger than Death 
 
 Was every draught of that blissful breath; 
 
 Warmer than Summer came its glow 
 
THE BIRTH OF THE HORSE. 
 
 To the youthful heart in a mighty flood. 
 And sent its bold and generous blood 
 To water the world in its onward flow. 
 There, where the Garden of Irem lies, 
 Are the roots of the Tree of Paradise, 
 And happy are they who sit below, 
 When into this world of Strife and Death 
 The blossoms are shaken by Allah's breath. 
 
 THE BIRTH OF THE HORSE. 
 
 FROM THE ARABIC. 
 
 The South-wind blows from Paradise, — 
 
 A wind of fire and force ; 
 And yet his proudest merit is 
 
 That he begat the Horse. 
 
 When Allah's breath created first 
 
 The noble Arab steed, — 
 The conqueror of all his race 
 
 In courage and in speed, — 
 
 To the South-wind He spake: From thee 
 
 A creature shall have birth, 
 To be the bearer of my arms 
 
 And my renown on Earth. 
 
 The pride of all the Faithful, he ~ 
 
 The terror of their foes : 
 Rider and Horse shall comrades be 
 
 In battle and repose. 
 
 Then to the perfect Horse He spake : 
 Fortune to thee I bring; 
 
 119 
 
120 POEMS OF THE ORIENT. 
 
 Fortune, as long as rolls the Earth, 
 Shall to thy forelock cling. 
 
 Without a pinion winged thou art, 
 And fleetest with thy load ; 
 
 Bridled art thou without a rein, 
 And spurred without a goad. 
 
 Men shall bestride thee who have made 
 Their fame, their service, mine ; 
 
 And, when they pray upon their way. 
 Their prayers shall count as thine. 
 
 The worship which thy master speaks 
 
 Thou sharest silently ; 
 By mutual fate he rises up, 
 
 Or falls to Earth with thee. 
 
 THE WISDOM OF ALL 
 
 AN ARAB LEGEND. 
 
 The Prophet once, sitting in calm debate, 
 Said: "I am Wisdom's fortress; but the gate 
 Thereof is Ali." Wherefore, some who heard, 
 With unbelieving jealousy were stirred ; 
 And, that they might on him confusion bring. 
 Ten of the boldest joined to prove the thing. 
 "Let us in turn to Ali go," they said, 
 "And ask if Wisdom should be sought instead 
 Of earthly riches ; then, if he reply 
 To each of us, in thought, accordantly, 
 And yet to none, in speech or phrase, the same. 
 His shall the honor be, and ours the shame." 
 
THE WISDOM OF ALL 12 1 
 
 Now, when the first his bold demand did make, 
 These were the words which AU straightway spake : — 
 
 ''Wisdom is the inheritance of those 
 Whom Allah favors; riches, of his foes." 
 
 Unto the second he said : ''Thyself must be 
 Guard to thy wealth; but Wisdom guardeth thee." 
 
 Unto the third : "By Wisdom wealth is won ; 
 But riches purchased wisdom yet for none." 
 
 Unto the fourth: "Thy goods the thief may take; 
 But into Wisdom's house he cannot break." 
 
 Unto the fifth : "Thy goods decrease the more 
 Thou giv'st; but use enlarges Wisdom's store." 
 
 Unto the sixth : "Wealth tempts to evil ways; 
 But the desire of Wisdom is God's praise." 
 
 Unto the seventh: "Divide thy wealth, each part 
 Becomes a pittance. Give with open heart 
 Thy wisdom, and each separate gift shall be 
 All that thou hast, yet not impoverish thee." 
 
 Unto the eighth: "Wealth cannot keep itself; 
 But Wisdom is the steward even of pelf." 
 
 Unto the ninth : "The camels slowly bring 
 
 Thy goods; but Wisdom has the swallow's wing." 
 
 And lastly, when the tenth did question make, 
 These were the ready words which Ali spake : — 
 "Wealth is a darkness which the soul should fear; 
 But Wisdom is the lamp that makes it clear. '^ 
 
122 POEMS OF THE ORIENT. 
 
 Crimson with shame the questioners withdrew, 
 And they declared: ''The Prophet's words were true; 
 The mouth of AH is the golden door 
 Of Wisdom." 
 
 When his friends to AH bore 
 These words, he smiled and said : ''And should they ask 
 The same until my dying day, the task 
 Were easy ; for the stream from Wisdom's well, 
 Which God supplies, is inexhaustible." 
 
 AN ORIENTAL IDYL 
 
 A SILVER javelin which the hills 
 Have hurled upon the plain below. 
 
 The fleetest of the Pharpar's rills, 
 Beneath me shoots in flashing flow. 
 
 I hear the never-ending laugh 
 
 Of jostling waves that come and go, 
 
 And suck the bubbling pipe, and quaff 
 The sherbet cooled in mountain snow. 
 
 The flecks of sunshine gleam like stars 
 
 Beneath the canopy of shade ; 
 And in the distant, dim bazaars 
 
 I scarcely hear the hum of trade. 
 
 No evil fear, no dream forlorn. 
 
 Darkens my heaven of perfect blue ; 
 
 My blood is tempered to the morn, — 
 My very heart is steeped in dew. 
 
 What Evil is I cannot tell ; 
 
 But half I guess what Joy may be ; 
 And, as a pearl within its shell, 
 
 The happy spirit sleeps in me. 
 
THE ANGEL OF PATIENCE. 123 
 
 I feel no more the pulse's strife, — 
 The tides of Passion's ruddy sea, — 
 
 But live the sweet, unconscious life 
 That breathes from yonder jasmine tree. 
 
 Upon the glittering pageantries 
 
 Of gay Damascus' streets I look 
 As idly as a babe that sees 
 
 The painted pictures of a book. 
 
 Forgotten now are name and race ; • 
 The Past is blotted from my brain ; 
 
 For Memory sleeps, and will not trace 
 The weary pages o'er again. 
 
 I only know the morning shines, 
 
 And sweet the dewy morning air ; 
 But does it pay with tendrilled vines ? 
 
 Or does it lightly lift my hair ? 
 
 Deep-sunken in the charmed repose. 
 
 This ignorance is bliss extreme : 
 And whether I be Man, or Rose, 
 
 O, pluck me not from out my dream ! 
 
 THE ANGEL OF PATIENCE 
 
 " Patience is the key of Content." — Mahomet. 
 
 To cheer, to help us, children of the dust, 
 More than one angel has Our Father given ; 
 
 But one alone is faithful to her trust, — 
 The best, the brightest exile out of Heaven. 
 
124 POEMS OF THE ORIENT. 
 
 Her ways are not the ways of pleasantness ; 
 
 Her paths are not the lightsome paths of joy ; 
 She walks with wrongs that cannot find redress, 
 
 And dwells in mansions Time and Death destroy. 
 
 She waits until her stern precursor, Care, 
 Has lodged on foreheads, open as the morn, 
 
 To plough his deep, besieging trenches there, — 
 The signs of struggles which the heart has borne. 
 
 But when the first cloud darkens in our sky, 
 And face to face with Life we stand alone, 
 
 Silent and swift, behold ! she draweth nigh, 
 And mutely makes our sufferings her own. 
 
 Unto rebellious souls, that, mad with Fate, 
 To question God's eternal justice dare. 
 
 She points above with looks that whisper, "Wait, — 
 What seems confusion here is wisdom there." 
 
 To the vain challenges of doubt we send. 
 No answering comfort doth she minister: 
 
 Her face looks ever forward to the end. 
 And we, who see it not, are led by her. 
 
 She doth not chide, nor in reproachful guise 
 The griefs we cherish rudely thrust apart; 
 
 But in the light of her immortal eyes 
 Revives the manly courage of the heart. 
 
 Daughter of God ! who walkest with us here. 
 Who mak'st our every tribulation thine. 
 
 Such light hast thou in Earth's dim atmosphere. 
 How must thy seat in Heaven exalted shine ! 
 
BEDOUIN SONG. 
 
 125 
 
 How fair thy presence by those living streams 
 
 Where Sin and Sorrow from their troubUng cease ! 
 
 Where on thy brow the crown of amaranth gleams, 
 And in thy hand the golden key of Peace ! 
 
 BEDOUIN SONG. 
 
 From the Desert I come to thee 
 
 On a staUion shod with fire; 
 And the winds are left behind 
 
 In the speed of my desire. 
 Under thy window I stand, 
 
 And the midnight hears my cry: 
 I love thee, I love but thee, 
 With a love that shall not die 
 
 Till the sun grows cold, 
 And the stars are old, 
 And the leaves of the Judgment 
 Book unjold! 
 
 Look from thy window and see 
 
 My passion and my pain; 
 I lie on the sands below. 
 
 And I faint in thy disdain. 
 Let the night-winds touch thy brow 
 With the heat of my burning sigh, 
 And melt thee to hear the vow 
 Of a love that shall not die 
 
 Till the sun grows cold, 
 And the stars are old, 
 And the leaves of the Judgment 
 Book unjold! 
 
126 POEMS OF THE ORIENT. 
 
 My steps are nightly driven, 
 By the fever in my breast, 
 To hear from thy lattice breathed 
 
 The word that shall give me rest. 
 Open the door of thy heart, 
 
 And open thy chamber door. 
 And my kisses shall teach thy lips 
 The love that shall fade no more 
 Till the sun grows cold, 
 And the stars are old, 
 And the leaves of the Judgment 
 Book unfold/ 
 
 DESERT HYMN TO THE SUN. 
 
 Under the arches of the morning sky, 
 
 Save in one heart, there beats no life of Man: 
 
 The yellow sand-hills bleak and trackless lie, 
 And far behind them sleeps the caravan. 
 
 A silence, as before Creation, broods 
 
 Sublimely o'er the desert solitudes. 
 
 n. 
 
 A silence as if God in Heaven were still, 
 And meditating some new wonder ! Earth 
 
 And Air the solemn portent own, and thrill 
 With awful prescience of the coming birth. 
 
 And Night withdraws, and on their silver cars 
 
 Wheel to remotest space the trembling Stars. 
 
DESERT HYMN TO THE SUN. 
 
 III. 
 
 See ! an increasing brightness, broad and fleet, 
 Breaks on the morning in a rosy flood, 
 
 As if He smiled to see His work complete, 
 And rested from it, and pronounced it good. 
 
 The sands lie still, and every wind is furled : 
 
 The Sun comes up, and looks upon the world. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Is there no burst of music to proclaim 
 
 The pomp and majesty of this new lord ? — 
 
 A golden trumpet in each beam of flame. 
 Startling the universe with grand accord ? 
 
 Must Earth be dumb beneath the splendors thrown 
 
 From his full orb to glorify her own? 
 
 V. 
 
 No: with an answering splendor, more than sound 
 
 Instinct with gratulation, she adores. 
 With purple flame the porphyry hills are crowned, 
 
 And burn with gold the Desert's boundless floors ; 
 And the lone Man compels his haughty knee. 
 And, prostrate at thy footstool, worships thee. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Before the dreadful glory of thy face 
 He veils his sight ; he fears the fiery rod 
 
 Which thou dost wield amid the brightening space, 
 As if the sceptre of a visible god. 
 
 If not the shadow of God's lustre, thou 
 
 Art the one jewel flaming on His brow. 
 
 127 
 
128 POEMS OF THE ORIENT, 
 
 vn. 
 
 Wrap me within the mantle of thy beams, 
 And feed my pulses with thy keenest fire ! 
 
 Here, where thy full meridian deluge streams 
 Across the Desert, let my blood aspire 
 
 To ripen in the vigor of thy blaze, 
 
 And catch a warmth to shine through darker days ! 
 
 vin. 
 
 I am alone before thee : Lord of Light ! 
 
 Begetter of the life of things that live ! 
 Beget in me thy calm, self-balanced might; 
 
 To me thine own immortal ardor give. 
 Yea, though, like her who gave to Jove her charms, 
 My being wither in thy fiery arms. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Whence came thy splendors ? Heaven is filled with thee ; 
 
 The sky's blue walls are dazzHng with thy train; 
 Thou sitt'st alone in the Immensity, 
 
 And in thy lap the World grows young again. 
 Bathed in such brightness, drunken with the Day, 
 He deems the Dark forever passed away. 
 
 But thou dost sheathe thy trenchant sword, and lean 
 With tempered grandeur towards the western gate; 
 
 Shedding thy glory with a brow serene. 
 And leaving heaven all golden with thy state: 
 
 Not as a king discrowned and overthrown. 
 
 But one who keeps, and shall reclaim his own. 
 
NILOTIC DRINKING-SONG. ,t29 
 
 NILOTIC DRINKING-SONG. 
 
 You may water your bays, brother-poets, with lays 
 
 That brighten the cup from the stream you doat on, 
 By the Schuylkill's side, or Cochituate's tide. 
 Or the crystal lymph of the mountain Croton : 
 
 (We may pledge from these 
 
 In our summer ease. 
 Nor even Anacreon's shade revile us — ) 
 
 But I, from the flood 
 
 Of his own brown blood, 
 Will drink to the glory of ancient Nilus ! 
 
 II. 
 
 Cloud never gave birth, nor cradle the Earth, 
 
 To river so grand and fair as this is : 
 Not the waves that roll us the gold of Pactolus, 
 Nor cool Cephissus, nor classic Ilissus. 
 
 The lily may dip 
 
 Her ivory lip 
 To kiss the ripples of clear Eurotas; 
 
 But the Nile brings balm 
 
 From the myrrh and palm, 
 And the ripe, voluptuous lips of the lotus. 
 
 ni. 
 
 The waves that ride on his mighty tide 
 
 Were poured from the urns of unvisited mountains; 
 And their sweets of the South mingle cool in the mouth 
 With the freshness and sparkle of Northern fountains. 
 Again and again 
 The goblet we drain, — 
 
130 POEMS OF THE ORIENT. 
 
 Diviner a stream never Nereid swam on: 
 For Isis and Orus 
 Have quaffed before us, 
 
 And Ganymede dipped it for Jupiter Ammon. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Its blessing he pours o'er his thirsty shores, 
 
 And floods the regions of Sleep and Silence, 
 When he makes oases in desert places, 
 
 And the plain is a sea, the hills are islands. 
 
 And had I the brave 
 
 Anacreon's stave. 
 And lips like the honeyed lips of Hylas, 
 
 I'd dip from his brink 
 
 My bacchanal drink. 
 And sing for the glory of ancient Nilus ! 
 
 CAMADEVA. 
 
 The sun, the moon, the mystic planets seven. 
 
 Shone with a purer and serener flame. 
 And there was joy on Earth and joy in Heaven 
 When Camadeva came. 
 
 The blossoms burst, like jewels of the air, 
 
 Putting the colors of the morn to shame; 
 Breathing their odorous secrets everywhere 
 When Camadeva came. 
 
 The birds, upon the tufted tamarind spray. 
 
 Sat side by side and cooed in amorous blame; 
 The lion sheathed his claws and left his prey 
 When Camadeva came. 
 
NUBIA. 
 
 131 
 
 The sea slept, pillowed on the happy shore; 
 
 The mountain-peaks were bathed in rosy flame; 
 The clouds went down the sky, — to mount no more 
 When Camadeva came. 
 
 The hearts of all men brightened like the morn; 
 
 The poet's harp then first deserved its fame, 
 For rapture sweeter than he sang was born 
 When Camadeva came. 
 
 All breathing life a newer spirit quaffed, 
 A second life, a bliss beyond a name, 
 And Death, half-conquered, dropped his idle shaft 
 When Camadeva came. 
 
 NUBIA. 
 
 A Land of Dreams and Sleep, — a poppied land ! 
 With skies of endless calm above her head. 
 The drowsy warmth of summer noonday shed 
 Upon her hills, and silence stern and grand 
 Throughout her Desert's temple-burying sand. 
 Before her threshold, in their ancient place, 
 With closed lips, and fixed, majestic face. 
 Noteless of Time, her dumb colossi stand. 
 O, pass them not with light, irreverent tread; 
 Respect the dream that builds her fallen throne. 
 And soothes her to obhvion of her woes. 
 Hush ! for she does but sleep ; she is not dead : 
 Action and Toil have made the world their own, 
 But she hath built an altar to Repose. 
 
132 POEMS OF THE ORIENT. 
 
 KILIMANDJARO. 
 
 I. 
 
 Hail to thee, monarch of African mountains, 
 Remote, inaccessible, silent, and lone, — 
 Who, from the heart of the tropical fervors, 
 Liftest to heaven thine alien snows, 
 Feeding forever the fountains that make thee 
 Father of Nile and Creator of Egypt ! 
 
 n. 
 
 The years of the world are engraved on thy forehead ; 
 Time's morning blushed red on thy first-fallen snows; 
 Yet, lost in the wilderness, nameless, unnoted. 
 Of Man unbeholden, thou wert not till now\ 
 Knowledge alone is the being of Nature, 
 Giving a soul to her manifold features. 
 Lighting through paths of the primitive darkness 
 The footsteps of Truth and the vision of Song. 
 Knowledge has born thee anew to Creation, 
 And long-baifled Time at thy baptism rejoices. 
 Take, then, a name, and be filled with existence, 
 Yea, be exultant in sovereign glory, 
 While from the hand of the wandering poet 
 Drops the first garland of song at thy feet. 
 
 III. 
 
 Floating alone, on the flood of thy making. 
 Through Africa's mystery, silence, and fire, 
 Lo ! in my palm, Hke the Eastern enchanter, 
 I dip from the waters' a magical mirror, 
 And thou art revealed to my purified vision. 
 I see thee, supreme in the midst of thy co-mates. 
 Standing alone 'twixt the Earth and the Heavens, 
 
KILIMANDJARO. 133 
 
 Heir of the Sunset and Herald of Morn. 
 Zone above zone, to thy shoulders of granite, 
 The climates of Earth are displayed, as an index, 
 Giving the scope of the Book of Creation. 
 There, in the gorges that widen, descending 
 From cloud and from cold into summer eternal. 
 Gather the threads of the ice-gendered fountains, — 
 Gather to riotous torrents of crystal, 
 And, giving each shelvy recess v^^here they dally 
 The blooms of the North and its evergreen turfage, 
 Leap to the land of the lion and lotus ! 
 There, in the wondering airs of the Tropics 
 Shivers the Aspen, still dreaming of cold: 
 There stretches the Oak, from the loftiest ledges, 
 His arms to the far-away lands of his brothers. 
 And the Pine-tree looks down on his rival, the Palm. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Bathed in the tenderest purple of distance. 
 
 Tinted and shadowed by pencils of air, 
 
 Thy battlements hang o'er the slopes and the forests, 
 
 Seats of the Gods in the limitless ether. 
 
 Looming sublimely aloft and afar. 
 
 Above them, like folds of imperial ermine, 
 
 Sparkle the snow-fields that furrow thy forehead, — 
 
 Desolate realms, inaccessible, silent, 
 
 Chasms and caverns where Day is a stranger. 
 
 Garners where storeth his treasures the Thunder, 
 
 The Lightning his falchion, his arrows the Hail ! 
 
 Sovereign Mountain, thy brothers give welcome: 
 They, the baptized and the crowned of ages. 
 Watch-towers of Continents, altars of Earth, 
 
134 POEMS OF THE ORIENT. 
 
 Welcome thee now to their mighty assembly. 
 
 Mont Blanc, in the roar of his mad avalanches, 
 
 Hails thy accession; superb Orizaba, 
 
 Belted with beech and ensandalled with palm; 
 
 Chimborazo, the lord of the regions of noonday, — 
 
 Mingle their sounds in magnificent chorus 
 
 With greeting august from the Pillars of Heaven, 
 
 Who, in the urns of the Indian Ganges 
 
 Filter the snows of their sacred dominions. 
 
 Unmarked with a footprint, unseen but of God. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Lo ! unto each is the seal of his lordship. 
 
 Nor questioned the right that his majesty giveth : 
 
 Each in his awful supremacy forces 
 
 Worship and reverence, wonder and joy. 
 
 Absolute all, yet in dignity varied. 
 
 None has a claim to the honors of story. 
 
 Or the superior splendors of song, 
 
 Greater than thou, in thy mystery mantled, — 
 
 Thou, the sole monarch of African mountains. 
 
 Father of Nile and Creator of Egypt ! 
 
 THE BIRTH OF THE PROPHET. 
 
 I. 
 
 Thrice three moons had waxed in heaven, thrice three 
 
 moons had waned away. 
 Since Abdullah, faint and thirsty, on the Desert's bosom lay 
 In the fiery lap of Summer, the meridian of the day ; — 
 
 II. 
 
 Since from out the sand upgushing, lo ! a sudden fountain 
 leapt; 
 
THE BIRTH OF THE PROPHET 135 
 
 Sweet as musk and clear as amber, to his parching lips it 
 
 crept. 
 When he drank it straightway vanished, but his blood its 
 
 virtue kept. 
 
 III. 
 
 Ere the morn his forehead's lustre, signet of the Prophet's 
 
 line, 
 To the beauty of Amina had transferred its flame divine; 
 Of the germ within her sleeping, such the consecrated sign. 
 
 IV. 
 
 And with every moon that faded waxed the splendor more 
 
 and more. 
 Till Amina 's beauty lightened through the matron veil she 
 
 wore. 
 And the tent was filled with glory, and of Heaven it seemed 
 
 the door. 
 
 When her quickened womb its burden had matured, and 
 
 Life began 
 Struggling in its living prison, through the wide Creation ran 
 Premonitions of the coming of a God-appointed man. 
 
 VI. 
 
 For the oracles of Nature recognize a Prophet's birth, — 
 Blossom of the tardy ages, crowning type of human worth, — 
 And by miracles and wonders he is welcomed to the Earth. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Then the stars in heaven grew brighter, stooping downward 
 from their zones; 
 
136 POEMS OF THE ORIENT. 
 
 Wheeling round the towers of Mecca, sang the moon in 
 
 silver tones, 
 And the Kaaba's grisly idols trembled on their granite 
 
 thrones. 
 
 vm. 
 
 Mighty arcs of rainbow splendor, pillared shafts of purple 
 
 fire, 
 Split the sky and spanned the darkness, and with many a 
 
 golden spire, 
 Beacon-like, from all the mountains streamed the lambent 
 
 meteors higher. 
 
 IX. 
 
 But when first the breath of being to the sacred infant came. 
 Paled the pomp of airy lustre, and the stars grew dim with 
 
 shame. 
 For the glory of his countenance outshone their feebler flame. 
 
 Over Nedjid's sands it lightened, unto Oman's coral deep, 
 Startling all the gorgeous regions of the Orient from sleep. 
 Till, a sun on night new-risen, it illumed the Indian steep. 
 
 XI. 
 
 They who dwelt in Mecca's borders saw the distant realms 
 
 appear 
 All around the vast horizon, shining marvellous and clear. 
 From the gardens of Damascus unto those of Bendemeer. 
 
 XII. 
 
 From the colonnades of Tadmor to the hills of Hadramaut, 
 
TO THE NILE. 
 
 m 
 
 ' Ancient Araby was lighted, and her sands the splendor 
 caught, 
 Till the magic sweep of vision overtook the track of Thought. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Such on Earth the wondrous glory, but beyond the sevenfold 
 
 skies 
 God His mansions filled with gladness, and the seraphs saw 
 
 arise 
 Palaces of pearl and ruby from the founts of Paradise. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 As the surge of heavenly anthems shook the solemn mid- 
 night air, 
 From the shrines of false religions came a wailing of despair, 
 And the fires on Pagan altars were extinguished everywhere. 
 
 XV, 
 
 'Mid the sounds of salutation, *mid the splendor and the 
 
 balm. 
 Knelt the sacred child, proclaiming, with a brow of heavenly 
 
 calm: 
 "God is God; there is none other; I his chosen Prophet 
 
 am!" 
 
 TO THE NILE. 
 
 Mysterious Flood, — that through the silent sands 
 
 Hast wandered, century on century. 
 Watering the length of green Egyptian lands, 
 Which were not, but for thee, — 
 
138 POEMS OF THE ORIENT. , 
 
 Art thou the keeper of that eldest lore, 
 
 Written ere yet thy hieroglyphs began, 
 When dawned upon thy fresh, untrampled shore 
 The earliest life of Man? 
 
 Thou guardest temple and vast pyramid. 
 
 Where the gray Past records its ancient speech; 
 But in thine unrevealing breast lies hid 
 What they refuse to teach. 
 
 All other streams with human joys and fears 
 
 Run blended, o'er the plains of History: 
 Thou tak'st no note of Man; a thousand years 
 Are as a day to thee. 
 
 What were to thee the Osirian festivals? 
 
 Or Memnon's music on the Theban plain? 
 The carnage, when Cambyses made thy halls 
 Ruddy with royal slain ? 
 
 Even then thou wast a God, and shrines were built 
 
 For worship of thine own majestic flood; 
 For thee the incense burned, — for thee was spilt 
 The sacrificial blood. 
 
 And past the bannered pylons that arose 
 
 Above thy palms, the pageantry and state, 
 Thy current flowed, calmly as now it flows. 
 Unchangeable as Fate. 
 
 Thou givest blessing as a God might give, 
 
 Whose being is his bounty: from the slime 
 Shaken from off thy skirts the nations live. 
 Through all the years of Time. 
 
HASSAN TO HIS MARE. 139 
 
 In thy solemnity, thine awful calm, 
 
 Thy grand indifference of Destiny, 
 My soul forgets its pain, and drinks the balm 
 Which thou dost proffer me. 
 
 Thy godship is unquestioned still : I bring 
 
 No doubtful worship to thy shrine supreme; 
 But thus my homage as a chaplet fling, 
 To float upon thy stream ! 
 
 HASSAN TO HIS MARE. 
 
 Come, my beauty ! come, my desert darling ! 
 
 On my shoulder lay thy glossy head ! 
 Fear not, though the barley-sack be empty, 
 
 Here's the half of Hassan's scanty bread. 
 
 Thou shalt have thy share of dates, my beauty ! 
 
 And thou know'st my water-skin is free : 
 Drink and welcome, for the wells are distant, 
 
 And my strength and safety lie in thee. 
 
 Bend thy forehead now, to take my kisses ! 
 
 Lift in love thy dark and splendid eye : 
 Thou art glad when Hassan mounts the saddle, - 
 
 Thou art proud he owns thee: so am I. 
 
 Let the Sultan bring his boasted horses. 
 Prancing with their diamond-studded reins; 
 
 They, my darling, shall not match thy fleetness 
 When they course with thee the desert-plains ! 
 
 Let the Sultan bring his famous horses. 
 Let him bring his golden swords to me, — 
 
140 POEMS OF THE ORIENT. 
 
 Bring his slaves, his eunuchs, and his harem; 
 He would offer them in vain for thee. 
 
 We have seen Damascus, O my beauty ! 
 
 And the splendor of the Pashas there : 
 What's their pomp and riches? Why, I would not 
 
 Take them for a handful of thy hair ! 
 
 Khaled sings the praises of his mistress, 
 And, because I've none, he pities me : 
 
 What care I if he should have a thousand, 
 Fairer than the morning? / have thee. 
 
 He will find his passion growing cooler. 
 Should her glance on other suitors fall; 
 
 Thou wilt ne'er, my mistress and my darling. 
 Fail to answer at thy master's call. 
 
 By and by some snow-white Ned j id staUion 
 Shall to thee his spring-time ardor bring; 
 
 And a foal, the fairest of the Desert, 
 
 To thy milky dugs shall crouch and cling. 
 
 Then, when Khaled shows to me his children, 
 I shall laugh, and bid him look at thine; 
 
 Thou wilt neigh, and lovingly caress me, 
 With thy glossy neck laid close to mine. 
 
 CHARMIAN. 
 
 I. 
 
 O Daughter of the Sun ! 
 
 Who gave the keys of passion unto thee? 
 
 Who taught the powerful sorcery 
 
CHAR MIAN. 141 
 
 Wherein my soul, too willing to be won, 
 
 Still feebly struggles to be free, 
 
 But more than half undone? 
 
 Within the mirror of thine eyes, 
 
 Full of the sleep of warm Egyptian skies, — 
 
 The sleep of lightning, bound in airy spell, 
 
 And deadher, because invisible, — 
 
 I see the reflex of a feeling 
 
 Which was not, till I looked on thee: 
 
 A power, involved in mystery, 
 
 That shrinks, affrighted, from its own revealing. 
 
 II. 
 
 Thou sitt'st in stately indolence, 
 
 Too calm to feel a breath of passion start 
 
 The listless fibres of thy sense, 
 
 The fiery slumber of thy heart. 
 
 Thine eyes are wells of darkness, by the veil 
 
 Of languid Hds half-sealed : the pale 
 
 And bloodless olive of thy face, 
 
 And the full, silent lips that wear 
 
 A ripe serenity of grace, 
 
 Are dark beneath the shadow of thy hair. 
 
 Not from the brow of templed Athor beams 
 
 Such tropic warmth along the path of dreams; 
 
 Not from the lips of horned Isis flows 
 
 Such sweetness of repose ! 
 
 For thou art Passion's self, a goddess too. 
 
 And aught but worship never knew; 
 
 And thus thy glances, calm and sure. 
 
 Look for accustomed homage, and betray 
 
 No effort to assert thy sway : 
 
 Thou deem'st my fealty secure. 
 
142 POEMS OF THE ORIENT. 
 
 III. 
 
 Sorceress ! those looks unseal 
 The undisturbed mysteries that press 
 Too deep in nature for the heart to feel 
 Their terror and their loveliness. 
 Thine eyes are torches that illume 
 
 On secret shrines their unforeboded fires, 
 And fill the vaults of silence and of gloom 
 With the unresting Hfe of new desires. 
 'I follow where their arrowy ray 
 Pierces the veil I would not tear away, 
 And with a dread, dehcious awe behold 
 Another gate of life unfold. 
 Like the rapt neophyte w^ho sees 
 Some march of grand Osirian mysteries. 
 The startled chambers I explore, 
 And every entrance open lies, 
 Forced by the magic thrill that runs before 
 Thy slowly-hfted eyes. 
 
 1 tremble to the centre of my being 
 
 Thus to confess the spirit's poise o'erthrown, 
 
 And all its guiding virtues blown 
 
 Like leaves before the whirlwind's fury fleeing. 
 
 IV. 
 
 But see ! one memory rises in my soul, 
 And, beaming steadily and clear, 
 Scatters the lurid thunder-clouds that roll 
 Through Passion's sultry atmosphere. 
 An alchemy more potent borrow 
 For thy dark eyes, enticing Sorceress ! 
 For on the casket of a sacred Sorrow 
 Their shafts fall powerless. 
 
TO A PERSIAN BOY. 143 
 
 Nay, frown not, Athor, from thy mystic shrine: 
 Strong Goddess of Desire, I will not be 
 One of the myriad slaves thou callest thine, 
 To cast my manhood's crown of royalty 
 Before thy dangerous beauty : I am free ! 
 
 SMYRNA. 
 
 The ''Ornament of Asia" and the ''Crown 
 Of fair Ionia." Yea; but Asia stands 
 No more an empress, and Ionia's hands 
 Have lost their sceptre. Thou, majestic town, 
 Art as a dimaond on a faded robe : 
 The freshness of thy beauty scatters yet 
 The radiance of that sun of Empire set. 
 Whose disk subHme illumed the ancient globe. 
 Thou sitt'st between the mountains and the sea; 
 The sea and mountains flatter thine array. 
 And fill thy courts with Grandeur, not Decay; 
 And Power, not Death, proclaims thy cypress tree. 
 Through thee, the sovereign symbols Nature lent 
 Her rise, make Asia's fall magnificent. 
 
 TO A PERSIAN BOY, 
 
 IN THE BAZAAR AT SMYRNA. 
 
 The gorgeous blossoms of that magic tree 
 Beneath whose shade I sat a thousand nights. 
 Breathed from their opening petals all dehghts 
 Embalmed in spice of Orient Poesy, 
 When first, young Persian, I beheld thine eyes, 
 And felt the wonder of thy beauty grow 
 Within my brain, as some fair planet's glow 
 
144 POEMS OF THE ORIENT. 
 
 Deepens, and fills the summer evening skies. 
 From under thy dark lashes shone on me 
 The rich, voluptuous soul of Eastern land, 
 Impassioned, tender, calm, serenely sad, — 
 Such as immortal Hafiz felt when he 
 Sang by the fountain-streams of Rocnabad, 
 Or in the bowers of blissful Samarcand. 
 
 THE GOBLET. 
 
 When Life his lusty course began, 
 And first I felt myself a man. 
 And Passion's unforeboded glow — 
 The thirst to feel, the will to know — 
 Gave courage, vigor, fervor, truth, 
 The glory of the heart of Youth, 
 And each awaking pulse was fleet 
 A livelier march of joy to beat. 
 Presaging in its budding hour 
 The ripening of the human flower, 
 There came, on some divine intent, 
 One whom the Lord of Life had sent, 
 And from his lips of wisdom fell 
 This fair and wondrous oracle : — 
 
 II. 
 
 Life's arching temple holds for thee 
 Solution quick, and radiant key 
 To many an early mystery; 
 And thou art eager to pursue. 
 Through many a dimly-lighted clew, 
 
THE GOBLET. 
 
 The hopes that turn thy blood to fire, 
 The phantoms of thy young desire: 
 Yet not to reckless haste is poured 
 The nectar of the generous lord, 
 Nor mirth nor giddy riot jar 
 The penetralia, high and far; 
 But steady hope, and passion pure, 
 And manly truth, the crown secure. 
 
 III. 
 
 Within that temple's secret heart, 
 
 In mystic silence shrined apart. 
 
 There is a goblet, on whose brim 
 
 All raptures of Creation swim. 
 
 No light that ever beamed in wine 
 
 Can match the glory of its shine, 
 
 Or lure with such a mighty art 
 
 The tidal flow of every heart. 
 
 But in its warm, bewildering blaze, 
 
 An ever-shifting magic plays, 
 
 And few who round the altar throng 
 
 Shall find the sweets for which they long. 
 
 Who, unto brutish life akin. 
 
 Comes to the goblet dark with sin. 
 
 And with a coarse hand grasps, for him 
 
 The splendor of the gold grows dim. 
 
 The gems are dirt, the liquor's flame 
 
 A maddening beverage of shame. 
 
 And into caverns shut from day 
 
 The hot inebriate reels away. 
 
 IV. 
 
 For each shall give the draught he drains 
 Its nectar pure, or poison stains; 
 
 145 
 
146 POEMS OF THE ORIENT. 
 
 From out his heart the flavor flows 
 
 That gives him fury, or repose: 
 
 And some shall drink a tasteless wave, 
 
 And some increase the thirst they lave; 
 
 And others loathe as soon as taste, 
 
 And others pour the tide to waste; 
 
 And some evoke from out its deeps 
 
 A torturing fiend that never sleeps, — 
 
 For vain all arts to exorcise 
 
 From the seared heart its haunting eyes. 
 
 V. 
 
 But he who burns with pure desire, 
 
 With chastened love and sacred fire, 
 
 With soul and being all aglow 
 
 Life's holiest mystery to know. 
 
 Shall see the goblet flash and gleam 
 
 As in the glory of a dream ; 
 
 And from its starry lip shall drink 
 
 A bliss to lift him on the brink 
 
 Of mighty rapture, joy intense, 
 
 That far outlives its subsidence. 
 
 The draught shall strike Life's narrow goal, 
 
 And make an outlet for his soul. 
 
 That down the ages, broad and far, 
 
 Shall brighten like a rising star. 
 
 In other forms his pulse shall beat, 
 
 His spirit walk in other feet. 
 
 And every generous hope and aim 
 
 That spurred him on to honest fame. 
 
 To other hearts give warmth and grace, 
 
 And keep on earth his honored place, 
 
 Become immortal in his race. 
 
THE ARAB TO THE PALM, 
 THE ARAB TO THE PALM. 
 
 Next to thee, O fair gazelle, 
 
 O Beddowee girl, beloved so well ; 
 
 Next to the fearless Nedjidee, 
 
 Whose fieetness shall bear me again to thee ; 
 
 Next to ye both I love the Palm, 
 
 With his leaves of beauty, his fruit of balm ; 
 
 Next to ye both I love the Tree 
 Whose fluttering shadow wraps us three 
 With love, and silence, and mystery ! 
 
 Our tribe is many, our poets vie 
 
 With any under the Arab sky; 
 
 Yet none can sing of the Palm but I. 
 
 The marble minarets that begem 
 
 Cairo's citadel-diadem 
 
 Are not so light as his slender stem. 
 
 He lifts his leaves in the sunbeam's glance 
 As the Almehs lift their arms in dance, — 
 
 A slumberous motion, a passionate sign, 
 That works in the cells of the blood like wine. 
 
 Full of passion and sorrow is he, 
 Dreaming where the beloved may be. 
 
 And when the warm south-winds arise. 
 He breathes his longing in fervid sighs, — 
 
 Quickening odors, kisses of balm. 
 
 That drop in the lap of his chosen palm. 
 
 147 
 
148 POEMS OF THE ORIENT. 
 
 The sun may flame and the sands may stir, 
 But the breath of his passion reaches her. 
 
 O Tree of Love, by that love of thine. 
 Teach me how I shall soften mine ! 
 
 Give me the secret of the sun, 
 WTiereby the wooed is ever won ! 
 
 If I were a King, O stately Tree, 
 
 A likeness, glorious as might be, 
 
 In the court of my palace I'd build for thee ! 
 
 With a shaft of silver, burnished bright. 
 And leaves of beryl and malachite ; 
 
 With spikes of golden bloom ablaze. 
 And fruits of topaz and chrysoprase : 
 
 And there the poets, in thy praise. 
 
 Should night and morning frame new lays, — 
 
 New measures sung to tunes divine ; 
 But none, O Palm, should equal mine ! 
 
 AURUM POTABILE. 
 
 Brother Bards of every region, — 
 Brother Bards, (your name is Legion !) 
 Were you with me while the twilight 
 Darkens up my pine-tree skylight, — 
 Were you gathered, representing 
 
 Every land beneath the sun, 
 O, what songs would be indited, 
 
AURUM POTABILE. 
 
 Ere the earliest star is lighted, 
 To the praise of vino d'oro, 
 
 On the Hills of Lebanon ! 
 
 II. 
 
 Yes; while all alone I quaff its 
 Lucid gold, and brightly laugh its 
 Topaz waves and amber bubbles, 
 Still the thought my pleasure troubles, 
 
 That I quaff it all alone. 
 O for Hafiz, — glorious Persian ! 
 Keats, with buoyant, gay diversion 
 Mocking Schiller's grave immersion; 
 
 O for wreathed Anacreon ! 
 Yet enough to have the living, — 
 They, the few, the rapture-giving ! 
 (Blessed more than in receiving,) 
 Fate, that frowns when laurels wreathe them, 
 Once the solace might bequeath them. 
 Once to taste of vino d'oro. 
 
 On the Hills of Lebanon ! 
 
 in. 
 
 Lebanon, thou mount of story, 
 Well we know thy sturdy glory, 
 
 Since the days of Solomon ; 
 Well we know the Five old Cedars, 
 Scarred by ages, — silent pleaders. 
 Preaching, in their gray sedateness, 
 Of thy forest's fallen greatness. 
 Of the vessels of the Tyrian, 
 And the palaces Assyrian, 
 And the temple on Moriah 
 
 To the High and Holy One ! 
 
 149 
 
150 POEMS OF THE ORIENT. 
 
 Know the wealth of thy appointment, — 
 Myrrh and aloes, gum and ointment; 
 But we knew not, till we clomb thee, 
 Of the nectar dropping from thee, — 
 Of the pure, pellucid Ophir 
 In the cups of vino d'oro. 
 
 On the Hills of Lebanon ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 We have drunk, and we have eaten. 
 Where Egyptian sheaves are beaten; 
 Tasted Judah's milk and honey 
 On his mountains, bare and sunny; 
 Drained ambrosial bowls, that ask us 
 Never more to leave Damascus; 
 And have sung a vintage paean 
 To the grapes of isles iEgean, 
 And the flasks of Orvieto, 
 
 Ripened in the Roman sun: 
 But the liquor here surpasses 
 All that beams in earthly glasses. 
 'Tis of this that Paracelsus 
 (His elixir vit£e) tells us. 
 That to happier shores can float us 
 Than Lethean stems of lotus. 
 And the vigor of the morning 
 
 Straight restores when day is done. 
 Then, before the sunset waneth. 
 While the rosy tide, that staineth 
 Earth, and sky, and sea, remaineth, 
 We will take the fortune proffered, — 
 Ne'er again to be reoffered, — 
 We will drink of vino d'oro, 
 
ON THE SEA. 151 
 
 On the Hills of Lebanon ! 
 Vino d'oro ! vino d'oro ! — 
 
 Golden blood of Lebanon ! 
 
 ON THE SEA. 
 
 The splendor of the sinking moon 
 
 Deserts the silent bay; 
 The mountain-isles loom large and faint, 
 
 Folded in shadows gray, 
 And the lights of land are setting stars 
 
 That soon will pass away. 
 
 O boatman, cease thy mellow song! 
 
 O minstrel, drop thy lyre 1 
 Let us hear the voice of the midnight sea, 
 
 Let us speak as the waves inspire. 
 While the plashy dip of the languid oar 
 
 Is a furrow of silver fire. 
 
 Day cannot make thee half so fair, 
 
 Nor the stars of eve so dear : 
 The arms that clasp and the breast that keeps. 
 
 They tell me thou art near. 
 And the perfect beauty of thy face 
 
 In thy murmured words I hear. 
 
 The lights of land have dropped below 
 
 The vast and glimmering sea ; 
 The world we leave is a tale that is told, — 
 
 A fable, that cannot be. 
 There is no life in the sphery dark 
 
 But the love in thee and me ! 
 
152 POEMS OF THE ORIENT. 
 
 TYRE. 
 
 The wild and windy morning is lit with lurid fire; 
 The thundering surf of ocean beats on the rocks of Tyre, — 
 Beats on the fallen columns and round the headland roars, 
 And hurls its foamy volume along the hollow shores, 
 And calls with hungry clamor, that speaks its long desire: 
 "Where are the ships of Tarshish, the mighty ships of Tyre ? " 
 
 II. 
 
 Within her cunning harbor, choked with invading sand, 
 No galleys bring their freightage, the spoils of every land. 
 And like a prostrate forest, when autumn gales have blown. 
 Her colonnades of granite lie shattered and o'erthrown ; 
 And from the reef the pharos no longer flings its fire. 
 To beacon home from Tarshish the lordly ships of Tyre. 
 
 ni. 
 
 Where is thy rod of empire, once mighty on the waves, — 
 Thou that thyself exalted, till Kings became thy slaves? 
 Thou that didst speak to nations, and saw thy will obeyed, — 
 Whose favor made them joyful, whose anger sore afraid, — 
 Who laid'st thy deep foundations, and thought them strong 
 
 and sure, 
 And boasted midst the waters, Shall I not aye endure ? 
 
 IV. 
 
 Where is the wealth of ages that heaped thy princely mart? 
 The pomp of purple trappings ; the gems of Syrian art ; 
 The silken goats of Kedar; Sabaea's spicy store; 
 The tributes of the islands thy squadrons homeward bore, 
 
AN ANSWER. 1 53 
 
 When in thy gates triumphant they entered from the sea 
 With sound of horn and sackbut, of harp and psaltery ? 
 
 V. 
 
 Howl, howl, ye ships of Tarshish ! the glory is laid waste: 
 
 There is no habitation ; the mansions are defaced. 
 
 No mariners of Sidon unfurl your mighty sails ; 
 
 No workmen fell the fir-trees that grow in Shenir's vales, 
 
 And Basham's oaks that boasfed a thousand years of sun, 
 
 Or hew the masts of cedar on frosty Lebanon. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Rise, thou forgotten harlot ! take up thy harp and sing : 
 Call the rebeUious islands to own their ancient king: 
 Bare to the spray thy bosom, and with thy hair unbound, 
 Sit on the piles of ruin, thou throneless and discrowned ! 
 There mix thy voice of wailing with the thunders of the 
 
 sea. 
 And sing thy songs of sorrow, that thou remembered be! 
 
 VII. 
 
 Though silent and forgotten, yet Nature still laments 
 The pomp and power departed, the lost magnificence: 
 The hills were proud to see thee, and they are sadder now ; 
 The sea was proud to bear thee, and wears a troubled 
 
 brow, 
 And evermore the surges chant forth their vain desire: 
 ''Where are the ships of Tarshish, the mighty ships of 
 
 Tyre?" 
 
 AN ANSWER. 
 
 You call me cold : you wonder why 
 The marble of a mien like mine 
 
154 POEMS OF THE ORIENT. 
 
 Gives fiery sparks of Poesy, 
 Or softens at Love's touch divine. 
 
 Go, look on Nature, you will find 
 It is the rock that feels the sun : 
 
 But you are blind, — and to the bHnd 
 The touch of ice and fire is one. 
 
 GULISTAN. 
 
 AN ARABIC METRE. 
 
 Where is Gulistan, the Land of Roses? 
 Not on hills where Northern winters 
 Break their spears in icy splinters, 
 And in shrouded snow the world reposes; 
 But amid the glow and splendor 
 Which the Orient summers lend her. 
 Blue the heaven above her beauty closes : 
 There is Gulistan, the Land of Roses. 
 
 Northward stand the Persian mountains; 
 Southward spring the silver fountains 
 
 Which to Hafiz taught his sweetest measures, 
 Clearly ringing to the singing 
 Which the nightingales dehght in, 
 When the Spring, from Oman winging 
 
 Unto Shiraz, showers her fragrant treasures 
 On the land, till valleys brighten, 
 Mountains lighten with returning 
 Fires of scarlet poppy burning. 
 And the stream meanders 
 Through its roseate oleanders, 
 And Love's golden gate, unfolden. 
 
 Opens on a universe of pleasures. 
 
JERUSALEM. 1 55 
 
 There the sunshine blazes over 
 
 Meadows gemmed with ruby clover; 
 
 There the rose's heart uncloses, 
 Prodigal with hoarded stores of sweetness, 
 
 And the lily's cup so still is 
 
 Where the river's waters quiver, 
 
 That no wandering air can spill his 
 Honeyed balm, or blight his beauty's fleetness. 
 
 Skies are fairest, days are rarest, — 
 
 Thou, O Earth ! a glory wearest 
 
 From the ecstasy thou bearest. 
 Once to feel the Summer's full completeness. 
 
 Twilight glances, moonht dances, 
 
 Song by starlight, there entrances 
 
 Youthful hearts with fervid fancies. 
 And the blushing rose of Love uncloses : 
 
 Love that, lapped in summer joyance, 
 
 Far from every rude annoyance, 
 Calmly on the answering love reposes ; 
 
 And in song, in music only 
 
 Speaks the longing, vague and lonely, 
 
 Which to pain is there the nearest, 
 
 Yet of joys the sweetest, dearest, 
 
 As a cloud w^hen skies are clearest 
 On its folds intenser light discloses : 
 This is Gulistan, the Land of Roses. 
 
 JERUSALEM. 
 
 Fair shines the moon, Jerusalem, 
 
 Upon the hills that wore 
 Thy glory once, their diadem 
 
 Ere Judah's reign was o'er: 
 
156 POEMS OF THE ORIENT. 
 
 The stars on hallowed Olivet 
 
 And over Zion burn, 
 But when shall rise thy splendor set? 
 
 Thy majesty return? 
 
 The peaceful shades that wrap thee now 
 
 Thy desolation hide ; 
 The moonlit beauty of thy brow 
 
 Restores thine ancient pride; 
 Yet there, where Rome thy Temple rent, 
 
 The dews of midnight wet 
 The marble dome of Omar's tent, 
 
 And Aksa's minaret. 
 
 Thy strength, Jerusalem, is o'er. 
 
 And broken are thy walls; 
 The harp of Israel sounds no more 
 
 In thy deserted halls : 
 But where thy Kings and Prophets trod. 
 
 Triumphant over Death 
 Behold the living Soul of God, — 
 
 The Christ of Nazareth ! 
 
 The halo of his presence fills 
 
 Thy courts, thy ways of men ; 
 His footsteps on thy holy hills 
 
 Are beautiful as then ; 
 The prayer, whose bloody sweat betrayed 
 
 His human agony, 
 Still haunts the awful oHve shade 
 
 Of old Gethsemane. 
 
 Woe unto thee, Jerusalem ! 
 Slayer of Prophets, thou, 
 
JERUSALEM. 157 
 
 That in thy fury stonest them 
 God sent, and sends thee now: — 
 
 Where thou, O Christ ! with anguish spent, 
 Forgave thy foes, and died. 
 
 Thy garments yet are daily rent, — 
 Thy soul is crucified ! 
 
 They darken with the Christian name 
 
 The light that from thee beamed. 
 And by the hatred they proclaim 
 
 Thy spirit is blasphemed ; 
 Unto thine ear the prayers they send 
 
 Were fit for Belial's reign. 
 And Moslem cimeters defend 
 
 The temple they profane. 
 
 Who shall rebuild Jerusalem ? — 
 
 Her scattered children bring 
 From Earth's far ends, and gather them 
 
 Beneath her sheltering wing? 
 For Judah's sceptre broken lies, 
 
 And from his kingly stem 
 No new Messiah shall arise 
 
 For lost Jerusalem ! 
 
 But let the wild ass on her hills 
 
 Its foal unf righted lead, 
 And by the source of Kedron's rills 
 
 The desert adder breed : 
 For where the love of Christ has made 
 
 Its mansion in the heart, 
 He builds in pomp that will not fade 
 
 Her heavenly counterpart. 
 
158 POEMS OF THE ORIENT. 
 
 THE VOYAGE OF A DREAM. 
 
 There is a cloud below the mountain peak, 
 
 Moored in the pauses of the uncertain air. 
 
 Its fleecy folds piled idly, self-involved, 
 
 Fashion the semblance of a floating throne, 
 
 Torn, in the clash of airy anarchy, 
 
 From the halls of Thunder ; haply, once surcharged 
 
 With elemental fire and threatening death, — 
 
 Fit seat for the destroying Gods ! — but now 
 
 Of ivory all compact, and touched with gold 
 
 And opal radiance on its sunny hem. 
 
 As if a peaceful Angel steered it down 
 
 From empyreal heights, with folded wing 
 
 Slow sinking through the yieldhig deeps. A throne 
 
 It seems, where disembodied Thought may sit, 
 
 Unquestioned take the sceptre of the world. 
 
 And, exercising power anticipant, 
 
 Go forth to try his lordship. 
 
 I accept 
 The moment's offer, mount the seat sublime. 
 And on the winds whose wings I feel no more. 
 Because I move before them, boldly try 
 The blue abyss whose measure no man knows. 
 Straight down the mountain sinks ; the mountain pines 
 Send a last drowning murmur faintly up 
 The ingulfing air, then stand in moveless calm. 
 Like coral forests rooted on the floors 
 Of Ocean. Plummeted with all her sins. 
 The Earth, down-sliding through the Hmpid sea, 
 Bears far below the noises of her broils, — 
 The greeds, the struggles, the devouring cares, 
 The endless agitations, — leaving free 
 To the enfranchised spirit the still fields 
 
THE VOYAGE OF A DREAM. 
 
 Of amplest ether. Speed, my wingM throne ! 
 
 Wherever Thought may pilot, stretch thy flight, 
 
 Higher than eagle dares, above the peaks 
 
 Of Himalayan snow, o'er seas and sands, 
 
 Through tropic green, or where the eternal ice 
 
 Stiffens around the forehead of the Pole ! 
 
 The World is mine ; the secrets of her heart 
 
 Lie at my feet; she cannot shut them out: 
 
 And as she spins on her appointed round 
 
 From daylight into dark, from dark to dawn 
 
 The mysteries of ages, problems which 
 
 A hundred centuries have left unsolved, 
 
 Give one by one their answers. Yonder burst 
 
 From the hot heart of Africa the springs 
 
 Of waters that have rocked Egyptian gods, 
 
 When the great stream that leaped in thunder down 
 
 From Primnis and Syene's barrier, bore 
 
 The chaplets and the consecrated oil 
 
 To his own godship poured : — Beyond those hills, 
 
 Whose tops against the Indian Caucasus 
 
 Uplift their snowy helms, behold the vast 
 
 Wind-driven platforms, whence the earliest Men 
 
 Went with the streams to greener pasture-fields, 
 
 And bore — their only heritage — God's name, 
 
 The altars of his worship, and the truths 
 
 Whose rude foundations underlie the piles 
 
 Of states and sovereignties, upholding firm 
 
 The masonry of Time : and whatsoe'er 
 
 Of summer beauty in the virgin isles. 
 
 Of lifeless grandeur in the emerald crags 
 
 Of undissolving ice, was never yet 
 
 By bold Adventure wrested from the keep 
 
 Of savage Nature, gives its secret up. 
 
 Helpless beneath the master-gaze of Thought, 
 
 159 
 
l6o POEMS OF THE ORIENT. 
 
 As that of God. 
 
 Sweep downward, streams of air ! 
 And thou, my cloudy chariot, drop thy shade 
 To roll, like dust, behind thy silent wheels, 
 And draw round Earth the triumph of our march ! 
 See where, from zone to zone, the shadow moves, - 
 A spot upon the Desert's golden glare, — 
 A deeper blue on the far-stretching plains 
 Of Ocean's foamy azure, — pausing now 
 To cloak with purple gloom the shoulders bare 
 Of mighty mountains, or ingulfed and lost 
 Deep in their folded chasms, or sailing slow 
 On wide savannas, the elysian home 
 Of flowery Hfe, or quenching splendors vain 
 That dance upon the gilded domes of men, 
 And blind their eyes to the great light of Heaven. 
 As in this rarer ether I surmount 
 Life's numberless obstructions, and my gaze 
 Takes in the whole expanded round of Earth, 
 So, lifted o'er the narrow walks of Time, 
 The weary years have dwindled to a point. 
 And all their lessons compassed in the sphere 
 Of one sole thought, as in the dew-drop lies 
 The large orb of the morning sun. The years, — 
 The ages, that from their accretion grow, — 
 The cycHc eras, — shrink, and all the Past 
 Lies round and clear beneath me, swallowing up 
 In one grand circumspect the separate lives. 
 The individual links whereby our hearts 
 Walk slowly back the difficult paths of Time, 
 Or climb some lesser eminence, to gain 
 A forward look that dimly penetrates 
 The nearest Future. Past and Future now 
 Unite their worlds in equal counterpoise, 
 
THE VOYAGE OF A DREAM. i6l 
 
 And, effortless as dreams, the wisdom comes 
 That reads the hidden issues of all life, 
 The purpose of Creation. 
 
 Mount no more. 
 Thou flying cloud, but rather turn to dew 
 And weep thyself upon the clover meads, 
 And mix thy being with their honeyed bloom. 
 Than float alone within the highest vault 
 Of blue-cold ether, to dissolve alone 
 Into the thin, unfriendly air. Come down ! 
 Come down ! and let me quit this perilous height, 
 This icy royalty of thought, to glide 
 Nearer the homes of men, the embowered nests 
 Of unaspiring, lowliest content. 
 And joy, that from the beams of many hearts 
 Gathers its radiant focus, like a star 
 In the warm mists of Earth : nor yet enough 
 To glide above, but drop me in the fields 
 Or in the vales at evening, when from work 
 AccompHshed, rest the glowing Hmbs of Toil, 
 And men have time to love, — and I will kiss 
 The rugged cheek of Earth, with thankful tears 
 For every throb of every human heart 
 That welcomes me to share the general law, 
 And bear the mutual burden. Man alone 
 Creates Elysium for the soul of man. 
 The ample Future, and the godlike reach 
 Of new existence, are the prophecies 
 Of humblest Love, and in the souls that love 
 And are beloved the shining ether swims. 
 Whereon exalted, we o'erlook the world, 
 And Life, and Death, and everything but Heaven. 
 
1 62 POEMS OF THE ORIENT, 
 
 L'ENVOI. 
 
 Unto the Desert and the desert steed 
 
 Farewell ! The journey is completed now : 
 
 Struck are the tents of Ishmael's wandering breed, 
 And I unwind the turban from my brow. 
 
 The sun has ceased to shine; the palms that bent, 
 Inebriate wuth light, have disappeared ; 
 
 And naught is left me of the Orient 
 
 But the tanned bosom and the unshorn beard. 
 
 Yet from that life my blood a glow retains, 
 As the red sunshine in the ruby glows ; 
 
 These songs are echoes of its fiercer strains, — 
 Dreams, that recall its passion and repose. 
 
 I found, among those Children of the Sun, 
 The cipher of my nature, — the release 
 
 Of baffled powers, which else had never won 
 That free fulfilment, whose reward is peace. 
 
 For not to any race or any clime 
 Is the completed sphere of life revealed ; 
 
 He who would make his own that round sublime, 
 Must pitch his tent on many a distant field. 
 
 Upon his home a dawning lustre beams, 
 
 But through the world he walks to open day. 
 
 Gathering from every land the prismal gleams, 
 Which, when united, form the perfect ray. 
 
 Go, therefore, Songs ! — which in the East were born 
 And drew your nurture — from your sire's control : 
 
 Haply to wander through the West forlorn, 
 Or find a shelter in some Orient soul. 
 
CENVOI. 
 
 163 
 
 And if the temper of our colder sky 
 
 Less warmth of passion and of speech demands, 
 They are the blossoms of my life, — and I 
 
 Have ripened in the suns of many lands. 
 
PASSING THE SIRENS. 
 
PASSING THE SIRENS. 
 
 ULYSSES. 
 
 The headlands pale, the long, far-pointing cliffs 
 Of Circe's isle, are fading on the sea. 
 Our oars are idle, for the rising wind, 
 Strong Auster, fills the sail: the galley's beak 
 From every billow tears the garland foam, 
 And trails the scattered sea-blooms in her wake. 
 We should be near the islands : look, my men. 
 You, Perimedes, look, whose hawk-eyes peer. 
 Deep-set, beneath their many-wrinkled lids. 
 Tell me if yon be shores which rather float 
 On the unburdened seas, the isles of heat. 
 Delusive vapor-lands that come and go. 
 Than rise from under, lifting solid fronts 
 To meet the turmoil of the changing tides. 
 
 A steady helm, my pilot ! yonder lies 
 The broader channel : look not on the shores 
 That glimmering change from purple into green, 
 But mark the burning highway of the sun, 
 Now to his bath descending, — follow that, 
 Straight through, and out on waters unexplored, 
 Ay, though we reach the Thunder's awful house, 
 The caverned hell of storms, than once touch keel 
 In these smooth harbors. Turn away your eyes, 
 My sailors, from the fair, fast-rising isles, 
 
 167 
 
1 68 PASSING THE SIRENS. 
 
 That drug the winds with many a musky flower 
 
 To sleep, that smooth the waters as with cil, 
 
 And open bowery laps of sunny coves, 
 
 To tempt your tempest-battered frames. And me, 
 
 Who never gave ye toils I did not share, 
 
 Or tasted pleasures I denied ye, — who 
 
 In Chian ports the flaccid wine-skin filled, 
 
 And in the arms of soft Ionian girls 
 
 Ye after storms long anchorage allowed, — 
 
 Me bind ye fast, here, at the mainmast's foot, 
 
 And stop my ears with wool, lest I should lose 
 
 The settled will that drives my purpose on. 
 
 And falter with slack sails, the shame of all. 
 
 Of ye, my men, and all who honored me. 
 
 Heroes and demigods, in Troy. For I, 
 
 Wiser than ye in scheming, stronger proved 
 
 In much endurance, have the keener sense 
 
 Of all delights and all indulgences, 
 
 The more temptation to forbidden lusts. 
 
 Let me not hear the singing from the isles, 
 
 Or see the Sirens, naked in the shade. 
 
 Spread their alluring couches ! 
 
 Ye, who toiled 
 With me, whom now from Circe's sty I saved. 
 Whose fate and mine is one, hear these my words : 
 Brail up the slackened mainsail to the yard : 
 Strong Auster fails : in order sit ye down, 
 Each on his bench, within the hollow ship, 
 And smite the billows of the hoary sea ! 
 Let the white blades of fir keep even time, 
 Rattling together, — nor the helmsman fall 
 A hair's breadth from his course. It comes at last ! 
 Whate'er you hear, the tasks I set perform 
 In order ! Press the stoppers of my ears : 
 
PASSING THE SIRENS. i6g 
 
 Nay, stop your own, — your faces grow too keen, — 
 
 Your eyes are full of wild and hungry light. 
 
 Now, by Poseidon ! my right arm is free, 
 
 Look shoreward, and I slay you! Orpheus, there. 
 
 Tightens the loose chords of his lyre : he leans 
 
 Against the spray-wet altar on the prow, 
 
 Gazing straight forward, as his soul were dropt 
 
 Into the ocean of the golden sky. 
 
 Ay, sing, and overtake it with your song. 
 
 And if the Sirens not more rugged be 
 
 Than pines of Thessaly, that left the hills 
 
 To hear your music, they will quit their isles. 
 
 Shorn of their spells, your captives, following us 
 
 In dumb subjection through the barren seas. 
 
 THE SIRENS. 
 
 They are rough with the salt of the sea. 
 They are brown with the brand of the sun : 
 
 They are weary, weary of the sea; 
 They are weary of the sun. 
 
 Tug at the heavy oar; 
 
 Heave at the stubborn sail, — 
 
 Tossed in the mid-sea gale. 
 
 Wrecked on the fatal shore ! 
 
 Here in our isles is rest. 
 
 Here there is rest alone: 
 Sweet is rest, ah, sweet is rest. 
 White the arms and warm the breast, — 
 Naught beyond but the unknown West, 
 
 Naught but the waves unknown ! 
 
 From their foreheads wipe the brine, 
 Round their brows the poppies twine: 
 
170 PASSING THE SIRENS. 
 
 Lay them on couches of balmy thyme, 
 Deep in the shade of the bee-loved lime ! 
 Let them sleep: the restless deep 
 Here no more compels to keep 
 The weary watches that baffle sleep: 
 Toil is here a thing unknown, 
 
 Peril is a stranger here; 
 Sweetest rest, and rest alone, 
 
 Waits the weary mariner. 
 
 ORPHEUS. 
 
 You sit serene upon your golden seats, 
 
 In the bright climate of eternal calm. 
 
 No pain can touch you, and the tumult raised 
 
 By foolish men dies in this lower air: 
 
 But Song — when from the Poet's perfect lips 
 
 Divinest song is shed — finds entrance there, 
 
 And bears his message even to your board. 
 
 Great Zeus lifts up his awful brow : his beard 
 
 Drops from its knotted coils, and sweeps his knees; 
 
 The thunder's edge grows keener in his grasp, 
 
 And the grave pleasure seated in his eyes 
 
 Brightens Olympian ether. Pallas hears; 
 
 Her brow's chill adamant is less severe: 
 
 And large-eyed Her^ lifts the violet lids. 
 
 Shading the languid fountains of her eyes, 
 
 To look the joy her indolence makes dumb. 
 
 You hear me, Gods ! you hear and comfort me. 
 
 I see thee, whom in Delos I adored, 
 
 And unto whom, beyond the Thracian strait, 
 
 I built an altar on the windy isle 
 
 Beside the Tauric seas. Thy splendid hair. 
 
 Spread by the swiftness of thy chariot-wheels, 
 
 Rays with celestial gold thy forehead's arch. 
 
PASSING THE SIRENS. 171 
 
 And thine immortal lips, too sweet for man, 
 Too eloquent for woman, half unclose, 
 Unuttered consolation in their smile, — 
 Unspoken promises, whence hope is born 
 Of something happier, somewhere in the spheres. 
 
 THE SIRENS. 
 
 You have toiled enough, mariners ! 
 
 Labor no more : 
 Lower the canvas, 
 
 Leave the oar: 
 Over our island 
 
 Storms cannot come: 
 Winds are in slumber: 
 
 Thunder is dumb. 
 Only the nightingale 
 
 Sings in her nest : 
 Balmy our couches, 
 
 Come to your rest ! 
 Roses shall garland you, 
 Arms shall encircle you, 
 
 Lips shall be pressed ! 
 Wine in the goblets 
 
 Shines ruby and gold, — 
 Strength to the weary. 
 
 Warmth to the cold, 
 Blood to the wasted. 
 
 Youth to the old ! 
 Ah, and the rapture 
 Thousand-fold dearer. 
 
 Ne'er to be told: 
 Learn ye the secret, — 
 Taste ye the sweetness, — 
 Beauty's possession 
 
 Belongs to the bold ! 
 
172 PASSING THE SIRENS. 
 
 ORPHEUS. 
 
 Not Minos, iron judge, alone shall speak 
 
 Our final sentence ; but the balance hangs, 
 
 Even while we live, in sight of all the Gods, 
 
 Our fates are weighed, and less unequal seem 
 
 To calm Olympian eyes, than ours, obscured 
 
 By films inseparate from this cloudy earth. 
 
 As one who, sitting on the high-prowed ship, 
 
 Sees not the rosy splendor of the sail 
 
 At morning, when, a planet of the sea. 
 
 It shines afar to dwellers on the land ; 
 
 So we the later radiance of our lives. 
 
 Now shining, see not. We have toiled, 'tis true: 
 
 Stared Danger's lion boldly in the face 
 
 Until he turned : borne wounds and racking pains ; 
 
 The frosts of Colchian winters, and the fire 
 
 That darts from Cancer on the Libyan shore : 
 
 Brief joy, brief rest, stern labor, suffering. 
 
 Are ours, — yet have we kept, as heroes should, 
 
 The steady cheerfulness of temperate hearts. 
 
 Courage, and mutual trust. We shall not leave 
 
 The vapid dust of idlers in our urns : 
 
 Behind our hves shall burn the shining tracks 
 
 Of splendid deeds, and men long after us 
 
 Shall build the steadfast mansion of our fame. 
 
 What here we lose, shall be our portion there 
 
 Among the Happy Fields, — divine repose 
 
 Eternally prolonged, and blameless joy. 
 
 We in that larger freedom of the blest 
 
 Heroic shades, shall find our chosen seats. 
 
 This restless life beneath the hollow sky, 
 
 And looking o'er the edges of the world 
 
 Far from the anchored shores, the tongues of air, 
 
PASSING THE SIRENS. 173 
 
 The doubtful voices heard in sounding caves 
 Where gods abide, dim whispers, teaching us, 
 God-like the secrets of the elements. 
 Have smoothed our entrance to the ample realms 
 Where Youth returns, and Joy, so timorous now, 
 Drops, like a weary dove, to fly no more. 
 
 THE SIRENS. 
 
 Listen, ye mariners ! hark to our promises ! 
 
 Prouder than pleasure the gifts we confer: 
 Though unto passion the Siren gives passion, 
 
 He who seeks power receives it from her ! 
 
 Labor no longer, confronting the turbulent 
 
 Elements, ever opposing your will : 
 Secrets we know, knowing all things, immortal, — 
 
 Equal with gods your desires to fulfil. 
 
 Secrets that chain in his caverns the Thunder, 
 Fetter the winds when they eagerest are : 
 
 Loosen the stream from its urns in the mountain, 
 Ay, and the vaults of the earthquake unbar ! 
 
 Come, and the delicate spell shall be spoken. 
 Subtly to seize, and securely to bind, — 
 
 Wisdom and eloquence, honeyed persuasion. 
 Giving ye mastery over your kind. 
 
 Men shall adore ye, and even Immortals 
 Stoop from their thrones in Olympian flame : 
 
 All that have conquered and triumphed before ye 
 Dust shall become at the feet of your fame ! 
 
 ULYSSES. 
 
 It cleaves the muffled sense; it penetrates 
 The guarded porches of the brain, no lance 
 
174 PASSING THE SIRENS. 
 
 Hurled from a giant's arm more sure : it hums 
 
 And stings within me, as the brown bee hums 
 
 Shut in the folded heart of some rich flower, 
 
 Drinking its drop of honey, — so it creeps 
 
 Within the purple blossom of my heart, 
 
 That music : and the very thrills of fear 
 
 To hide the secret honey of my lust, 
 
 Aid the seduction and betray the spoil. 
 
 You see me tremble : will it never cease ? 
 
 It follows, follows, clearer as we pass 
 
 The channel's throat, the final isles abeam, 
 
 And sweeter, keener, more alluring still, 
 
 From looking on the unfriendly seas. My men, 
 
 Sing me your loudest songs, — the yo-heave-0 ! 
 
 Of Aulis, or the coarse carousal-glees 
 
 Of Tenedos and Troy ! What ? are ye dumb. 
 
 With eyes that burn like half-extinguished brands, 
 
 Fanned with desires new-blown, and mutinous 
 
 With thought of coming peril ? Nay, then, shout ! 
 
 Yell with the rage of disappointed lust. 
 
 The spite of thwarted opportunity, 
 
 The frenzy which an unrelenting Fate 
 
 Smiles at, and so increases ! Curse your chief. 
 
 Even me, Ulysses, — lash yourselves to wrath, 
 
 Like Satyrs when the Bacchic madness takes 
 
 Autumnal hills, so ye but overcome 
 
 That still-pursuing music ! Bravely done ! 
 
 My heart is tougher for that brawny roar, 
 
 Which, in the old time heard, could always turn 
 
 The battle's doubtful scale. 
 
 A fresher wind 
 Foreruns the presence of the rearward night ; 
 Salt scud flies over us, and pale sea-fire 
 Flashes around the rudder. Set me free : 
 
PASSING THE SIRENS. 175 
 
 I am your captain, — you are still my men : 
 My sailors, whose obedience makes me strong, 
 My comrades, whom I love. See ! yonder sinks 
 The glimmering beach astern : the songs are still ; 
 The lovely Treachery withdraws at last 
 Its baffled spells. Now, whatsoever waits 
 For us, of new adventure, hostile winds. 
 Deceitful reefs, leagues of unharbored shore. 
 Or combats with strange tribes, gigantic forms 
 Cyclopean, or of bestial shape abhorred, 
 The worst is passed : and ye have proved to-day 
 Strong to resist, where mere resistance counts 
 Above all courage to confront the shocks 
 Whereon true manly steel but rings unharmed; 
 But this assails us from the softer side, 
 Melting the hero's marrow. Wherefore, now, 
 Broach we that skin of amber Cretan wine, 
 First pouring, as is meet, libations large 
 To Pallas, and Poseidon, and to Zeus. 
 Ho, Orpheus ! Are you dreaming on the prow ? 
 Or have the Sirens through your trancM ears 
 Rapt forth your soul ? You cannot hear them now : 
 Come down : our hearts need festal music. Sing 
 As when we skirted Delos, and the white 
 Uplifted temple shone like morning snow, 
 'Twixt the blue hemispheres of sky and sea ! 
 
 ORPHEUS. 
 
 I looked on him whose marble mansion gleams 
 High over Delos, — did the Sirens sing ? 
 Who hears their music, sitting in the light 
 Of his immortal features, breathing balm 
 Shook from the rich confusion of his curls? 
 He gave me entrance to the happy meads 
 
176 PASSING THE SIRENS. 
 
 Beyond the rainbow's span : I breathed, with him, 
 The perfect ether of Olympian skies : 
 I heard the piercing sweetness of his lyre 
 Strike harmony through all the shuddering heart 
 Of Chaos, while from blissful stars that shd, 
 Sparkling, around him, in their crystal grooves. 
 Sweet noises came, responsive. I beheld 
 His music shape the world's eternal law. 
 Immortal Justice there was justified : 
 Fate span an equal thread ; more vile became 
 Rebellion to the gods, obedience light. 
 Complaint unworthy. They the soonest reach 
 The shining fields where shades of heroes walk, 
 Who, spurning passion, rise with even souls 
 O'er this, your madness, as an eagle hangs 
 Above the thunder, in the sunshine poised. 
 Your voices call me from my lofty dream. 
 Yet think not that my spirit stoops to share 
 Your noisy gladness ! Rather let me breathe 
 This pulse of music throbbing at my heart. 
 Until the speaking wires shall give me back 
 Some fragments of the voices of the Gods. 
 
 THE SAILORS. 
 
 No doubt you know the language of the Gods, 
 You, Orpheus, with your eyes that look afar, 
 Your ears, dumb to the thunder when you sing ; 
 But you, our Captain, know the hearts of men. 
 Here, pour this cup of amber wine to Zeus, 
 This, to Poseidon, — this, to Pallas, — this 
 Drink, shipmates, to Ulysses, from your hearts ! 
 Sing, Orpheus, if you like : we do not want 
 Your Samothracian songs that cheat our ears 
 
PASSING THE SIRENS. 
 
 Like wind among the pines, — but lusty staves, 
 
 ''Down with the Dardansf" or "The Girl of Cos,'' 
 
 Songs that our captain loves : we sing with him. 
 
 Who knows us, suffers with us, feels for us. 
 
 Stands at the post of peril at our head. 
 
 Strong to subdue our hot, rebellious blood. 
 
 Free to forgive the easy vice, because 
 
 He feels it tugging at his heart the same, — 
 
 Him will we follow, though ten thousand isles 
 
 Of Sirens tempted, to the utmost verge 
 
 Where Earth falls sheer away, and under where 
 
 The great sun rolls, and the stars hide at dawn. 
 
 Drink with us, Captain ! strike hands once again ! 
 
 We swear anew the obedient oath we took 
 
 When first you shipped us, wild, wayfaring knaves, 
 
 Among the scattered isles. The watch is set ; 
 
 The night is fortunate; the wind is fair; 
 
 Our hearts are happy, — let our compact hold ! 
 
 177 
 
ROMANCES AND LYRICS. 
 
TO GEORGE H. BOKER. 
 
 To you the homage of this book I bring. 
 
 The earhest and the latest flowers I yield, 
 
 And though their hues betray a barren field, 
 I know you will not slight the offering. 
 You were the mate of my poetic spring ; 
 
 To you its buds of little worth concealed 
 
 More than the summer years have since revealed, 
 Or doubtful autumn from the stem shall fling. 
 
 But here they are, the buds, the blossoms blown; 
 If rich or scant, the wreath is at your feet ; 
 
 And though it were the freshest ever grown, 
 To you its incense could not be more sweet. 
 
 Since with it goes a love to match your own, 
 A heart, dear Friend, that never falsely beat. 
 
PORPHYROGENITUS. 
 
 Born in the purple ! born in the purple ! 
 
 Heir to the sceptre and crown ! 
 Lord over millions and millions of vassals, — 
 
 Monarch of mighty renown ! 
 Where, do you ask, are my banner-proud castles? 
 
 Where my imperial town ? 
 
 II. 
 
 Where are the ranks of my far-flashing lances, — 
 Trumpets, courageous of sound, — 
 
 Galloping squadrons and rocking armadas, 
 Guarding my kingdom around? 
 
 Where are the pillars that blazon my borders, 
 Threatening the ahen ground ? 
 
 III. 
 
 Vainly you ask, if you wear not the purple, 
 
 Sceptre and diadem own; 
 Ruling, yourself, over prosperous regions, 
 
 Seated supreme on your throne. 
 Subjects have nothing to give but allegiance: 
 
 Monarchs meet monarchs alone. 
 
 IV. 
 
 But, if a king, you shall stand on my ramparts. 
 Look on the lands that I sway, 
 i8i 
 
1 82 ROMANCES AND LYRICS. 
 
 Number the domes of magnificent cities, 
 
 Shining in valleys away, — 
 Number the mountains whose foreheads are golden, 
 
 Lakes that are azure with day. 
 
 V. 
 
 Whence I inherited such a dominion ? 
 
 What was my forefathers' line? 
 Homer and Sophocles, Pindar and Sappho, 
 
 First were anointed divine: 
 Theirs were the realms that a god might have governed. 
 
 Ah, and how little is mine ! 
 
 VI. 
 
 Hafiz in Orient shared with Petrarca 
 
 Thrones of the East and the West; 
 Shakespeare succeeded to limitless empire, 
 
 Greatest of monarchs, and best: 
 Few of his children inherited kingdoms, 
 
 Provinces only, the rest. 
 
 vn. 
 
 Keats has his vineyards, and Shelley his islands; 
 
 Coleridge in Xanadu reigns; 
 Wordsworth is eyried aloft on the mountains, 
 
 Goethe has mountains and plains; 
 Yet, though the world has been parcelled among them, 
 
 A world to be parcelled remains. 
 
 vm. 
 
 Blessing enough to be born in the purple, 
 Though but a monarch in name, — 
 
METEMPSYCHOSIS OF THE PINE. 183 
 
 Though in the desert my palace is builded, . 
 
 Far from the highways of Fame : 
 Up with my standards ! salute me with trumpets 1 
 
 Crown me with regal acclaim ! 
 
 METEMPSYCHOSIS OF THE PINE. 
 
 As when the haze of some wan moonlight makes 
 
 Familiar fields a land of mystery, 
 Where, chill and strange, a ghostly presence wakes 
 
 In flower, and bush, and tree, — 
 
 Another life the life of Day o'erwhelms; 
 
 The Past from present consciousness takes hue, 
 And we remember vast and cloudy realms 
 Our feet have wandered through: 
 
 So, oft, some moonlight of the mind makes dumb 
 
 The stir of outer thought : wide open seems 
 The gate wherethrough strange sympathies have come, 
 The secret of our dreams; 
 
 The source of fine impressions, shooting deep 
 
 Below the failing plummet of the sense; 
 Which strike beyond all Time, and backward sweep 
 Through all intelligence. 
 
 We touch the lower life of beast and clod, 
 
 And the long process of the ages see 
 From blind old Chaos, ere the breath of God 
 Moved it to harmony. 
 
 All outward wisdom yields to that within, 
 
 Whereof nor creed nor canon holds the key; 
 We only feel that we have ever been. 
 And evermore shall be. 
 
1 84 ROMANCES AND LYRICS. 
 
 And thus I know, by memories unfurled 
 
 In rarer moods, and many a nameless sign, 
 That once in Time, and somewhere in the world, 
 I was a towering Pine, 
 
 Rooted upon a cape that overhung 
 
 The entrance to a mountain gorge; whereon 
 The wintry shadow of a peak was flung. 
 Long after rise of sun. 
 
 Behind, the silent snows; and wide below, 
 
 The rounded hills made level, lessening down 
 To where a river washed with sluggish flow 
 A many-templed town. 
 
 There did I clutch the granite with firm feet, 
 
 There shake my boughs above the roaring gulf, 
 When mountain whirlwinds through the passes beat. 
 And howled the mountain wolf. 
 
 There did I louder sing than all the floods 
 
 Whirled in white foam adown the precipice, 
 And the sharp sleet that stung the naked woods 
 Answer with sullen hiss: 
 
 But when the peaceful clouds rose white and high 
 
 On blandest airs that April skies could bring, 
 Through all my fibres thrilled the tender sigh, 
 The sweet unrest of Spring. 
 
 She, with warm fingers laced in mine, did melt 
 
 In fragrant balsam my reluctant blood; 
 And with a smart of keen delight I felt 
 The sap in every bud, 
 
METEMPSYCHOSIS OF THE PINE. 185 
 
 And tingled through my rough old bark, and fast 
 
 Pushed out the younger green, that smoothed my tones, 
 When last year's needles to the wind I cast. 
 And shed my scaly cones. 
 
 I held the eagle till the mountain mist 
 
 Rolled from the azure paths he came to soar. 
 And like a hunter, on my gnarled wrist 
 The dappled falcon bore. 
 
 Poised o'er the blue abyss, the morning lark 
 Sang, wheeling near in rapturous carouse; 
 And hart and hind, soft-pacing through the dark, 
 Slept underneath my boughs. 
 
 Down on the pasture-slopes the herdsman lay. 
 And for the flock his birchen trumpet blew; 
 There ruddy children tumbled in their play. 
 And lovers came to woo. 
 
 And once an army, crowned with triumph, came 
 
 Out of the hollow bosom of the gorge. 
 With mighty banners in the wind aflame. 
 Borne on a glittering surge 
 
 Of tossing spears, a flood that homeward rolled, 
 
 While cymbals timed their steps of victory. 
 And horn and clarion from their throats of gold 
 Sang with a savage glee. 
 
 I felt the mountain walls below me shake, 
 
 Vibrant with sound, and through my branches poured 
 The glorious gust: my song thereto did make 
 Magnificent accord. 
 
1 86 ROMANCES AND LYRICS. 
 
 Some blind harmonic instinct pierced the rind 
 
 Of that slow Hfe which made me straight and high, 
 And I became a harp for every wind, 
 A voice for every sky; 
 
 When fierce autumnal gales began to blow, 
 
 Roaring all day in concert, hoarse and deep; 
 And then made silent with my weight of snow — 
 A spectre on the steep; 
 
 Filled with a whispering gush, like that which flows 
 
 Through organ-stops, when sank the sun's red disk 
 Beyond the city, and in blackness rose 
 Temple and obelisk; 
 
 Or breathing soft, as one who sighs in prayer, 
 Mysterious sounds of portent and of might. 
 What time I felt the wandering waves of air 
 Pulsating through the night. 
 
 And thus for centuries my rhythmic chant 
 
 Rolled down the gorge, or surged about the hill: 
 Gentle, or stern, or sad, or jubilant. 
 At every season's will. 
 
 No longer Memory whispers whence arose 
 
 The doom that tore me from my place of pride: 
 Whether the storms that load the peak with snows, 
 And start the mountain-slide. 
 
 Let fall a fiery bolt to smite my top, 
 
 Upv^renched my roots, and o'er the precipice 
 Hurled me, a dangling wreck, erelong to drop 
 Into the wild abyss; 
 
THE VINEYARD-SAINT. 
 
 187 
 
 Or whether hands of men, with scornful strength 
 
 And force from Nature's rugged armory lent, 
 Sawed through my heart and rolled my tumbling length 
 Sheer down the steep descent. 
 
 All sense departed, with the boughs I wore; 
 
 And though I moved with mighty gales at strife, 
 A mast upon the seas, I sang no more, 
 And music was my life. 
 
 Yet still that life awakens, brings again 
 Its airy anthems, resonant and long, 
 Till Earth and Sky, transfigured, fill my brain 
 With rhythmic sweeps of song. 
 
 Thence am I made a poet : thence are sprung 
 
 Those shadowy motions of the soul, that reach 
 Beyond all grasp of Art, — for which the tongue 
 Is ignorant of speech. 
 
 And if some wild, full-gathered harmony 
 
 Roll its unbroken music through my line. 
 There lives and murmurs, faintly though it be, 
 The Spirit of the Pine. 
 
 THE VINEYARD-SAINT. 
 
 She, pacing down the vineyard walks, 
 
 Put back the branches, one by one. 
 Stripped the dry foliage from the stalks, 
 
 And gave their branches to the sun. 
 
 On fairer hillsides, looking south. 
 The vines were brown with cankerous rust, 
 
 The earth was hot with summer drouth. 
 And all the grapes were dim with dust. 
 
1 88 ROMANCES AND LYRICS. 
 
 Yet here some blessed influence rained 
 From kinder skies, the season through; 
 
 On every bunch the bloom remained, 
 And every leaf was washed in dew, 
 
 I saw her blue eyes, clear and calm; 
 
 I saw the aureole of her hair; 
 I heard her chant some unknown psalm, 
 
 In triumph half, and half in prayer. 
 
 **Hail, maiden of the vines!" I cried: 
 "Hail, Oread of the purple hill! 
 
 For vineyard fauns too fair a bride, 
 For me thy cup of welcome fill ! 
 
 "Unlatch the wicket; let me in, 
 And, sharing, make thy toil more dear: 
 
 No riper vintage holds the bin 
 
 Than that our feet shall trample here. 
 
 "Beneath thy beauty's light I glow, 
 As in the sun those grapes of thine: 
 
 Touch thou my heart with love, and lo ! 
 The foaming must is turned to wine!" 
 
 She, pausing, stayed her careful task, 
 And, lifting eyes of steady ray, 
 
 Blew, as a wind the mountain's mask 
 Of mist, my cloudy words away. 
 
 No troubled flush o'erran her cheek; 
 
 But when her quiet lips did stir. 
 My heart knelt down to hear her speak, 
 
 And mine the blush I sought in her. 
 
THE VINEYARD-SAINT. 
 
 "O, not for me," she said, ''the vow 
 So lightly breathed, to break erelong; 
 
 The vintage-garland on the brow; 
 The revels of the dancing throng ! 
 
 "To maiden love I shut my heart, 
 Yet none the less a stainless bride; 
 
 I work alone, I dwell apart, 
 Because my work is sanctified. 
 
 "A virgin hand must tend the vine, 
 By virgin feet the vat be trod, 
 
 Whose consecrated gush of wine 
 Becomes the blessed blood of God ! 
 
 *'No sinful purple here shall stain, 
 Nor juice profane these grapes afford ; 
 
 But reverent lips their sweetness drain 
 Around the Table of the Lord. 
 
 ''The cup I fill, of chaster gold. 
 Upon the lighted altar stands; 
 
 There, when the gates of heaven unfold, 
 The priest exalts it in his hands. 
 
 *'The censer yields adoring breath, 
 The awful anthem sinks and dies, 
 
 While God, who suffered life and death, 
 Renews His ancient sacrifice. 
 
 "O sacred garden of the vine! 
 
 And blessed she, ordained to press 
 God's chosen vintage, for the wine 
 
 Of pardon and of holiness!" 
 
 189 
 
190 ROMANCES AND LYRICS. 
 
 HYLAS. 
 
 Storm-wearied Argo slept upon the water. 
 No cloud was seen ; on blue and craggy Ida 
 The hot noon lay, and on the plain's enamel; 
 Cool, in his bed, alone, the swift Scamander. 
 **Why should I haste?" said young and rosy Hylas: 
 ''The seas were rough, and long the way from Colchis. 
 Beneath the snow-white awning slumbers Jason, 
 Pillowed upon his tame Thessalian panther; 
 The shields are piled, the listless oars suspended 
 On the black thwarts, and all the hairy bondsmen 
 Doze on the benches. They may wait for water. 
 Till I have bathed in mountain-born Scamander." 
 
 So said, unfilleting his purple chlamys, 
 
 And putting down his urn, he stood a moment, 
 
 Breathing the faint, warm odor of the blossoms 
 
 That spangled thick the lovely Dardan meadows. 
 
 Then, stooping hghtly, loosened he his buskins, 
 
 And felt with shrinking feet the crispy verdure, 
 
 Naked, save one Hght robe that from his shoulder 
 
 Hung to his knee, the youthful flush revealing 
 
 Of warm, white limbs, half-nerved with coming manhood, 
 
 Yet fair and smooth with tenderness of beauty. 
 
 Now to the river's sandy marge advancing. 
 
 He dropped the robe, and raised his head exulting 
 
 In the clear sunshine, that with beam embracing 
 
 Held him against Apollo's glowing bosom. 
 
 For sacred to Latona's son is Beauty, 
 
 Sacred is Youth, the joy of youthful feeling. 
 
 A joy indeed, a living joy, was Hylas, 
 
 Whence Jove-begotten Heracles, the mighty, 
 
 To men though terrible, to him was gentle, 
 
HYLAS. 
 
 Smoothing his rugged nature into laughter 
 When the boy stole his club, or from his shoulders 
 Dragged the huge paws of the Nem^an lion. 
 
 The thick, brown locks, tossed backward from his 
 
 forehead, 
 Fell soft about his temples; manhood's blossom 
 Not yet had sprouted on his chin, but freshly 
 Curved the fair cheek, and full the red lips' parting. 
 Like a loose bow, that just has launched its arrow. 
 His large blue eyes, with joy dilate and beamy. 
 Were clear as the unshadowed Grecian heaven; 
 Dewy and sleek his dimpled shoulders rounded 
 To the white arms and whiter breast between them. 
 Downward, the supple lines had less of softness: 
 His back was like a god's; his loins were moulded 
 As if some pulse of power began to waken ; 
 The springy fulness of his thighs, outswerving, 
 Sloped to his knee, and, lightly dropping downward, 
 Drew the curved lines that breathe, in rest, of motion. 
 
 He saw his glorious limbs reversely mirrored 
 In the still wave, and stretched his foot to press it 
 On the smooth sole that answered at the surface : 
 Alas ! the shape dissolved in glimmering fragments. 
 Then, timidly at first, he dipped, and catching 
 Quick breath, with tingling shudder, as the waters 
 Swirled round his thighs, and deeper, slowly deeper, 
 Till on his breast the River's cheek was pillowed, 
 And deeper still, till every shoreward ripple 
 Talked in his ear, and like a cygnet's bosom 
 His white, round shoulder shed the dripping crystal. 
 There, as he floated, with a rapturous motion. 
 The lucid coolness folding close around him. 
 The lily-cradling ripples murmured, "Hylas!" 
 
 191 
 
192 ROMANCES AND LYRICS. 
 
 He shook from off his ears the hyacinthine 
 
 Curls, that had lain unwet upon the water, 
 
 And still the ripples murmured, ''Hylas! Hylas!" 
 
 He thought: ''The voices are but ear-born music. 
 
 Pan dwells not here, and Echo still is calling 
 
 From some high cliff that tops a Thracian valley : 
 
 So long mine ears, on tumbling Hellespontus, 
 
 Have heard the sea waves hammer Argo's forehead, 
 
 That I misdeem the fluting of this current 
 
 For some lost nymph — " Again the murmur, "Hylas!" 
 
 And with the sound a cold, smooth arm around him 
 
 Slid like a wave, and down the clear, green darkness 
 
 Glimmered on either side a shining bosom, — 
 
 Glimmered, uprising slow; and ever closer 
 
 Wound the cold arms, till, climbing to his shoulders, 
 
 Their cheeks lay nestled, while the purple tangles 
 
 Their loose hair made, in silken mesh enwound him. 
 
 Their eyes of clear, pale emerald then uplifting. 
 
 They kissed his neck with lips of humid coral. 
 
 And once again there came a murmur, "Hylas! 
 
 O, come with us! O, follow where we wander 
 
 Deep down beneath the green, translucent ceiling, — 
 
 Where on the sandy bed of old Scamander 
 
 With cool white buds we braid our purple tresses. 
 
 Lulled by the bubbling waves around us stealing ! 
 
 Thou fair Greek boy, O, come with us! O, follow 
 
 Where thou no more shalt hear Propontis riot, 
 
 But by our arms be lapped in endless quiet, 
 
 Within the glimmering caves of Ocean hollow ! 
 
 We have no love; alone, of all the Immortals, 
 
 We have no love. O, love us, we who press thee 
 
 With faithful arms, though cold, — whose lips caress 
 
 thee, — 
 Who hold thy beauty prisoned ! Love us, Hylas ! " 
 
HYLAS. 
 
 193 
 
 The boy grew chill to feel their twining pressure 
 Lock round his limbs, and bear him, vainly striving, 
 Down from the noonday brightness. "Leave me, 
 
 Naiads ! 
 Leave me !" he cried; ''the day to me is dearer 
 Than all your caves deep-sphered in Ocean's quiet. 
 I am but mortal, seek but mortal pleasure: 
 I would not change this flexile, warm existence. 
 Though swept by storms, and shocked by Jove's dread 
 
 thunder, 
 To be a king beneath the dark-green waters." 
 Still moaned the humid lips, between their kisses, 
 "We have no love. O, love us, we who love thee!" 
 And came in answer, thus, the words of Hylas: 
 "My love is mortal. For the Argive maidens 
 T keep the kisses which your lips would ravish. 
 Unlock your cold white arms, — take from my shoulder 
 The tangled swell of your bewildering tresses. 
 Let me return : the wind comes down from Ida, 
 And soon the galley, stirring from her slumber. 
 Will fret to ride where Pelion's twilight shadow 
 Falls o'er the towers of Jason's sea-girt city. 
 I am not yours, — I cannot braid the lilies 
 In your wet hair, nor on your argent bosoms 
 Close my drowsed eyes to hear your rippling voices. 
 Hateful to me your sweet, cold, crystal being, — 
 Your world of watery quiet. Help, Apollo ! 
 For I am thine: thy fire, thy beam, thy music. 
 Dance in my heart and flood my sense with rapture: 
 The joy, the warmth and passion now awaken. 
 Promised by thee, but erewhile calmly sleeping, 
 O, leave me. Naiads! loose your chill embraces, 
 Or I shall die, for mortal maidens pining." 
 But still with unrelenting arms they bound him. 
 
194 ROMANCES AND LYRICS. 
 
 And still, accordant, flowed their watery voices: 
 
 ''We have thee now, — we hold thy beauty prisoned; 
 
 O, come with us beneath the emerald waters! 
 
 We have no love; we love thee, rosy Hylas. 
 
 O, love us, who shall nevermore release thee: 
 
 Love us, whose milky arms will be thy cradle 
 
 Far down on the untroubled sands of ocean, 
 
 Where now we bear thee, clasped in our embraces." 
 
 And slowly, slowly sank the amorous Naiads; 
 
 The boy's blue eyes, upturned, looked through the water, 
 
 Pleading for help; but Heaven's immortal Archer 
 
 Was swathed in cloud. The ripples hid his forehead, 
 
 And last, the thick, bright curls a moment floated. 
 
 So warm and silky that the stream upbore them. 
 
 Closing reluctant, as he sank forever. 
 
 The sunset died behind the crags of Imbros. 
 Argo was tugging at her chain; for freshly 
 Blew the swift breeze, and leaped the restless billows. 
 The voice of Jason roused the dozing sailors, 
 And up the mast was heaved the snowy canvas. 
 But mighty Heracles, the Jove-begotten, 
 Unmindful stood, beside the cool Scamander, 
 Leaning upon his club. A purple chlamys 
 Tossed o'er an urn was all that lay before him: 
 And when he called, expectant, ''Hylas! Hylas!" 
 The empty echoes made him answer, — " Hylas 1" 
 
 KUBLEH: 
 
 A STORY OF THE ASSYRIAN DESERT. 
 
 The black-eyed children of the Desert drove 
 
 Their flocks together at the set of sun. 
 
 The tents were pitched; the weary camels bent 
 
KUBLEH. 
 
 Their suppliant necks, and knelt upon the sand; 
 The hunters quartered by the kindled fires 
 The wild boars of the Tigris they had slain, 
 And all the stir and sound of evening ran 
 Throughout the Shammar camp. The dewy air 
 Bore its full burden of confused delight 
 Across the flowery plain; and while, afar, 
 The snows of Koordish Mountains in the ray 
 Flashed roseate amber, Nimroud 's ancient mound 
 Rose broad and black against the burning West. 
 The shadows deepened, and the stars came out, 
 Sparkhng in violent ether; one by one 
 Glimmered the ruddy camp-fires on the plain, 
 And shapes of steed and horseman moved among 
 The dusky tents, with shout and jostling cry. 
 And neigh and restless prancing. Children ran 
 To hold the thongs, while every rider drove 
 His quivering spear in the earth, and by his door 
 Tethered the horse he loved. In midst of all 
 Stood Shammeriyah, whom they dared not touch, — 
 The foal of wondrous Kubleh, to the Shekh 
 A dearer wealth than all his Georgian girls. 
 
 But when their meal was o'er, — when the red fires 
 Blazed brighter, and the dogs no longer bayed, — 
 When Shammar hunters with the boys sat down 
 To cleanse their bloody knives, came Alim^r, 
 The poet of the tribe, whose songs of love 
 Are sweeter than Bassora 's nightingales, — 
 Whose songs of war can fire the Arab blood 
 Like war itself : who knows not Alimar ? 
 Then asked the men, ''O Poet, sing of Kubleh!" 
 And boys laid down the burnished knives and said, 
 ^'TeU us of Kubleh, whom we never saw, — 
 
 195 
 
196 ROMANCES AND LYRICS. 
 
 Of wondrous Kubleh!" Closer drew the group, 
 With eager eyes, about the flickering fire, 
 While Alimar, beneath the Assyrian stars, 
 Sang to the Hstening Arabs : 
 
 "God is great! 
 O Arabs ! never since Mohammed rode 
 The sands of Beder, and by Mecca's gate 
 That winged steed bestrode, whose mane of fire 
 Blazed up the zenith, when, by Allah called, 
 He bore the Prophet to the walls of Heaven, 
 Was like to Kubleh, Sofuk's wondrous mare: 
 Not all the milk-white barbs, w^hose hoofs dashed flame, 
 In Bagdad's stables, from the marble floor, — 
 Who, swathed in purple housings, pranced in state 
 The gay bazaars, by great Al-Raschid backed: 
 Not the wild charger of Mongolian breed 
 That went o'er half the world with Tamerlane: 
 Nor yet those flying coursers, long ago 
 From Ormuz brought by swarthy Indian grooms 
 To Persia 's kings, — the foals of sacred mares, 
 Sired by the fiery stallions of the sea ! 
 
 ''Who ever told, in all the Desert Land, 
 
 The many deeds of Kubleh ? Who can tell 
 
 Whence came she ? whence her like shall come again ? 
 
 O Arabs ! sweet as tales of Scheherazade 
 
 Heard in the camp, when javelin shafts are tried 
 
 On the hot eve of battle, are the words 
 
 That tell the marvels of her history. 
 
 'Tar in the Southern sands, the hunters say. 
 Did Sofuk find her, by a lonely palm. 
 The well had dried; her fierce, impatient eye 
 Glared red and sunken, and her slight young limbs 
 
KUBLEH, IQ^ 
 
 Were lean with thirst. He checked his camel's pace, 
 
 And, while it knelt, untied the water-skin, 
 
 And when the wild mare drank, she followed him. 
 
 Thence none but Sofuk might the saddle gird 
 
 Upon her back, or clasp the brazen gear 
 
 About her shining head, that brooked no curb 
 
 From even him; for she, alike, was royal. 
 
 ''Her form was lighter, in its shifting grace, 
 Than some impassioned almeh's, when the dance 
 Unbinds her scarf, and golden anklets gleam. 
 Through floating drapery, on the buoyant air. 
 Her light, free head was ever held aloft; 
 Between her slender and transparent ears 
 The silken forelock tossed; her nostril's arch, 
 Thin-blown, in proud and pliant beauty spread 
 Snufhng the desert winds. Her glossy neck 
 Curved to the shoulder like an eagle's wing, 
 And all her matchless lines of flank and limb 
 Seemed fashioned from the flying shapes of air. 
 When sounds of warlike preparation rang 
 From tent to tent, her keen and restless eye 
 Shone blood-red as a ruby, and her neigh 
 Rang wild and sharp above the clash of spears. 
 
 "The tribes of Tigris and the Desert knew her: 
 
 Sofuk before the Shammar bands she bore 
 
 To meet the dread Jebours, who waited not 
 
 To bid her welcome; and the savage Koord, 
 
 Chased from his bold irruption on the plain, 
 
 Has seen her hoof-prints in his mountain snow. 
 
 Lithe as the dark-eyed Syrian gazelle. 
 
 O'er ledge, and chasm, and barren steep amid 
 
 The Sin jar hills, she ran the wild ass down. 
 
 Through many a battle's thickest brunt she stormed, 
 
198 ROMANCES AND LYRICS. 
 
 Reeking with sweat and dust, and fetlock deep 
 In curdling gore. When hot and lurid haze 
 Stifled the crimson sun, she swept before 
 The whirling sand-spout, till her gusty mane 
 Flared in its vortex, while the camels lay 
 Groaning and helpless on the fiery waste. 
 
 "The tribes of Taurus and the Caspian knew her: 
 The Georgian chiefs have heard her trumpet neigh 
 Before the w^alls of Tiflis; pines that grow 
 On ancient Caucasus have harbored her. 
 Sleeping by Sofuk in their spicy gloom. 
 The surf of Trebizond has bathed her flanks, 
 When from the shore she saw the white-sailed bark 
 That brought him home from Stamboul. Never yet, 
 O Arabs ! never yet was like to Kubleh ! 
 
 "And Sofuk loved her. She was more to him 
 Than all his snowy-bosomed odalisques. 
 For many years she stood beside his tent, 
 The glory of the tribe. 
 
 "At last she died, — 
 Died, while the fire was yet in all her limbs, 
 Died for the life of Sofuk, whom she loved. 
 The base Jebours, — on whom be Allah's curse ! — 
 Came on his path, when far from any camp. 
 And would have slain him, but that Kubleh sprang 
 Against the javelin points, and bore them down, 
 And gained the open Desert. Wounded sore, 
 She urged her light limbs into maddening speed, 
 And made the wind a laggard. On and on 
 The red sand slid beneath her, and behind 
 Whirled in a swift and cloudy turbulence, 
 As when some star of Eblis, downward hurled 
 
LOVE AND SOLITUDE. 199 
 
 By Allah's bolt, sweeps with its burning hair 
 The waste of darkness. On and on the bleak, 
 Bare ridges rose before her, came, and passed. 
 And every flying leap with fresher blood 
 Her nostril stained, till Sofuk's brow and breast 
 Were flecked with crimson foam. He would have 
 
 turned 
 To save his treasure, though himself were lost, 
 But Kubleh fiercely snapped the brazen rein. 
 At last, when through her spent and quivering frame 
 The sharp throes ran, our clustering tents arose. 
 And with a neigh, whose shrill excess of joy 
 O'ercame its agony, she stopped and fell. 
 The Shammar men came round her as she lay, 
 And Sofuk raised her head, and held it close 
 Against his breast. Her dull and glazing eye 
 Met his, and with a shuddering gasp she died. 
 Then like a child his bursting grief made way 
 In passionate tears, and with him all the tribe 
 Wept for the faithful mare. 
 
 "They dug her grave 
 Amid El-Hather's marbles, where she lies 
 Buried with ancient kings; and since that time 
 Was never seen, and will not be again, 
 O Arabs ! though the world be doomed to live 
 As many moons as count the desert sands. 
 The like of glorious Kubleh. God is great!" 
 
 LOVE AND SOLITUDE. 
 
 Earth knew no deeper life since Earth began, 
 And scarce the Heaven above: 
 
2CX) ROMANCES AND LYRICS. 
 
 In the profoundest measure given to Man, 
 
 We love, we love ! 
 
 O, in that sound, completion lies 
 
 For all imperfect destinies. 
 
 It is a pulse of joy, that rings 
 
 The marriage-peal of Nature, brings 
 
 The lonely heart, the humblest and the least. 
 
 To share her royal feast; 
 
 No more an outcast on her sod, 
 
 Or at her board a stinted guest, 
 
 But now in purple raiment dressed, 
 
 And heir to all delight, that she receives of God ! 
 
 n. 
 
 A balmy breath is breathed upon the land, 
 
 And through the spirit's inmost cells 
 
 It floats and swells, 
 
 Till at the touch of its persuading hand 
 
 The jealous bolts give way, and every door 
 
 Stands wide forevermore. 
 
 Not only there, dear love, not only there 
 
 Where Love's warm chambers front the morning air, 
 
 Thy soul may walk, and in the secret bower 
 
 Where burns the holiest fire that Heaven lets fall, 
 
 And with Ambition, in his blazoned hall, 
 
 Hope, in her airy tower ! 
 
 The heart has other guests than these. 
 
 More secret halls, more solemn mysteries. 
 
 Dark crypts, beheld of none. 
 
 Throne darker powers, that flee the sun. 
 
 Chained far below, and heard at intervals 
 
 When all is still, and through the trembling walls 
 
 Some guilty whisper calls; 
 
 Or, when the storms have blown, 
 
LOVE AND SOLITUDE. 2OI 
 
 And the house rocks upon its basement stone, 
 
 They wring their chains with clamor that appalls 
 
 The pale-cheeked lord. To thee 
 
 Those awful crypts and corridors are free. 
 
 Thou through the darkened hush mayst glide, 
 
 White and serene, with unaffrighted breath, 
 
 Past the blind Sins, that slumber leaden-eyed 
 
 In caves that lead to Death. 
 
 Nor I the less, where purer powers control 
 
 The perfect temple of thy soul. 
 
 And saintly harmonies to me 
 
 Breathe from its gates unceasingly, 
 
 Its bowery courts and chambers that infold 
 
 The chastened gleam of pearl and gold. 
 
 Free to the sun and blessed air: 
 
 No deeper gloom than starry twlight there ! 
 
 III. 
 
 What is the world of men to us ? We love, 
 
 And Love hath his own world. Love hath 
 
 Repose in storms and peace in wrath, 
 
 Far from the shocks of Time a quiet path. 
 
 Another Earth below, another Heaven above. 
 
 Men from their weakness and their sin create 
 
 The iron bonds of State, 
 
 Soldered with wrongs of olden date, — 
 
 The heartless frame, the chance-directed law 
 
 Which grows to them a grand, avenging Fate, 
 
 And fills their darkness with its awe. 
 
 States have no soul. The world's tired brain 
 
 O'er many riddles broods with pain, 
 
 Not hopeless all, but hoping much in vain. 
 
202 ROMANCES AND LYRICS. 
 
 Those who have never loved may stay, 
 
 And in his files fight out the day; 
 
 But aliens we, who breathe a separate air 
 
 In regions far away ! 
 
 Thou art my law, I thine: the links we wear, 
 
 If not of Freedom, dearer still. 
 
 And binding both in one harmonious will. 
 
 Why should we track the labyrinth of ill 
 
 Before us, — mingle with the fret 
 
 Of jangling natures, till our souls forget 
 
 Their crystal orbits of accordant sound ? 
 
 Why should we walk the common ground. 
 
 Where gloom is born of gloom, and pain 
 
 From pain unfoldeth ever, 
 
 When to the blue air's limitless domain, 
 
 Made ours by right of love, we rise without endeavor ? 
 
 IV. 
 
 Some voice of wind or sea 
 May reach the imbruted slave, and in his ear 
 Drop Freedom's mighty secret: so to me 
 Through blindness and through passion came the 
 
 clear 
 Calm voice of Love, thenceforth to be 
 The revelation of diviner truth 
 Than ever touched our sinless youth, — 
 A power to bid us face Eternity ! 
 But the same whisper that reveals the glory 
 Of Freedom's brow, makes also known 
 The bitterness of bondage. We 
 Will leave this splendid misery. 
 This hollow joy, whose laugh but hides a groan. 
 And teach our lives to write a perfect story. 
 
LOVE AND SOLITUDE. 203 
 
 V. 
 
 O, somewhere, in the Hving realms that he 
 
 Between the icy zones of desolation, 
 
 Covered by some remote, unconscious sky 
 
 Where God's serene creation 
 
 Yet never glassed itself in human eye, . 
 
 Must be a glorious Valley, hidden 
 
 In the safe bosom of the hills that part 
 
 The river-veins of some old Continent's heart, 
 
 To love like ours a shelter unforbidden ! 
 
 Some Valley must there be, 
 
 Whereto wide wastes of desert sand have kept 
 
 The gateway secret, mountain walls 
 
 Across the explorer's pathway stepped, 
 
 Or mighty woods surrounded like a sea. 
 
 Love's voice, unto the chosen ones he calls, 
 Alike the compass to his freedom is, 
 
 And to that Vale, the loadstar of our bliss, 
 
 Our hearts shall guide us. Even now 
 
 I see the close defiles unfold 
 
 Upon a sloping mead that lies below 
 
 A mountain black with pines, 
 
 O'er which the barren ridges leave their lines. 
 
 And high beyond, the snowy ranges old ! 
 
 Fed by the plenteous mountain rain. 
 
 Southward, a blue lake sparkles, whence outflows 
 
 A rivulet's silver vein. 
 
 Awhile meandering in fair repose. 
 
 Then caught by riven cliffs that guard our home, 
 
 And flung upon the outer world in foam ! 
 
 The sky above that still retreat. 
 
 Through all the year serene and sweet. 
 
 Drops dew that finds the daisy's heart. 
 
 And keeps the violet 's tender lids apart : 
 
204 ROMANCES AND LYRICS, 
 
 All winds that whistle drearily 
 
 Around the naked granite, die 
 
 With many a long, melodious sigh 
 
 Among the pines ; and if a tempest seek 
 
 The summits cold and bleak. 
 
 He does but shift the snow from shining peak to peak. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Or should this Valley seem 
 
 Too deeply buried from the golden sun, 
 
 Still may a home be won 
 
 Whose breast lies open to his every beam. 
 
 Some Island, on the purple plain 
 
 Of Polynesian main. 
 
 Where never yet the adventurer's prore 
 
 Lay rocking near its coral shore: 
 
 A tropic mystery, which the enamored Deep 
 
 Folds, as a beauty in a charmed sleep. 
 
 There lofty palms, of some imperial line. 
 
 That never bled their nimble wine. 
 
 Crowd all the hills, and out the headlands go 
 
 To watch on distant reefs the lazy brine 
 
 Folding its fringe of snow. 
 
 There, when the sun stands high 
 
 Upon the burning summit of the sky, 
 
 All shadows wither: Light alone 
 
 Is in the world : and, pregnant grown 
 
 With teeming life, the trembling island-earth 
 
 And panting sea forebode sweet pains of birth 
 
 Which never come, — their love brings never forth 
 
 The Human Soul they lack alone ! 
 
 VII. 
 
 We to that Island soul and voice will be, 
 
 When (rapturous hour !) the baffling quest is over, 
 
LOVE AMD SOLITUDE. 205 
 
 The boat is wrecked, the ship is blown to sea, 
 
 And underneath the palm-tree's cover 
 
 We bless our God that He hath left us free. 
 
 Then, wandering through the inland dells 
 
 Where sun and dew have built their gorgeous bowers. 
 
 The golden, blue, and crimson flowers 
 
 Will drain in joy their spicy wells, 
 
 The lily toll her alabaster bells. 
 
 And some fine influence, unknown and sweet, 
 
 Precede our happy feet 
 
 Around the Isle, till all the life that dwells 
 
 In leaf and stem shall feel it, and awake. 
 
 And even the pearly-bosomed shells, 
 
 Wet with the foamy kiss of lingering swells 
 
 Shall rosier beauty at our coming take, 
 
 For Love 's dear sake ! 
 
 There when, like Aphrodite, Morn 
 
 From the ecstatic waves is born, 
 
 The chieftain Palm, that tops each mountain-crest. 
 
 Shall feel her glory gild his scaly greaves. 
 
 And lift his glittering leaves 
 
 Like arms outspread, to take her to his breast. 
 
 Then shall we watch her slowly bend, and fold 
 
 The Island in her arms of gold. 
 
 Breathing away the heavy balms which crept 
 
 All night around the bowers, and lifting up 
 
 Each flower's enamelled cup. 
 
 To drink the sweetness gathered while it slept. 
 
 Yet on our souls a joy more tender 
 
 Shall gently sink, when sunset makes the sky 
 
 One burning sheet of opalescent splendor, 
 
 And on the deep dissolving rainbows lie. 
 
 No whisper shall disturb 
 
 That alchemy superb. 
 
206 ROMANCES AND LYRICS. 
 
 Whereto our beings every sense surrender. 
 
 O, long and sweet, while sitting side by side, 
 
 Looking across the w^estern sea, 
 
 That dream of Death, that morn of Heaven, shall 
 
 be; 
 And when the shadows hide 
 Each dying flush, upon the quiet tide, — 
 Quiet as is our love, — 
 We first shall see the stars come out above, 
 And after them, the slanting beams that run. 
 Based on the sea, far up the shining track 
 Of the emblazoned Zodiac, 
 A pyramid of light, above the buried sun ! 
 
 VIII. 
 
 There shall our lives to such accordance grow 
 
 As love alone can know; 
 
 Can never know but there: 
 
 Each within each involved, like Light and Air, 
 
 In endless marriage. Earth will fill 
 
 Her bounteous lap with all we ask of Earth, 
 
 Nor ever drought or dearth 
 
 Shrink the rich pulps of vale and hill. 
 
 Content at last the missing tone to hear 
 
 Through all her summer-chords. 
 
 Which makes their full-strung harmony complete 
 
 In her delighted ear. 
 
 She to our hearts that concord shall repeat. 
 
 Led by the strain, it may be ours to enter 
 
 The secret chamber where she works alone 
 
 With Color, Form, and Tone, 
 
 In human mood, or, sterner grown. 
 
 Takes hold on powers that shake her fiery centre. 
 
 Year after vear the Island shall become 
 
MON-DA-MIN. 207 
 
 A fairer and serener home, 
 
 And happy children fill our place, 
 
 The future parents of a nobler race, 
 
 To whom the banished Love shall come, 
 
 And fold his weary wings, and find his earthly home ! 
 
 MON-DA-MIN; 
 
 OR, THE ROMANCE OF MAIZE. 
 
 Long ere the shores of green America 
 
 Were touched by men of Norse and Saxon blood, 
 
 What time the Continent in silence lay, 
 
 A solemn realm of forest and of flood. 
 
 Where Nature wantoned wild in zones immense, 
 
 Unconscious of her own magnificence; 
 
 II. 
 
 Then to the savage race, who knew no world 
 Beyond the hunter's lodge, the council-fire. 
 The clouds of grosser sense were sometimes furled. 
 And spirits came to answer their desire, — 
 The spirits of the race, grotesque and shy; 
 Exaggerated powers of earth and sky. 
 
 III. 
 
 For Gods resemble whom they govern : they 
 The fathers of the soil, may not outgrow 
 The children's vision. In that earlier day. 
 They stooped the race familiarly to know; 
 From Heaven's blue prairies they descended then. 
 And took the shapes and shared the lives of men. 
 
208 ROMANCES AND LYRICS, 
 
 IV. 
 
 A chief there was, who in the frequent stress 
 Of want, yet in contentment, Hved his days; 
 His lodge was built within the wilderness 
 Of Huron, clasping those transparent bays. 
 Those deeps of unimagined crystal, where 
 The bark canoe seems hung in middle air. 
 
 There, from the lake and from the uncertain chase 
 With patient heart his sustenance he drew; 
 And he was glad to see, in that wild place, 
 The sons and daughters that around him grew, 
 Although more scant they made his scanty store, 
 And in the winter moons his need was sore. 
 
 VI. 
 
 The eldest was a boy, a silent lad, 
 Who wore a look of wisdom from his birth; 
 Such beauty, both of form and face, he had, 
 As until then was never known on earth : 
 And so he was (his soul so bright and far !) 
 Osseo named, — Son of the Evening Star. 
 
 vn. 
 
 This boy by nature w^as companionless : 
 His soul drew nurture only when it sucked 
 The savage dugs of Fable; he could guess 
 The knowledge other minds but slowly plucked 
 From out the heart of things; to him, as well 
 As to his Gods, all things were possible. 
 
MON-DA-MIN. 
 
 vm. 
 
 209 
 
 The heroes of that shapeless faith of his 
 Took hfe from him : when gusts of powdery snow 
 Whirled round the lodge, he saw Paup-puckewiss 
 Floundering amid the drifts, and he would go 
 CHmbing the hills, while sunset faded wan. 
 To seek the feathers of the Rosy Swan. 
 
 IX. 
 
 He knew the lord of serpent and of beast, 
 
 The crafty Incarnation of the North; 
 
 He knew, when airs grew warm and buds increased. 
 
 The sky was pierced, the Summer issued forth, 
 
 And when a cloud concealed some mountain's crest. 
 
 The Bird of Thunder brooded on his nest. 
 
 X. 
 
 Through Huron's mists he saw the enchanted boat 
 
 Of old Mishosha to his island go, 
 
 And oft he watched, if on the waves might float, 
 
 As once, the Fiery Plume of Wassamo; 
 
 And when the moonrise flooded coast and bay, 
 
 He climbed the headland, stretching far away; 
 
 XI. 
 
 For there — so ran the legend — nightly came 
 The small Puck-wudjees, ignorant of harm : 
 The friends of Man, in many a sportive game 
 The nimble elves consoled them for the charm 
 Which kept them exiled from their homes afar, — 
 The silver lodges of a twilight star. 
 
210 ROMANCES AND LYRICS. 
 
 XII. 
 
 So grew Osseo, as a lonely pine, 
 
 That knows the secret of the wandering breeze, 
 
 And ever sings its canticles divine, 
 
 Uncomprehended by the other trees: 
 
 And now the time drew nigh, when he began 
 
 The solemn fast whose issue proves the man. 
 
 xrn. 
 
 His father built a lodge the wood within, 
 Where he the appointed space should duly bide, 
 Till such propitious time as he had been 
 By faith prepared, by fasting purified. 
 And in mysterious dreams allowed to see 
 What God the guardian of his life would be. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 The anxious crisis of the Spring was past, 
 And warmth was master o'er the lingering cold. 
 The alder's catkins dropped; the maple cast 
 His crimson bloom, the willow's downy gold 
 Blew wide, and softer than a squirrel's ear 
 The white-oak's foxy leaves began appear. 
 
 XV. 
 
 There was a motion in the soil. A sound 
 Lighter than falling seeds, shook out of flowers. 
 Exhaled where dead leaves, sodden on the ground, 
 Repressed the eager grass; and there for hours 
 Osseo lay, and vainly strove to bring 
 Into his mind the miracle of Spring. 
 
MON-DA-MIN, 211 
 
 XVI. 
 
 The wood-birds knew it, and their voices rang 
 Around his lodge; with many a dart and whir 
 Of saucy joy, the shrewish catbird sang 
 Full-throated, and he heard the kingfisher, 
 Who from his God escaped with rumpled crest, 
 And the white medal hanging on his breast. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 The aquilegia sprinkled on the rocks 
 
 A scarlet rain; the yellow violet 
 
 Sat in the chariot of its leaves; the phlox 
 
 Held spikes of purple flame in meadows wet, 
 
 And all the streams with vernal-scented reed 
 
 Were fringed, and streaky bells of miskodeed. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 The boy went musing : What are these, that burst 
 The sod and grow, without the aid of man ? 
 What father brought them food ? what mother 
 
 nursed 
 Them in her earthly lodge, till Spring began ? 
 They cannot speak; they move but with the air; 
 Yet souls of evil or of good they bear. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 How are they made, that some with wholesome juice 
 Delight the tongue, and some are charged with 
 
 death ? 
 If spirits them inhabit, they can loose 
 Their shape sometimes, and talk with human breath : 
 Would that in dreams one such would come to me, 
 And thence my teacher and my guardian be I 
 
212 ROMANCES AND LYRICS. 
 
 XX. 
 
 So, when more languid with his fast, the boy 
 Kept to his lodge, he pondered much thereon, 
 And other memories gave his mind employ; 
 Memories of winters when the moose wxre gone, - 
 When tales of Manabozo failed to melt 
 The hunger-pang his pining brothers felt. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 He thought : The Mighty Spirit knows all things, 
 Is master over all. Could He not choose 
 Design his children food to ease the stings 
 Of hunger, when the lake and wood refuse? 
 If He will bless me with the knowledge, I 
 Will for my brothers fast until I die. 
 
 xxn. 
 
 Four days were sped since he had tasted meat; 
 Too faint he was to wander any more, 
 \^^hen from the open sky, that, blue and sweet. 
 Looked in upon him through the lodge's door. 
 With quiet gladness he beheld a fair 
 Celestial Shape descending through the air. 
 
 xxni. 
 
 He fell serenely, as a winged seed 
 Detached in summer from the maple bough; 
 His glittering clothes unruffled by the speed, 
 The tufted plumes unshaken on his brow : 
 Bright, wonderful, he came without a sounl, 
 And like a burst of sunshine struck the ground. 
 
MON-DA-MIN. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 213 
 
 So light he stood, so tall and straight of limb, 
 So fair the heavenly freshness of his face, 
 With beating heart Osseo looked at him. 
 For now a God had visited the place. 
 More brave a God his dreams had never seen: 
 The stranger's garments were a shining green, 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Sheathing his limbs in many a stately fold. 
 That, parting on his breast, allowed the eye 
 To note beneath, his vest of scaly gold, 
 Whereon the drops of slaughter, scarcely dry. 
 Disclosed their blushing stain : his shoulders fair 
 Gave to the wind long tufts of silky hair. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 The plumy crest, that high and beautiful 
 Above his head its branching tassels hung, 
 Shook down a golden dust, while, fixing full 
 His eyes upon the boy, he loosed his tongue. 
 Deep in his soul Osseo did rejoice 
 To hear the reedy music of his voice: 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 "By the Great Spirit I am hither sent. 
 He knows the wishes whereupon you feed, — 
 The soul, that, on your brother's good intent. 
 Would sink ambition to relieve their need : 
 This thing is grateful to the Master's eye. 
 Nor will His wisdom what you seek deny. 
 
214 ROMANCES AND LYRICS. 
 
 xxvni. 
 
 **But blessings are not free; they do not fall 
 In listless hands; by toil the soul must prove 
 Its steadfast purpose master over all, 
 Before their wings in pomp of coming move : 
 Here, wrestling with me, must you overcome, 
 In me, the secret, — else, my lips are dumb." 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 No match for his, Osseo's limbs appeared. 
 Weak with the fast; and yet in soul he grew 
 Composed and resolute, by accents cheered. 
 That spake in light what he but darkly knew. 
 He rose, unto the issue nerved; he sent 
 Into his arms the hope of the event. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 The shining stranger wrestled long and hard, 
 When, disengaging weary limbs, he said : 
 *'It is enough; with no unkind regard 
 The Master's eye your toil hath visited. 
 He bids me cease; to-day let strife remain; 
 But on the morrow I will come again. ^' 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 And on the morrow came he as before. 
 Dropping serenely down the deep-blue air: 
 More weak and languid was the boy, yet more 
 Courageous he, that crowning test to bear. 
 His soul so wrought in every fainting limb, 
 It seemed the cruel fast had strengthened him. 
 
MON-DA-MIN. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 215 
 
 Again they grappled, and their sinews wrung 
 In desperate emulation; and again 
 Came words of comfort from the stranger's tongue 
 When they had ceased. He scaled the heavenly 
 
 plain, 
 His tall, bright stature lessening as he rose, 
 Till lost amid the infinite repose. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 On the third day descending as before. 
 
 His raiment's gleam surprised the silent sky; 
 
 And weaker still the poor boy felt, yet more 
 
 Courageous he, and resolute to die, 
 
 So he might first the promised good embrace. 
 
 And leave a blessing unto all his race. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 This time with intertwining limbs they strove; 
 The God's green mantle shook in every fold. 
 And o'er Osseo's heated forehead drove 
 His silky hair, his tassel's dusty gold, 
 Till, spent and breathless, he at last forbore, 
 And sat to rest beside the lodge's door. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 "My friend," he said, ''the issue now is plain; 
 Who wrestles in his soul must victor be; 
 Who bids his life in payment shall attain 
 The end he seeks, — and you will vanquish me. 
 Then, these commands fulfilling, you shall win 
 What the Great Spirit gives in Mon-da-Min. 
 
2l6 ROMANCES AND LYRICS. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 "When I am dead, strip off this green array, 
 And pluck the tassels from my shrivelled hair; 
 Then bury me where summer rains shall play 
 Above my breast, and sunshine linger there. 
 Remove the matted sod; for I would have 
 The earth lie lightly, softly on my grave. 
 
 xxxvn. 
 
 "And tend the place, lest any noxious weed 
 Through the sweet soil should strike its bitter root; 
 Nor let the blossoms of the forest breed. 
 Nor the wild grass in green luxuriance shoot; 
 But when the earth is dry and blistered, fold 
 Thereon the fresh and dainty-smelling mould. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 "The clamoring crow, the blackbird swarms that 
 
 make 
 The meadow trees their hive, must come not near; 
 Scare thence all hurtful things; nor quite forsake 
 Your careful watch until the woods appear 
 With crimson blotches deeply dashed and crossed, — 
 Sign of the fatal pestilence of Frost. 
 
 xxxix. 
 
 "This done, the secret, into know^ledge grown. 
 Is yours forevermore." With that, he took 
 The yielding air. Osseo, left alone. 
 Followed his flight with hope-enraptured look. 
 The pains of hunger fled; a happy flame 
 Danced in his heart until the trial came. 
 
MON-DA-MIN. 2 1 7 
 
 XL. 
 
 It happened so, as Mon-da-Min foretold: 
 Osseo's soul, at every wreathing twist 
 Of palpitating muscle, grew more bold, 
 And from the limbs of his antagonist 
 Celestial vigor to his own he drew. 
 Till with one mighty heave he overthrew. 
 
 XLI. 
 
 Then from the body, beautiful and cold, 
 
 He stripped the shining clothes; but on his breast 
 
 He left the vest, engrained with blushing gold, 
 
 And covered him in decent burial-rest. 
 
 At sunset to his father's lodge he passed, 
 
 And soothed with meat the anguish of his fast. 
 
 XLII. 
 
 Naught did he speak of all that he had done 
 But day by day in secrecy he sought 
 An opening in the forest, where the sun 
 Warmed the new grave : so tenderly he wrought. 
 So lightly heaped the mould, so carefully 
 Kept all the place from choking herbage free, 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 That in a little while a folded plume 
 
 Pushed timidly the covering soil aside, 
 
 And, fed by fattening rains, took broader room. 
 
 Until it grew^ a stalk, and rustled wide 
 
 Its leafy garments, lifting in the air 
 
 Its tasselled top, and knots of silky hair. 
 
21 8 ROMANCES AND LYRICS. 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 Osseo marvelled to behold his friend 
 
 In this fair plant; the secret of the Spring 
 
 Was his at length; and till the Summer's end 
 
 He guarded him from every harmful thing. 
 
 He scared the cloud of blackbirds, wheeling low; 
 
 His arrow pierced the reconnoitring crow. 
 
 XLV. 
 
 Now came the brilliant mornings, kindling all 
 
 The woody hills with pinnacles of fire; 
 
 The gum's ensanguined leaves began to fall, 
 
 The buckeye blazed in prodigal attire, 
 
 And frosty vapors left the lake at night 
 
 To string the prairie grass with spangles white. 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 One day, from long and unsuccessful chase 
 The chief returned. Osseo through the wood 
 In silence led him to the guarded place. 
 Where now the plant in golden ripeness stood. 
 "Behold, my father!" he exclaimed, "our friend. 
 Whom the Great Spirit unto me did send, 
 
 XLvn. 
 
 "Then, when I fasted, and my prayer He knew. 
 That He would save my brothers from their want; 
 For this, His messenger I overthrew. 
 And from his grave was born this glorious plant. 
 'Tis Mon-da-Min: his sheathing husks enclose 
 Food for my brothers in the time of snows. 
 
THE SOLDIER AND THE PARD. 219 
 
 XLVIII. 
 
 "I leave you now, my father! Here befits 
 Me longer not to dwell. My pathway lies 
 To where the West-wind on the mountain sits, 
 And the Red Swan beyond the sunset flies: 
 There may superior wisdom be in store." 
 And so he went, and he returned no more. 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 But Mon-da-Min remained, and still remains; 
 His children cover all the boundless land. 
 And the warm sun and frequent mellow rains 
 Shape the tall stalks and make the leaves expand. 
 A mighty army they have grown : he drills 
 Their green battalions on the summer hills. 
 
 And when the silky hair hangs crisp and dead. 
 Then leave their rusthng ranks the tasselled peers. 
 In broad encampment pitch their tents instead, 
 And garner up the ripe autumnal ears : 
 The annual storehouse of a nation 's need. 
 From whose abundance all the world may feed. 
 
 THE SOLDIER AND THE PARD. 
 
 A SECOND deluge ! Well, — no matter : here, 
 At least, is better shelter than the lean. 
 Sharp-elbowed oaks, — a dismal company ! 
 That stood around us in the mountain road 
 When that cursed axle broke : a roof of thatch, 
 A fire of withered boughs, and best of all, 
 
220 ROMANCES AND LYRICS. 
 
 This ruddy wine of Languedoc, that warms 
 
 One through and through, from heart to finger-ends. 
 
 No better quarters for a stormy night 
 
 A soldier, Hke myself, could ask; and since 
 
 The rough Cevennes refuse to let us forth. 
 
 Why, fellow-travellers, if so you will, 
 
 I'll tell the story cut so rudely short 
 
 When both fore-wheels broke from the diligence. 
 
 Stocked in the rut, and pitched us all together: 
 
 I said, we fought beside the Pyramids; 
 
 And somehow, from the glow of this good wine, 
 
 And from the gloomy rain, that shuts one in 
 
 With his own self, — a sorry mate sometimes ! — 
 
 The scene comes back like life. As then, I feel 
 
 The sun, and breathe the hot Egyptian air, 
 
 Hear Kleber, see the sabre of Dessaix 
 
 Flash at the column's front, and in the midst 
 
 Napoleon, upon his Barbary horse, 
 
 Calm, swarthy-browed, and wiser than the Sphinx 
 
 Whose granite lips guard Egypt's mystery. 
 
 Ha 1 what a rout ! our cannon bellowed round 
 
 The Pyramids: the Mamelukes closed in. 
 
 And hand to hand like devils did we fight, 
 
 Rolled towards Sakkara in the smoke and sand. 
 
 For days we followed up the Nile. We pitched 
 Our tents in Memphis, pitched them on the site 
 Of Antinoe, and beside the cliffs 
 Of Aboufayda. Then wt came anon 
 On Kenneh, ere the sorely-frightened Bey 
 Had time to pack his harem : nay, we took 
 His camels, not his wives: and so, from day 
 To day, past wrecks of temples half submerged 
 In sandy inundation, till we saw 
 
THE SOLDIER AND THE PARD. 221 
 
 Old noseless Memnon sitting on the plain, 
 
 Both hands upon his knees, and in the east 
 
 Karnak's propylon and its pillared court. 
 
 The sphinxes wondered — such as had a face — 
 
 To see us stumbling down their avenues; 
 
 But we kept silent. One may whistle round 
 
 Your Roman temples here at Nismes, or dance 
 
 Upon the Pont du Gard; — but, take my word, 
 
 Egyptian ruins are a serious thing: 
 
 You would not dare let fly a joke beside 
 
 The maimed colossi, though your very feet 
 
 Might catch between some mummied Pharaoh's ribs. 
 
 Dessaix was bent on chasing Mamelukes, 
 
 And so we rummaged tomb and catacomb, 
 
 Clambered the hills and watched the Desert's rim 
 
 For sight of horse. One day my company 
 
 (I was but ensign then) found far within 
 
 The sands, a two-days' journey from the Nile, 
 
 A round oasis, like a jewel set. 
 
 It was a grove of date-trees, clustering close 
 
 About a tiny spring, whose overflow 
 
 Trickled beyond their shade a little space. 
 
 And the insatiate Desert licked it up. 
 
 The fiery ride, the glare of afternoon 
 
 Had burned our faces, so we stopped to feel 
 
 The coolness and the shadow, like a bath 
 
 Of pure ambrosial lymph, receive our limbs 
 
 And sweeten every sense. Drovv^sed by the soft, 
 
 Delicious greenness and repose, I crept 
 
 Into a balmy nest of yielding shrubs, 
 
 And floated off to slumber on a cloud 
 
 Of rapturous sensation. 
 
 When I woke, 
 So deep had been the oblivion of that sleep, 
 
222 ROMANCES AND LYRICS. 
 
 That Adam, when he woke in Paradise, 
 
 Was not more blank of knowledge; he had felt 
 
 As heedlessly the silence and the shade; 
 
 As ignorantly had raised his eyes and seen — 
 
 As, for a moment, I — what then I saw 
 
 With terror, freezing limb and voice like death, 
 
 When the slow sense, supplying one lost link, 
 
 Ran with electric fieetness through the chain 
 
 And showed me what I was, — no miracle. 
 
 But lost and left alone amid the waste. 
 
 Fronting a deadly Pard, that kept great eyes 
 
 Fixed steadily on mine. I could not move: 
 
 My heart beat slow and hard : I sat and gazed, 
 
 Without a wink, upon those jasper orbs, 
 
 Noting the while, with horrible detail. 
 
 Whereto my fascinated sight was bound. 
 
 Their tawny brilliance, and the spotted fell 
 
 That wrinkled round them, smoothly sloping back 
 
 And curving to the short and tufted ears. 
 
 I felt — and with a sort of fearful joy — 
 
 The beauty of the creature : 'twas a pard, 
 
 Not such as one of those they show you caged 
 
 In Paris, — lean and scurvy beasts enough ! 
 
 No: but a desert pard, superb and proud. 
 
 That would have died behind the cruel bars. 
 
 I think the creature had not looked on man. 
 For, as my brain grew cooler, I could see 
 Small sign of fierceness in her eyes, but chief, 
 Surprise and wonder. More and more entranced, 
 Her savage beauty warmed away the chill 
 Of deathlike terror at my heart : I stared 
 With kindling admiration, and there came 
 A gradual softness o'er the flinty light 
 
THE SOLDIER AND THE PARD, 
 
 Within her eyes ; a shadow crept around 
 
 Their yellow disks, and something like a dawn 
 
 Of recognition of superior will, 
 
 Of brute affection, sympathy enslaved 
 
 By higher nature, then informed her face. 
 
 Thrilling in every nerve, I stretched my hand, — 
 
 She silent, moveless, — touched her velvet head. 
 
 And with a warm, sweet shiver in my blood. 
 
 Stroked down the ruffled hairs. She did not start: 
 
 But, in a moment's lapse, drew up one paw 
 
 And moved a step, — another, — till her breath 
 
 Came hot upon my face. She stopped : she rolled 
 
 A deep-voiced note of pleasure and of love. 
 
 And gathering up her spotted length, lay down, 
 
 Her head upon my lap, and forward thrust 
 
 One heavy-moulded paw across my knees. 
 
 The glittering talons sheathing tenderly. 
 
 Thus we, in that oasis all alone, 
 
 Sat when the sun went down : the Pard and I, 
 
 Caressing and caressed : and more of love 
 
 And more of confidence between us came, 
 
 I grateful for my safety, she alive 
 
 With the dumb pleasure of companionship. 
 
 Which touched with instincts of humanity 
 
 Her brutish nature. When I slept, at last. 
 
 My arm was on her neck. 
 
 The morrow brought 
 No rupture of the bond between us twain. 
 The creature loved me; she would bounding come, 
 Cat-like, to rub her great, smooth, yellow head 
 Against my knee, or with rough tongue would lick 
 The hand that stroked the velvet of her hide. 
 How beautiful she was ! how lithe and free 
 
 223 
 
224 ROMANCES AND LYRICS. 
 
 The undulating motions of her frame ! 
 
 How shone, Hke isles of tawny gold, her spots. 
 
 Mapped on the creamy white ! And when she walked, 
 
 No princess, with the crown about her brows, 
 
 Looked so superbly royal. Ah, my friends, 
 
 Smile as you may, but I would give this life 
 
 With its fantastic pleasures — ay, even that 
 
 One leads in Paris — to be back again 
 
 In the red Desert with my splendid Pard. 
 
 That grove of date-trees was our home, our world, 
 
 A star of verdure in a sky of sand. 
 
 Without the feathery fringes of its shade 
 
 The naked Desert ran, its burning round 
 
 Sharp as a sword : the naked sky above. 
 
 Awful in its immensity, not shone 
 
 There only, where the sun supremely flamed. 
 
 But all its deep-blue walls were penetrant 
 
 With dazzling light. God reigned in Heaven and Earth, 
 
 An Everlasting Presence, and his care 
 
 Fed us, alike his children. From the trees 
 
 That shook down pulpy dates, and from the spring. 
 
 The quiet author of that happy grove, 
 
 My wants were sated; and when midnight came, 
 
 Then would the Pard steal softly from my side, 
 
 Take the unmeasured sand with flying leaps 
 
 And vanish in the dusk, returning soon 
 
 With a gazelle's light carcass in her jaws. 
 
 So passed the days, and each the other taught 
 
 Our simple language. She would come at call 
 
 Of the pet name I gave her, bound and sport 
 
 When so I bade, and she could read my face 
 
 Through all its changing moods, with better skill 
 
 Than many a Christian comrade. Pard and beast. 
 
 Though you may say she was, she had a soul. 
 
THE SOLDIER AND THE PARD. 225 
 
 But Sin will find the way to Paradise. 
 
 Erelong the sense of isolation fed 
 
 My mind with restless fancies. I began 
 
 To miss the life of camp, the march, the fight, 
 
 The soldier's emulation: youthful blood 
 
 Ran in my veins: the silence lost its charm. 
 
 And when the morning runrise lighted up 
 
 The threshold of the Desert, I would gaze 
 
 With looks of bitter longing o'er the sand. 
 
 At last, I filled my soldier's sash with dates, 
 
 Drank deeply of the spring, and while the Pard 
 
 Roamed in the starlight for her forage, took 
 
 A westward course. The grove already lay 
 
 A dusky speck — no more — when through the night 
 
 Came the forsaken creature's eager cry. 
 
 Into a sandy pit I crept, and heard 
 
 Her bounding on my track until she rolled 
 
 Down from the brink upon me. Then with cries 
 
 Of joy and of distress, the touching proof 
 
 Of the poor beast's affection, did she strive 
 
 To lift me — Pardon, friends ! these foolish eyes 
 
 Must have their will: and had you seen her then, 
 
 In her mad gambols, as we homeward went. 
 
 Your hearts had softened too. 
 
 But I, possessed 
 By some vile devil of mistrust, became 
 More jealous and impatient. In my heart 
 I cursed the grove, and with suspicions wronged 
 The noble Pard. She keeps me here, I thought, 
 Deceived with false caresses, as a cat 
 Toys with the trembling mouse she straight devours. 
 Will she so gently fawn about my feet. 
 When the gazelles are gone? Will she crunch dates. 
 
226 ROMANCES AND LYRICS. 
 
 And drink the spring, whose only drink is blood? 
 
 Am I to ruin flattered, and by whom ? — 
 
 Not even a man, a wily beast of prey. 
 
 Thus did the Devil whisper in mine ear, 
 
 Till those black thoughts were rooted in my heart 
 
 And made me cruel. So it chanced one day. 
 
 That as I watched a flock of birds, that wheeled, 
 
 And dipped, and circled in the air, the Pard, 
 
 Moved by a freak of fond solicitude 
 
 To win my notice, closed her careful fangs 
 
 About my knee. Scarce knowing what I did, 
 
 In the blind impulse of suspicious fear, 
 
 I plunged, full home, my dagger in her neck. 
 
 God ! could I but recall that blow ! She loosed 
 
 Her hold, as softly as a lover quits 
 
 His mistress' lips, and with a single groan. 
 
 Full of reproach and sorrow, sank and died. 
 
 What had I done ! Sure never on this earth 
 
 Did sharper grief so base a deed requite. 
 
 Its murderous fury gone, my heart was racked 
 
 With pangs of wild contrition, spent itself 
 
 In cries and tears, the while I called on God 
 
 To curse me for my sin. There lay the Pard, 
 
 Her splendid eyes all film, her blazoned fell 
 
 Smirched with her blood; and I, her murderer. 
 
 Less than a beast, had thus repaid her love. 
 
 Ah, friends ! with all this guilty memory 
 My heart is sore: and little now remains 
 To tell you, but that afterwards — how long, 
 I could not know — our soldiers picked me up. 
 Wandering about the Desert, wild with grief 
 And sobbing like a child. My nerves have grown 
 To steel, in many battles; I can step 
 
ARIEL IN THE CLOVEN PINE. 22/ 
 
 Without a shudder through the heaps of slain ; 
 But never, never, till the day I die, 
 Prevent a woman's weakness when I think 
 Upon my desert Pard : and if a man 
 Deny this truth she taught me, to his face 
 I say he Hes: a beast may have a soul. 
 
 ARIEL IN THE CLOVEN PINE. 
 
 Now the frosty stars are gone: 
 I have watched them, one by one. 
 Fading on the shores of Dawn. 
 Round and full the glorious sun 
 Walks with level step the spray. 
 Through his vestibule of Day, 
 While the wolves that late did howl 
 Slink to dens and coverts foul, 
 Guarded by the demon owl. 
 Who, last night, with mocking croon. 
 Wheeled athwart the chilly moon. 
 And with eyes that blankly glared 
 On my direful torment stared. 
 
 The lark is flickering in the light; 
 Still the nightingale doth sing; — 
 All the isle, ahve with Spring, 
 Lies, a jewel of delight. 
 On the blue sea's heaving breast: 
 Not a breath from out the West, 
 But some balmy smell doth bring 
 From the sprouting myrtle buds. 
 Or from meadowy vales that lie 
 Like a green inverted sky, 
 
228 ROMANCES AND LYRICS. 
 
 Which the yellow cowslip stars, 
 And the bloomy almond woods, 
 Cloud-like, cross with roseate bars. 
 All is life that I can spy, 
 To the farthest sea and sky. 
 And my own the only pain 
 Within this ring of Tyrrhene main. 
 
 In the gnarled and cloven Pine 
 
 Where that hell-born hag did chain me, 
 
 All this orb of cloudless shine, 
 
 All this youth in Nature's veins 
 
 Tingling with the season's wine, 
 
 With a sharper torment pain me. 
 
 Pansies in soft April rains 
 
 Fill their stalks with honeyed sap 
 
 Drawn from Earth's prolific lap; 
 
 But the sluggish blood she brings 
 
 To the tough Pine's hundred rings, 
 
 Closer locks their cruel hold, 
 
 Closer draws the scaly bark 
 
 Round the crevice, damp and cold, 
 
 Where my useless wings I fold, — 
 
 Sealing me in iron dark. 
 
 By this coarse and alien state 
 
 Is my dainty essence wronged; 
 
 Finer senses that belonged 
 
 To my freedom, chafe at Fate, 
 
 Till the happier elves I hate. 
 
 Who in moonlight dances turn 
 
 Underneath the palmy fern. 
 
 Or in light and twinkling bands 
 
 Follow on with linked hands 
 
 To the Ocean's yellow sands. 
 
ARIEL IN THE CLOVEN PINE. 
 
 Primrose-eyes each morning ope 
 
 In their cool, deep beds of grass ; 
 
 Violets make the airs that pass 
 
 Telltales of their fragrant slope. 
 
 I can see them where they spring 
 
 Never brushed by fairy wing. 
 
 All those corners I can spy 
 
 In the island's solitude, 
 
 Where the dew is never dry. 
 
 Nor the miser bees intrude. 
 
 Cups of rarest hue are there, 
 
 Full of perfumed wine undrained, — 
 
 Mushroom banquets, ne'er profaned, 
 
 Canopied by maiden-hair. 
 
 Pearls I see upon the sands. 
 
 Never touched by other hands. 
 
 And the rainbow bubbles shine 
 
 On the ridged and frothy brine, 
 
 Tenantless of voyager 
 
 Till they burst in vacant air. 
 
 O, the songs that sung might be. 
 
 And the mazy dances woven. 
 
 Had that witch ne'er crossed the sea 
 
 And the Pine been never cloven ! 
 
 Many years my direst pain 
 Has made the wave-rocked isle complain. 
 Winds, that from the Cyclades 
 Came, to blow in wanton riot 
 Round its shore's enchanted quiet, 
 Bore my wailings on the seas; 
 Sorrowing birds in Autumn went 
 Through the world with my lament. 
 Still the bitter fate is mine, 
 
 229 
 
230 ROMANCES AND LYRICS. 
 
 All delight unshared to see, 
 Smarting in the cloven Pine, 
 While I wait the tardy axe 
 Which, perchance, shall set me free 
 From the damned Witch Sycorax. 
 
 THE SONG OF THE CAMP. 
 
 "Give us a song!" the soldiers cried, 
 The outer trenches guarding. 
 
 When the heated guns of the camps allied 
 Grew weary of bombarding. 
 
 The dark Redan, in silent scoff, 
 Lay, grim and threatening, under; 
 
 And the tawny mound of the Malakoff 
 No longer belched its thunder. 
 
 There was a pause. A guardsman said: 
 "We storm the forts to-morrow; 
 
 Sing while we may, another day 
 Will bring enough of sorrow." 
 
 They lay along the battery's side, 
 
 Below the smoking cannon: 
 Brave hearts, from Severn and from Clyde, 
 
 And from the banks of Shannon. 
 
 They sang of love, and not of fame; 
 
 Forgot was Britain's glory: 
 Each heart recalled a different name, 
 
 But all sang "Annie Lawrie." 
 
 Voice after voice caught up the song, 
 Until its tender passion 
 
ICARUS. 231 
 
 Rose like an anthem, rich and strong, — 
 Their battle-eve confession. 
 
 Dear girl, her name he dared not speak, 
 
 But, as the song grew louder. 
 Something upon the soldier's cheek 
 
 Washed off the stains of powder. 
 
 Beyond the darkening ocean burned 
 
 The bloody sunset's embers. 
 While the Crimean valleys learned 
 
 How English love remembers. 
 
 And once again a fire of hell 
 
 Rained on the Russian quarters, 
 With scream of shot, and burst of shell, 
 
 And bellowing of the mortars ! 
 
 And Irish Nora's eyes are dim 
 
 For a singer, dumb and gory; 
 And English Mary mourns for him 
 
 Who sang of "Annie Lawrie." 
 
 Sleep, soldiers ! still in honored rest 
 
 Your truth and valor wearing: 
 The bravest are the tenderest, — 
 
 The loving are the daring. 
 
 ICARUS. 
 
 I. 
 
 To Triumphe ! Lo, thy certain art. 
 My crafty sire, releases us at length ! 
 False Minos now may knit his baffled brows, 
 
232 ROMANCES AND LYRICS, 
 
 And in the labyrinth by thee devised 
 
 His brutish horns in angry search may toss 
 
 The Minotaur, — but thou and I are free ! 
 
 See where it Hes, one dark spot on the breast 
 
 Of plains far-shining in the long-lost day, 
 
 Thy glory and our prison ! Either hand 
 
 Crete, with her hoary mountains, olive-clad 
 
 In twinkling silver, 'twixt the vineyard rows, 
 
 Divides the ghmmering seas. On Ida's top 
 
 The sun, discovering first an earthly throne, 
 
 Sits down in splendor: lucent vapors rise 
 
 From folded glens among the awaking hills. 
 
 Expand their hovering films, and touch, and spread 
 
 In airy planes beneath us, hearths of air 
 
 Whereon the Morning burns her hundred fires. 
 
 n. 
 
 Take thou thy way between the cloud and wave, 
 
 Daedalus, my father, steering forth 
 To friendly Samos, or the Carian shore! 
 But me the spaces of the upper heaven 
 Attract, the height, the freedom, and the joy. 
 For now, from that dark treachery escaped. 
 And tasting power which was the lust of youth, 
 Whene'er the white blades of the sea-gull's wings 
 Flashed round the headland, or the barbed files 
 Of cranes returning clanged across the sky, 
 
 No half-way flight, no errand incomplete 
 
 1 purpose. Not, as once in dreams, with pain 
 I mount, with fear and huge exertion hold 
 Myself a moment, ere the sickening fall 
 
 Breaks in the shock of waking. Launched, at last, 
 Uplift on powerful wings, I veer and float 
 
ICARUS. 233 
 
 Past sunlit isles of cloud, that dot with light 
 
 The boundless archipelago of sky. 
 
 I fan the airy silence till it starts 
 
 In rustling whispers, swallowed up as soon; 
 
 I warm the chilly ether with my breath; 
 
 I with the beating of my heart make glad 
 
 The desert blue. Have I not raised myself 
 
 Unto this height, and shall I cease to soar? 
 
 The curious eagles wheel about my path: 
 
 With sharp and questioning eyes they stare at me. 
 
 With harsh, impatient screams they menace me, 
 
 Who, with these vans of cunning workmanship 
 
 Broad-spread, adventure on their high domain, — 
 
 Now mine, as well. Henceforth, ye clamorous birds, 
 
 I claim the azure empire of the air ! 
 
 Henceforth I breast the current of the morn, 
 
 Between her crimson shores: a star, henceforth. 
 
 Upon the crawling dwellers of the earth 
 
 My forehead shines. The steam of sacred blood. 
 
 The smoke of burning flesh on altars laid. 
 
 Fumes of the temple-\yine, and sprinkled myrrh. 
 
 Shall reach my palate ere they reach the Gods. 
 
 m. 
 
 Nay, am not I a God ? What other wing. 
 If not a God's, could in the rounded sky 
 Hang thus in soHtary poise? What need, 
 Ye proud Immortals, that my balanced plumes 
 Should grow, Hke yonder eagle's, from the nest ? 
 It may be, ere my crafty father's Hne 
 Sprang from Erectheus, some artificer, 
 Who found you roaming wingless on the hills, 
 Naked, asserting godship in the dearth 
 
234 ROMANCES AND BALLADS. 
 
 Of loftier claimants, fashioned you the same. 
 Thence did you seize Olympus; thence your pride 
 Compelled the race of men, your slaves, to tear 
 The temple from the mountain's marble womb. 
 To carve you shapes more beautiful than they. 
 To sate your idle nostrils with the reek 
 Of gums and spices, heaped on jewelled gold. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Lo, where Hyperion, through the glowing air 
 
 Approaching, drives ! Fresh from his banquet-meats. 
 
 Flushed with Olympian nectar, angrily 
 
 He guides his fourfold span of furious steeds, 
 
 Convoyed by that bold Hour whose ardent torch 
 
 Burns up the dew, toward the narrow beach, 
 
 This long, projecting spit of cloudy gold 
 
 Whereon I wait to greet him when he comes. 
 
 Think not I fear thine anger: this day, thou. 
 
 Lord of the silver bow, shalt bring a guest 
 
 To sit in presence of the equal Gods 
 
 In your high hall: wheel but thy chariot near, 
 
 That I may mount beside thee ! 
 
 What is this? 
 
 I hear the crackHng hiss of singed plumes ! 
 The stench of burning feathers stifles me ! 
 My loins are stung with drops of molten wax ! — 
 Ai ! ai ! my ruined vans ! — I fall ! I die ! 
 
 Ere the blue noon o'erspanned the bluer strait 
 
 Which parts Icaria from Samos, fell, 
 
 Amid the silent wonder of the air. 
 
 Fell with a shock that startled the still wave, 
 
 A shrivelled wreck of crisp, entangled plumes, 
 
 A head whence eagles' beaks had plucked the eyes, 
 
THE BATH. 235 
 
 And clots of wax, black limbs by eagles torn 
 In falling : and a circling eagle screamed 
 Around that floating horror of the sea 
 Derision, and above Hyperion shone. 
 
 THE BATH. 
 
 Off, fetters of the falser life, — 
 
 Weeds, that conceal the statue's form ! 
 This silent world with truth is rife, 
 This wooing air is warm. 
 
 Now fall the thin disguises, planned 
 
 For men too weak to walk unblamed: 
 Naked beside the sea I stand, — 
 Naked, and not ashamed. 
 
 Where yonder dancing billows dip, 
 
 Far-off, to ocean's misty verge, 
 Ploughs Morning, like a full-sailed ship 
 The Orient's cloudy surge. 
 
 With spray of scarlet fire before 
 
 The ruffled gold that round her dies, 
 She sails above the sleeping shore, 
 Across the waking skies. 
 
 The dewy beach beneath her glows; 
 
 A pencilled beam, the lighthouse burns: 
 Full-breathed, the fragrant sea-wind blows, — 
 Life to the world returns ! 
 
 I stand, a spirit newly-born. 
 
 White-limbed and pure, and strong, and fair: 
 The first-begotten son of Morn, 
 The nursling of the air ! 
 
236 ROMANCES AND LYRICS. 
 
 There, in a heap, the masks of Earth, 
 
 The cares, the sins, the griefs, are thrown 
 Complete, as through diviner birth, 
 I walk the sands alone. 
 
 With downy hands the winds caress, 
 With frothy lips the amorous sea. 
 As welcoming the nakedness 
 
 Of vanished gods, in me. 
 
 Along the ridged and sloping sand. 
 
 Where headlands clasp the crescent cove, 
 A shining spirit of the land, 
 
 A snowy shape, I move: 
 
 Or, plunged in hollow-rolling brine, 
 
 In emerald cradles rocked and swung, 
 The sceptre of the sea is mine, 
 
 And mine his endless song. 
 
 For Earth with primal dew is wet, 
 Her long-lost child to rebaptize; 
 Her fresh, immortal Edens yet 
 Their Adam recognize. 
 
 Her ancient freedom is his fee; 
 
 Her ancient beauty is his dower: 
 She bares her ample breasts, that he 
 May suck the milk of power. 
 
 Press on, ye hounds of life, that lurk 
 
 So close, to seize your harried prey; 
 Ye fiends of Custom, Gold, and Work, — 
 I hear your distant bay ! 
 
THE FOUNTAIN OF TREVL 
 
 And, like the Arab, when he bears 
 
 To the insulted camel's path 
 His garment, which the camel tears, 
 And straight forgets his wrath; 
 
 So, yonder badges of your sway. 
 
 Life's paltry husks, to you I give: 
 Fall on, and in your blindness say: 
 We hold the fugitive ! 
 
 But leave to me this brief escape 
 
 To simple manhood, pure and free, - 
 A child of God, in God's own shape. 
 Between the land and sea ! 
 
 THE FOUNTAIN OF TREVL 
 
 The Coliseum lifts at night 
 
 Its broken cells more proudly far 
 
 Than in the noonday's naked light, 
 For every rent enshrines a star: 
 On Caesar's hill the royal Lar 
 
 Presides within his mansion old: 
 Decay and Death no longer mar 
 
 The moon's atoning mist of gold. 
 
 Still lingering near the shrines renewed, 
 
 We sadly, fondly, look our last; 
 Each trace concealed of spoilage rude 
 
 From old or late iconoclast, 
 
 Till, Trajan's whispering forum passed, 
 We hear the waters, showering bright, 
 
 Of Trevi's ancient fountain, cast 
 Their woven music on the night. 
 
 237 
 
238 ROMANCES AND LYRICS. 
 
 The Genius of the Tiber nods 
 
 Benign, above his tilted urn: 
 Kneel down and drink ! the beckoning gods 
 
 This last libation will not spurn. 
 
 Drink, and the old enchantment learn 
 That hovers yet o'er Trevi's foam, — 
 
 The promise of a sure return, 
 Fresh footsteps in the dust of Rome ! 
 
 Kneel down and drink ! the golden days 
 
 Here lived and dreamed, shall dawn again; 
 Albano's hill, through purple haze, 
 
 Again shall crown the Latin plain. 
 
 Whatever stains of Time remain, 
 Left by the years that intervene, 
 
 Lo ! Trevi's fount shall toss its rain 
 To wash the pilgrim's forehead clean. 
 
 Drink, and depart ! for Life is just : 
 
 She gives to Faith a master-key 
 To ope the gate of dreams august, 
 
 And take from joys in memory 
 
 The certainty of joys to be : 
 And Trevi's basins shall be bare 
 
 Ere we again shall fail to see 
 Their silver in the Roman air. 
 
 MY MISSION. 
 
 Every spirit has its mission, say the transcendental crew: 
 ''This is mine," they cry; ''Eureka! this the purpose I 
 
 pursue ; 
 For, behold, a god hath called me, and his service I shall do ! 
 
MY MISSIOJV. 
 
 239 
 
 ''Brother, seek thy calling likewise, thou wert destined for 
 
 the same; 
 Sloth is sin, and toil is worship, and the soul demands an 
 
 aim: 
 Who neglects the ordination, he shall not escape the blame." 
 
 my ears are dinned and wearied with the clatter of the 
 
 school : 
 Life to them is geometric, and they act by line and rule — 
 If there be no other wisdom, better far to be a fool ! 
 
 Better far the honest nature, in its narrow path content, 
 Taking, with a child's acceptance, whatsoever may be sent. 
 Than the introverted vision, seeing Self pre-eminent. 
 
 For the spirit's proper freedom by itself may be destroyed. 
 Wasting, like the young Narcissus, o'er its image in the void : 
 Even virtue is not virtue, when too consciously enjoyed. 
 
 1 am sick of canting prophets, self-elected kings that reign 
 Over herds of silly subjects, of their new allegiance vain : 
 Preaching labor, preaching duty, preaching love with lips 
 
 profane. 
 
 With the holiest things they tamper, and the noblest they 
 
 degrade, — 
 Making Life an institution, making Destiny a trade; 
 But the honest vice is better than the saintship they parade. 
 
 Native goodness is unconscious, asks not to be recognized; 
 
 But its baser affectation is a thing to be despised. 
 
 Only when the man is loyal to himself shall he be prized. 
 
 Take the current of your nature, make it stagnant if you will : 
 Dam it up to drudge forever, at the service of your mill : 
 Mine the rapture and the freedom of the torrent on the hill ! 
 
240 ROMANCES AND LYRICS. 
 
 Straighten out your wavy borders: make a tow-path at the 
 
 side: 
 Be the dull canal your channel, where the heavy barges 
 
 glide, — 
 Lo, the muddy bed is tranquil, not a rapid breaks the tide 1 
 
 I shall wander o'er the meadows where the fairest blossoms 
 
 call: 
 Though the ledges seize and fling me headlong from the 
 
 rocky wall, 
 I shall leave a rainbow hanging o'er the ruins of my fall ! 
 
 I shall lead a glad existence, as I broaden down the vales, 
 Brimming past the regal cities, whitened with the seaward 
 
 sails, — 
 Feel the mighty pulse of ocean ere I mingle with its gales ! 
 
 Vex me not with weary questions : seek no moral to deduce : 
 With the Present I am busy, with the Future hold a truce: 
 If I live the life He gave me, God will turn it to His use. 
 
 PROPOSAL. 
 
 The violet loves a sunny bank, 
 
 The cowslip loves the lea; 
 The scarlet creeper loves the elm, 
 But I love — thee. 
 
 The sunshine kisses mount and vale, 
 
 The stars, they kiss the sea; 
 The west winds kiss the clover bloom, 
 But I kiss — thee ! 
 
 The oriole weds his mottled mate; 
 
 The lily's bride o' the bee; 
 Heaven's marriage-ring is round the earth — 
 Shall I wed thee? 
 
RENUNCIATION. 24 1 
 
 RENUNCIATION. 
 
 I. 
 
 Words are but headstones o'er the grave of thought. 
 
 When some gigantic passion grasps the heart 
 Until its powers, to utmost tension brought, 
 
 Tug at the roots of hfe, no speech may start 
 The spell of silence. Deepest moods are dumb, 
 
 Nor song, nor picture, nor the spells of sound 
 
 Fathom their dark profound. 
 The secret of their language overcome. 
 But farthest, subtlest, most elusive still 
 
 Are those dim shapes that haunt the Poet's brain. 
 Beyond all wish, or any grasp of will. 
 
 That come unsought, — and, sought, retreat again' 
 The independent fantasies that fall 
 
 As meteors fall in clear November nights, 
 
 Sometimes a showery burst of wayward lights. 
 Or singly trailing gold celestial. 
 Or in auroral blushes fused afar, 
 Drowning the steady torch of every star ! 
 
 II. 
 
 There was a time when, like a child, I dreamed 
 
 The gold lay hidden where the meteor fell : 
 When some divine interpretation seemed 
 
 Unto the speech of Poets possible: 
 When Nature's face a mask of brightness wore, 
 
 Beyond the brightness of the moon or sun : 
 The hills I knew, their skyey temples bore; 
 
 I heard the streams to other music run. 
 I saw a fairer morn within the morn. 
 
 And would have painted it for duller eyes; 
 
 I heard the harmonies of twilight skies, 
 
242 ROMANCES AND LYRICS. 
 
 The rippling idyls of the harvest corn. 
 The gray old mountains many a rainbow spanned, 
 And trumpets clamored on the ocean-sand: 
 The summer valleys sang a minor strain, 
 
 Dying away in far, aerial blue, 
 
 Until, divinely saddened through and through, 
 I tried their song to echo, but in vain ! 
 Why speak of that for which there is no speech? 
 
 Why sing of light to those who cannot see? 
 All that the Poet's noblest song may reach 
 
 Is the regret for what unsung must be. 
 
 m. 
 
 I gave to Nature more than she gave back: 
 
 The dreams that, vanished once, return no more; 
 
 Passion that left her colder than before, 
 And the warm soul her stubborn features lack. 
 It was an echo of my heart I heard 
 
 Sing in the sky, and chant along the sea: 
 My life the afHuence of her own conferred. 
 
 And gave her seeming sympathy with me. 
 
 stars ! whose light was dimmed with tears of mine ! 
 
 sun, that smiled with more than May-day joy ! 
 Ye do not sit upon your thrones divine 
 
 To feed the tender fancies of a boy. 
 Ye see the stern eyes weep, the strong heart break, 
 
 The courage conquered by a fate unkind, 
 
 In your own brightness blind. 
 Unmoved, unchanged for any creature's sake. 
 The voices which encouraged me are dumb; 
 
 The Soul I recognized in Earth is fled; 
 
 1 wait for answers which have ceased to come: 
 
 1 press the pulse of Nature: she is dead. 
 
RENUNCIATION, 243 
 
 The early reverence I gave her fails, 
 
 To know her apathy for human ills; 
 
 I only see the bleak, unpitying hills, 
 The drear, indifferent vales, 
 The dark, dumb woods, the harsh, insulting sea, 
 The stolid sky in cold serenity, — 
 Cold as the ceilings are of palace-halls, 
 
 Above their painted walls. 
 To some hot life, that beats in passion there. 
 
 Barred in alone, with eyes all wet and bHnd, 
 
 Which in the splendid frescoes only find 
 The staring mockery of their own despair ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 Earth is our palace, and her zoned array 
 
 Of forms and colors its adornments are: 
 She gives the soul its garments of display; 
 
 She draws the wheels of its triumphal car. 
 But does the victor kiss the threshold-stone, 
 
 Or clasp the heartless pillar at his door ? 
 And does the bush whereon his bays have grown, 
 
 Shine with a glossier emerald than before? 
 No — no ! His sun is risen in kindred eyes ; 
 
 His morn, the brighter flush of friendly cheeks: 
 
 The music of his day of triumph speaks 
 In human voices, and the sullen skies. 
 
 When, palm to palm, beloved pulses kiss. 
 Beam with the splendid sunshine of his bliss ! 
 He gives to Earth the joy that flows from him: 
 
 The vanquished gives her his defeat and shame; 
 
 Her chimes, to different fates, at once proclaim 
 The bridal paean and the burial hymn ! 
 
244 ROMANCES AND LYRICS. 
 
 V. 
 
 O, not to know, the sunny mist that gilds 
 
 The mountain tops, my breath had thither blown ! 
 O, not to feel that loftiest Beauty builds 
 
 In Man her temple, and in Man alone ! 
 Henceforward I renounce the vain pursuit 
 
 To find without the secret hid within, — 
 
 To chase a phantom thin. 
 Masked in our own divinest attribute, 
 While rosy life, the beating Heart of God, 
 
 The dayspring of the glory of the earth. 
 
 Supplies the Poet's dearth. 
 If o'er its fountains move his wizard rod. 
 The spirit of the mountains, sought in vain, 
 
 Sits on the forehead of the mountaineer; 
 The forest's voice is heard in every strain 
 Of hunters' bugles, and the restless main 
 
 Sings in the sailor-songs it loves to hear. 
 The slender girl, beside the tropic palm, 
 
 Stands, the completed beauty of the wild; 
 The sweet-brier blooms not with so sweet a balm 
 
 Beside the cottage, as the cotter's child. 
 The whirls of windy fire, on desert sands, 
 
 But faintly Man's infuriate wrath express; 
 The desolation of the Arctic lands 
 
 Is warm beside his icy selfishness. 
 Love, passion, rapture, terror, grief, repose. 
 Through him alone the face of Nature knows: 
 There is no aspect of the changing zones 
 
 But springs from something deeper in the heart: 
 
 Then, let me touch its chords with tender art, 
 And cease to chant in wind-harp monotones ! 
 
THE QUAKER WIDOW. 245 
 
 THE QUAKER WIDOW. 
 
 I. 
 
 Thee finds me in the garden, Hannah, — come in ! 'Tis 
 
 kind of thee 
 To wait until the Friends were gone, who came to comfort 
 
 me. 
 The still and quiet company a peace may give, indeed, 
 But blessed is the single heart that comes to us at need. 
 
 II. 
 
 Come, sit thee down ! Here is the bench where Benjamin 
 
 would sit 
 On First-day afternoons in spring, and watch the swallows 
 
 flit: 
 He loved to smell the sprouting box, and hear the pleasant 
 
 bees 
 Go humming round the lilacs and through the apple-trees. 
 
 in. 
 
 I think he loved the spring: not that he cared for flowers: 
 
 most men 
 Think such things foolishness, — but we were first acquainted 
 
 then, 
 One spring: the next he spoke his mind; the third I was 
 
 his wife. 
 And in the spring (it happened so) our children entered life. 
 
 IV. 
 
 He was but seventy-five : I did not think to lay him yet 
 In Kennett graveyard, where at Monthly Meeting first we 
 
 met. 
 The Father's mercy shows in this : 'tis better I should be 
 Picked out to bear the heavy cross — alone in age — than he. 
 
246 ROMANCES AND LYRICS, 
 
 We've lived together fifty years : it seems but one long day, 
 One quiet Sabbath of the heart, till he was called away; 
 And as we bring from Meeting-time a sweet contentment 
 
 home. 
 So, Hannah, I have store of peace for all the days to come. 
 
 VI. 
 
 I mind (for I can tell thee now) how hard it was to know, 
 If I had heard the spirit right, that told me I should go; 
 For father had a deep concern upon his mind that day. 
 But mother spoke for Benjamin, — she knew what best to 
 say. 
 
 vn. 
 
 Then she was still: they sat awhile: at last she spoke again, 
 ''The Lord incline thee to the right!" and ''Thou shalt 
 
 have him, Jane!" 
 My father said. I cried. Indeed, 'twas not the least of 
 
 shocks. 
 For Benjamin was Hicksite, and father Orthodox. 
 
 vm. 
 
 I thought of this ten years ago, when daughter Ruth we lost : 
 
 Her husband's of the world, and yet I could not see her 
 crossed. 
 
 She wears, thee knows, the gayest gowns, she hears a hire- 
 ling priest — 
 
 Ah, dear! the cross was ours: her life's a happy one, at 
 least. 
 
 DC. 
 
 Perhaps she'll wear a plainer dress when she's as old as I, — 
 Would thee believe it, Hannah ? once / felt temptation nigh ! 
 
THE QUAKER WIDOW. 247 
 
 My wedding-gown was ashen silk, too simple for my taste : 
 I wanted lace around the neck, and a ribbon at the waist. 
 
 How strange it seemed to sit with him upon the women's 
 
 side ! 
 I did not dare to lift my eyes : I felt more fear than pride, 
 Till, "in the presence of the Lord," he said, and then there 
 
 came 
 A holy strength upon my heart, and I could say the same. 
 
 XI. 
 
 I used to blush when he came near, but then I showed no 
 
 sign; 
 With all the meeting looking on, I held his hand in mine. 
 It seemed my bashfulness was gone, now I was his for life : 
 Thee knows the feeling, Hannah, — thee, too, hast been a 
 
 wife. 
 
 xn. 
 
 As home we rode, I saw no fields look half so green as ours ; 
 The woods were coming into leaf, the meadows full of 
 
 flowers ; 
 The neighbors met us in the lane, and every face was kind, — 
 'Tis strange how Hvely everything comes back upon my 
 
 mind. 
 
 xm. 
 
 I see, as plain as thee sits there, the wedding-dinner spread : 
 At our own table we were guests, with father at the head. 
 And Dinah Passmore helped us both, — 'twas she stood up 
 
 with me, 
 And Abner Jones with Benjamin, — and now they're gone, 
 
 all three ! 
 
248 ROMANCES AND LYRICS. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 It is not right to wish for death; the Lord disposes best. 
 His Spirit comes to quiet hearts, and fits them for His rest; 
 And that He halved our Httle flock was merciful, I see : 
 For Benjamin has two in heaven, and two are left with me. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Eusebius never cared to farm, — 'twas not his call, in truth, 
 And I must rent the dear old place, and go to daughter Ruth. 
 Thee'll say her ways are not like mine, — young people 
 
 now-a-days 
 Have fallen sadly off, I think, from all the good old ways. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 But Ruth is still a Friend at heart; she keeps the simple 
 
 tongue, 
 The cheerful, kindly nature we loved when she was young; 
 And it was brought upon my mind, remembering her, of late. 
 That we on dress and outward things perhaps lay too much 
 
 weight. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 I once heard Jesse Kersey say, a spirit clothed with grace, 
 And pure, almost, as angels are, may have a homely face. 
 And dress may be of less account : the Lord will look within : 
 The soul it is that testifies of righteousness or sin. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Thee mustn't be too hard on Ruth: she's anxious I should 
 
 go, 
 And she will do her duty as a daughter should, I know. 
 'Tis hard to change so late in life, but we must be resigned : 
 The Lord looks down contentedly upon a willing mind. 
 
THE PALM AND THE PINE. 249 
 
 ANASTASIA. 
 
 Too pure thy lips for passion's kiss; 
 
 Too fair thy cheek love's rose to be : 
 The brightest dream of Beauty's bliss 
 
 Is dark beside the dream of thee. 
 Thine eyes were lit from other skies; 
 
 Thy limbs are made of purer clay; 
 And wandering airs of Paradise 
 
 Before thee breathe the mists away. 
 
 Go, Angel ! on thy path serene, 
 
 The lily-garland in thy hair: 
 I shall not crown thee as my queen, 
 
 Or vex thee with my hopeless prayer. 
 Love follows those whose dancing feet 
 
 Like rose-leaves warm the summer sod : 
 Thy brow foretells the winding sheet; 
 
 The coffin waits thee, and the clod. 
 
 THE PALM AND THE PINE. 
 
 When Peter led the First Crusade, 
 A Norseman wooed an Arab maid. 
 
 He loved her lithe and palmy grace, 
 And the dark beauty of her face: 
 
 She loved his cheeks, so ruddy fair, 
 His sunny eyes and yellow hair. 
 
 He called: she left her father's tent; 
 She followed wheresoe'er he went. 
 
 She left the palms of Palestine 
 To sit beneath the Norland pine. 
 
250 ROMANCES AND LYRICS. 
 
 She sang the musky Orient strains 
 Where Winter swept the snowy plains. 
 
 Their natures met like Night and Morn 
 What time the morning-star is born. 
 
 The child that from their meeting grew 
 Hung, Kke that star, between the two. 
 
 The glossy night his mother shed 
 From her long hair was on his head: 
 
 But in its shade they saw arise 
 The morning of his father's eyes. 
 
 Beneath the Orient's tawny stain 
 Wandered the Norseman's crimson vein: 
 
 Beneath the Northern force was seen 
 The Arab sense, alert 'and keen. 
 
 His were the Viking's sinewy hands, 
 The arching foot of Eastern lands. 
 
 And in his soul conflicting strove 
 Northern indifference. Southern love; 
 
 The chastity of temperate blood, 
 Impetuous passion's fiery flood; 
 
 The settled faith that nothing shakes, 
 The jealousy a breath awakes; 
 
 The planning Reason's sober gaze, 
 And fancy's meteoric blaze. 
 
THE PALM AND THE PINE 251 
 
 And stronger, as he grew to man, 
 The contradicting natures ran, — 
 
 As mingled streams from Etna jflow, 
 One born of fire, and one of snow. 
 
 And one impelled, and one withheld, 
 And one obeyed, and one rebelled. 
 
 One gave him force, the other fire; 
 This self-control, and that desire. 
 
 One filled his heart with fierce unrest; 
 With peace serene the other blessed. 
 
 He knew the depth and knew the height, 
 The bounds of darkness and of light; 
 
 And who these far extremes has seen 
 Must needs know all that lies between. 
 
 So, with untaught, instinctive art. 
 He read the myriad-natured heart. 
 
 He met the men of many a land; 
 They gave their souls into his hand; 
 
 And none of them was long unknown : 
 The hardest lesson was his own. 
 
 But how he lived, and where, and when, 
 It matters not to other men; 
 
 For, as a fountain disappears, 
 To gush again in later years. 
 
252 ROMANCES AND LYRICS. 
 
 So hidden blood may find the day, 
 When centuries have rolled away; 
 
 And fresher lives betray at last 
 The lineage of a far-off Past. 
 
 That nature, mixed of sun and snow, 
 Repeats its ancient ebb and flow: 
 
 The children of the Palm and Pine 
 Renew their blended lives — in mine. 
 
 OVER-POSSESSION. 
 
 With beating heart and crowded brain, 
 I wait the touch of song in vain. 
 The coy, capricious Muse retires 
 Before the flame herself inspires, 
 And for a calmer, colder hour 
 Reserves her passion and her power. 
 
 The sweetness of the autumn skies, 
 The light that on the landscape lies. 
 Where yonder sloping wood-side nods 
 The sunshine of the golden-rods, 
 The noise of children at their play. 
 
 The crickets chirping out the day, 
 The music breathing from the Past, 
 The Future's pictures, vague and vast; 
 The beauty men but rarely seek, 
 The secret truths they never speak; 
 The double life, — the outward show, — 
 The hell and heaven that hide below; 
 The hopeless whirl of woe and wrong; 
 
ON LEAVING CALIFORNIA. 253 
 
 Eternal Wisdom's under-song, — 
 All these, by turns, possess my mind, 
 Yet none of these mine art can bind : 
 For she, my goddess, will be wooed 
 Alone in calm and solitude. 
 
 So, cheerfully, the weight I bear 
 Of hot emotions which outwear 
 The crowded brain, and dim the eye 
 Of single-sighted Poesy. 
 She, when the throngs around her hum, 
 Stands in the centre, blind and dumb; 
 But to the One unveils her charms. 
 And clasps him in immortal arms. 
 
 ON LEAVING CALIFORNIA. 
 
 O FAIR young land, the youngest, fairest far 
 
 Of which our world can boast, — 
 Whose guardian planet. Evening's silver star, 
 
 Illumes thy golden coast, — 
 
 How art thou conquered, tamed in all the pride 
 
 Of savage beauty still ! 
 How brought, O panther of the splendid hide, 
 
 To know thy master's will ! 
 
 No more thou sittest on thy tawny hills 
 
 In indolent repose; 
 Or pour'st the crystal of a thousand rills 
 
 Down from thy house of snows. 
 
 But where the wild-oats wrapped thy knees in gold, 
 The ploughman drives his share, 
 
254 ROMANCES AND LYRICS. 
 
 And where, through canons deep, thy streams are rolled, 
 The miner's arm is bare. 
 
 Yet in thy lap, thus rudely rent and torn, 
 
 A nobler seed shall be: 
 Mother of mighty men, thou shalt not mourn 
 
 Thy lost virginity ! 
 
 Thy human children shall restore the grace 
 
 Gone with thy fallen pines: 
 The wild, barbaric beauty of thy face 
 
 Shall round to classic lines. 
 
 And Order, Justice, Social Law shall ciirb 
 
 Thy untamed energies; 
 And Art, and Science, with their dreams superb, 
 
 Replace thine ancient ease. 
 
 The marble, sleeping in thy mountains now, 
 
 Shall live in sculptures rare; 
 Thy native oak shall crown the sage's brow, — 
 
 Thy bay, the poet's hair. 
 
 Thy tawny hills shall bleed their purple wine, 
 
 Thy valleys yield their oil; 
 And Music, with her eloquence divine, 
 
 Persuade thy sons to toil. 
 
 Till Hesper, as he trims his silver beam. 
 
 No happier land shall see. 
 And Earth shall find her old Arcadian dream 
 
 Restored again in thee ! 
 
EUPH ORION. 
 
 EUPHORION. 
 
 *• I will not longer 
 Earth-bound linger: 
 Loosen your hold on 
 Hand and on ringlet, 
 Girdle and garment; 
 Leave them : they're mine ! " 
 
 " Bethink thee, bethink thee 
 To whom thou belongest ! 
 Say, wouldst thou wound us, 
 Rudely destroying 
 Threefold the beauty, — 
 Mine, his, and thine ? " 
 
 ''Faust," Second Part. 
 
 Nay, fold your arms, beloved Friends, 
 Above the hearts that vainly beat ! 
 
 Or catch the rainbow where it bends, 
 And find your darling at its feet; 
 
 Or fix the fountain's varying shape. 
 The sunset-cloud's elusive dye. 
 
 The speech of winds that round the cape 
 Make music to the sea and sky: 
 
 So may you summon from the air 
 The loveHness that vanished hence, 
 
 And Twilight give his beauteous hair. 
 And Morning give his countenance, 
 
 And Life about his being clasp 
 
 Her rosy girdle once again : — 
 But no ! let go your stubborn grasp 
 
 On some wild hope, and take your pain ! 
 
 For, through the crystal of your tears, 
 His love and beauty fairer shine; 
 
 255 
 
256 ROMANCES AND LYRICS. 
 
 The shadows of advancing years 
 
 Draw back, and leave him all divine. 
 
 And Death, that took him, cannot claim 
 
 The smallest vesture of his birth, — 
 The little life, a dancing flame 
 
 That hovered o'er the hills of earth, — 
 
 The finer soul, that unto ours 
 
 A subtle perfume seemed to be, 
 Like incense blown from April flowers 
 
 Beside the scarred and stormy tree, — 
 
 The wondering eyes, that ever saw 
 
 Some fleeting mystery in the air. 
 And felt the stars of evening draw 
 
 His heart to silence, childhood's prayer ! 
 
 Our suns were all too fierce for him; 
 
 Our rude winds pierced him through and through; 
 But Heaven has valleys cool and dim. 
 
 And boscage sweet with starry dew. 
 
 There knowledge breathes in balmy air, 
 Not wrung, as here, with panting breast: 
 
 The wisdom born of toil you share; 
 But he, the wisdom born of rest. 
 
 For every picture here that slept, 
 
 A living canvas is unrolled; 
 The silent harp he might have swept 
 
 Leans to his touch its strings of gold. 
 
 Believe, dear Friends, they murmur still 
 Some sweet accord to those you play, 
 
257 
 
 WIND AND SEA. 
 
 That happier winds of Eden thrill 
 With echoes of the earthly lay; 
 
 That he, for every triumph won, 
 Whereto your poet-souls aspire, 
 
 Sees opening, in that perfect sun, 
 Another blossom's bud of fire ! 
 
 Each song, of Love and Sorrow born, 
 Another flower to crown your boy, — 
 
 Each shadow here his ray of morn. 
 Till Grief shall clasp the hand of Joy ! 
 
 WIND AND SEA. 
 
 The sea is a jovial comrade, 
 
 He laughs wherever he goes; 
 His merriment shines in the dimpling lines 
 
 That wrinkle his hale repose; 
 He lays himself down at the feet of the Sun, 
 
 And shakes all over with glee, 
 And the broad-backed billows fall faint on the shore. 
 
 In the mirth of the mighty Sea ! 
 
 But the Wind is sad and restless, 
 
 And cursed with an inward pain; 
 You may hark as you will, by valley or hill, 
 
 But you hear him still complain. 
 He wails on the barren mountains. 
 
 And shrieks on the wintry sea; 
 He sobs in the cedar, and moans in the pine, 
 
 And shudders all over the aspen tree. 
 
258 ROMANCES AND LYRICS. 
 
 m. 
 
 Welcome are both their voices, 
 
 And I know not which is best, — 
 The laughter that slips from the Ocean's lips, 
 
 Or the comfortless Wind's unrest. 
 There's a pang in all rejoicing, 
 
 A joy in the heart of pain, 
 And the Wind that saddens, the Sea that gladdens, 
 
 Are singing the selfsame strain 1 
 
 MY DEAD. 
 
 Give back the soul of Youth once more ! 
 The years are fleeting fast away, 
 And this brown hair will soon be gray. 
 
 These cheeks be pale and furrowed o'er. 
 
 Ah, no ! the child is long since dead. 
 
 Whose light feet spurred the laggard years. 
 Who breathed in future atmospheres. 
 
 Ere Youth's eternal Present fled. 
 
 Dead lies the boy, whose timid eye 
 
 Shunned every face that spake not love; 
 Whose simple vision looked above. 
 
 And saw a glory in the sky. 
 
 And now the youth has sighed his last; 
 I see him cold upon his bier, 
 But in these eyes there is no tear: 
 
 He joins his brethren of the Past. 
 
 'Twas time he died : the gates of Art 
 Had shut him from the temple's shrine, 
 
THE LOST CROWN. 
 
 And now I climb her mount divine, 
 But with the sinews, not the heart. 
 
 How many more, O Life ! shall I 
 
 In future offer up to thee? 
 
 And shall they perish utterly, 
 ITpon whose graves I clomb so high ? 
 
 Say, shall I not at last attain 
 
 Some height, from whence the Past is clear. 
 
 In whose immortal atmosphere 
 I shall behold my Dead again? 
 
 THE LOST CROWN. 
 
 You ask me why I sometimes drop 
 The threads of talk I weave with you, 
 
 And midway in expression stop 
 As if a sudden trumpet blew. 
 
 It is because a trumpet blows 
 
 From steeps your feet will never climb: 
 It calls my soul from present woes 
 
 To rule some buried realm of Time. 
 
 Wide open swing the guarded gates, 
 That shut from you the vales of dawn; 
 
 And there my car of triumph waits, 
 By white, immortal horses drawn. 
 
 A throne of gold the wheels uphold. 
 Each spoke a ray of jewelled fire : 
 
 The crimson banners float unrolled, 
 Or falter when the winds expire. 
 
 259 
 
26o ROMANCES AND LYRICS. 
 
 Lo ! where the valley's bed expands, 
 Through cloudy censer-smoke, upcurled 
 
 The avenue to distant lands — 
 The single landscape of a world ! 
 
 I mount the throne; I seize the rein; 
 
 Between the shouting throngs I go, 
 The millions crowding hill and plain, 
 
 And now a thousand trumpets blow ! 
 
 The armies of the world are there. 
 The pomp, the beauty, and the power, 
 
 Far-shining through the dazzled air. 
 To crown the triumph of the hour. 
 
 Enthroned aloft, I seem to float 
 On wide, victorious wings upborne, 
 
 Pass the rich vale's expanding throat, 
 To where the palace burns with morn 
 
 My Hmbs dilate, my breast expands, 
 
 A starry fire is in mine eye; 
 I ride above the subject lands, 
 
 A god beneath the hollow sky. 
 
 Peal out, ye clarions ! shout, ye throngs. 
 Beneath your banners' reeling folds ! 
 
 This pageantry to me belongs, — 
 My hand its proper sceptre holds. 
 
 Surge on, in still augmenting lines. 
 Till the great plain be overrun, 
 
 And my procession far outshines 
 The bended pathway of the sun ! 
 
STUDIES FOR PICTURES. 26 1 
 
 But when my triumph overtops 
 This language, which from vassals grew, 
 
 The crown from off my forehead drops, 
 And I again am serf with you. 
 
 STUDIES FOR PICTURES. 
 
 AT HOME. 
 
 The rain is sobbing on the wold; 
 The house is dark, the hearth is cold; 
 And stretching drear and ashy gray 
 Beyond the cedars, lies the bay. 
 
 The winds are moaning, as they pass 
 Through tangled knots of autumn grass, 
 A weary, dreary sound of woe. 
 As if all joy were dead below. 
 
 I sit alone, I wait in vain 
 Some voice to lull this nameless pain; 
 But from my neighbor's cottage near 
 Come sounds of happy household cheer. 
 
 My neighbor at his window stands. 
 His youngest baby in his hands ; 
 The others seek his tender kiss. 
 And one sweet woman crowns his bHss. 
 
 I look upon the rainy wild : 
 I have no wife, I have no child: 
 There is no fire upon my hearth. 
 And none to love me on the earth. 
 
262 ROMANCES AND LYRICS. 
 
 n. 
 
 THE NEIGHBOR. 
 
 How cool and wet the lowlands lie 
 Beneath the cloaked and hooded sky ! 
 How softly beats the welcome rain 
 Against the plashy window-pane ! 
 
 There is no sail upon the bay: 
 
 We cannot go abroad to-day, 
 
 But, darlings, come and take my hand, 
 
 And hear a tale of Fairy-land. 
 
 The baby's little head shall rest 
 In quiet on his father's breast. 
 And mother, if he chance to stir. 
 Shall sing him songs once sung to her. 
 
 Ah, little ones, ye do not fret. 
 Because the garden grass is wet; 
 Ye love the rains, whene'er they come. 
 That all day keep your father home. 
 
 No fish to-day the net shall yield; 
 The happy oxen graze afield; 
 The thirsty corn will drink its fill, 
 And louder sing the woodland rill. 
 
 Then, darlings, nestle round the hearth; 
 Ye are the sunshine of the earth: 
 Your tender eyes so fondly shine, 
 They bring a welcome rain to mine. 
 
STUDIES FOR PICTURES, 263 
 
 ni. 
 
 UNDER THE STARS. 
 
 How the hot revel's fever dies, 
 
 Beneath the stillness of the skies ! 
 
 How suddenly the whirl and glare 
 
 Shoot far away, and this cold air 
 
 Its icy beverage brings, to chase 
 
 The burning wine-flush from my face ! 
 
 The window's gleam still faintly falls. 
 
 And music sounds at intervals, 
 
 Jarring the pulses of the night 
 
 With whispers of profane delight; 
 
 But on the midnight's awful strand. 
 
 Like some wrecked swimmer flung to land, 
 
 I He, and hear those breakers roar: 
 
 And smile — they cannot harm me more ! 
 
 Keep, keep your lamps; they do not mar 
 
 The silver of a single star. 
 
 The painted roses you display 
 
 Drop from your cheeks, and fade away; 
 
 The snowy warmth you bid me see 
 
 Is hollo wness and mockery; 
 
 The words that make your sin so fair 
 
 Grow silent in this vestal air; 
 
 The loosened madness of your hair, 
 
 That wrapped me in its snaky coils, 
 
 No more shall mesh me in your toils; 
 
 Your very kisses on my brow 
 
 Burn like the lips of devils now. 
 
 O sacred night ! O virgin calm ! 
 
 Teach me the immemorial psalm 
 
264 ROMANCES AND LYRICS. 
 
 Of your eternal watch sublime 
 Above the grovelling lusts of Time ! 
 Within, the orgie shouts and reels; 
 Without, the planets' golden wheels 
 Spin, circling hrough the utmost space; 
 Within, each flushed and reckless face 
 Is masked to cheat a haunting care; 
 Without the silence and the prayer. 
 Within, the beast of flesh controls; 
 Without, the God that speaks in souls! 
 
 IV. 
 
 IN THE MORNING. 
 
 The lamps were thick; the air was hot; 
 
 The heavy curtains hushed the room; 
 The sultry midnight seemed to blot 
 
 All life but ours in vacant gloom. 
 
 You spoke : my blood in every vein 
 Throbbed, as by sudden fever stirred, 
 
 And some strange whirling in my brain 
 Subdued my judgment, as I heard. 
 
 Ah, yes! when men are dead asleep, 
 When all the tongues of Day are still, 
 
 The heart must sometimes fail to keep 
 Its natural poise 'twixt good and ill. 
 
 You knew too well its blind desires, 
 Its savage instincts, scarce confessed; 
 
 I could not see you touch the wires, 
 But felt your lightning in my breast. 
 
STUDIES FOR PICTURES. 265 
 
 For you, Life's web displayed its flaws, 
 
 The wrong which Time transforms to right: 
 
 The iron mesh of social laws 
 Was but a cobweb in your sight. 
 
 You showed that tempting freedom, where 
 
 The passions bear their perfect fruit, 
 The cheats of conscience cannot scare. 
 
 And Self is monarch absolute. 
 
 And something in me seemed to rise. 
 
 And trample old obedience down: 
 The serf sprang up, with furious eyes. 
 
 And clutched at the imperial crown. 
 
 That fierce rebellion overbore 
 
 The arbiter that watched within, 
 Till Sin so changed an aspect wore, 
 
 It was no longer that of Sin. 
 
 You gloried in the fevered flush 
 
 That spread, defiant, o'er my face. 
 Nor thought how soon this morning's blush 
 
 Would chronicle the night's disgrace. 
 
 I wash my eyes; I bathe my brow; 
 
 I see the sun on hill and plain : 
 The old allegiance claims me now, 
 
 The old content returns again. 
 
 Ah, seek to stop the sober glow 
 
 And healthy airs that come with day, 
 
 For when the cocks at dawning crow 
 Your evil spirits flee away. 
 
266 ROMANCES AND LYRICS. 
 
 SUNKEN TREASURES. 
 
 When the uneasy waves of life subside, 
 And the soothed ocean sleeps in glassy rest, 
 
 I see, submerged beyond or storm or tide, 
 The treasures gathered in its greedy breast. 
 
 There still they shine, through the translucent Past, 
 
 Far down on that forever quiet floor; 
 No fierce upheaval of the deep shall cast 
 
 Them back, — no wave shall wash them to the shore. 
 
 I see them gleaming, beautiful as when 
 Erewhile they floated, convoys of my fate; 
 
 The barks of lovely women, noble men, 
 
 FuH-sailed with hope, and stored with Love's own freight. 
 
 The sunken ventures of my heart as well, 
 
 Look up to me, as perfect as at dawn; 
 My golden palace heaves beneath the swell 
 
 To meet my touch, and is again withdrawn. 
 
 There sleep the early triumphs, cheaply won, 
 
 That led Ambition to his utmost verge. 
 And still his visions, like a drowning sun, 
 
 Send up receding splendors through the surge. 
 
 There wait the recognitions, the quick ties. 
 
 Whence the heart knows its kin, wherever cast; 
 
 And there the partings, when the wistful eyes 
 Caress each other as they look their last. 
 
 There lie the summer eves, delicious eves. 
 
 The soft green valleys drenched with light divine, 
 
 The lisping murmurs of the chestnut leaves. 
 
 The hand that lay, the eyes that looked in mine. 
 
A FANTASY. 
 
 There lives the hour of fear and rapture yet, 
 The perilled cHmax of the passionate year's; 
 
 There still the rains of wan December wet 
 A naked mound, — I cannot see for tears ! 
 
 There are they all: they do not fade or waste. 
 Lapped in the arms of the embalming brine'; 
 
 More fair than when their beings mine embraced, 
 Of nobler aspect, beauty more divine. 
 
 I see them all, but stretch my hands in vain; 
 
 No deep-sea plummet reaches where they rest; 
 No cunning diver shall descend the main. 
 
 And bring a single jewel from its breast. 
 
 A FANTASY. 
 
 MAIDEN of the Forest, 
 Why play so loud and long ? 
 
 Now let thy horn be silent, 
 Thy voice take up the song ! 
 
 1 cannot choose but listen, 
 
 I cannot choose but follow. 
 Where'er thy blue eyes glisten 
 Across the woodlands hollow. 
 
 My heart is filled with brightness 
 As the heavens are filled with morn, 
 
 To hear the sounds enchanted 
 Leap from thy silver horn. 
 
 Let the echoes rest a moment, 
 
 And let thy lips declare 
 If thou be of earth or ocean. 
 
 Or the flying shapes of air. 
 
 267 
 
268 ROMANCES AND LYRICS. 
 
 Let my mouth be free to kiss thee, 
 Let my hands be free to hold, 
 
 For I cannot choose but love thee, 
 And love is ever bold. 
 
 Still she played, and playing, fleeted 
 Before me as I sought her, 
 
 And the horn rang out this answer 
 Across the shaded water: 
 
 I play the strains enchanted 
 You cannot choose but hear, 
 
 For your Hfe is in the music, 
 And your heart sits at your ear. 
 
 I shall never cease my playing 
 
 For your love's impassioned prayer; 
 
 I shall never feel your kisses 
 FalHng on my golden hair. 
 
 For my touch would chill your pulses, 
 And my kiss make dim your eye, 
 
 And the horn will first be silent 
 In the hour that you shall die. 
 
 THE VOYAGERS. 
 
 No longer spread the sail! 
 
 No longer strain the oar ! 
 For never yet has blown the gale 
 
 Will bring us nearer shore. 
 
 The swaying keel slides on. 
 The helm obeys the hand; 
 
 Fast we have sailed from dawn to dawn, 
 Yet never reach the land. 
 
MEM OR Y. 
 
 Each morn we see its peaks, 
 
 Made beautiful with snow; 
 Each eve its vales and winding creeks, 
 
 That sleep in mist below. 
 
 At noon we mark the gleam 
 
 Of temples tall and fair; 
 At midnight watch its bonfires stream 
 
 In the auroral air. 
 
 And still the keel is swift. 
 
 And still the wind is free, 
 And still as far its mountains lift 
 
 Beyond the enchanted sea. 
 
 Yet vain is all return. 
 
 Though false the goal before; 
 
 The gale is ever dead astern. 
 The current sets to shore. 
 
 O shipmates, leave the ropes, — 
 And what though no one steers. 
 
 We sail no faster for our hopes. 
 No slower for our fears. 
 
 Howe'er the bark is blown. 
 Lie down and sleep awhile: . 
 
 What profits toil, when chance alone 
 Can bring us to the isle? 
 
 MEMORY. 
 
 O GIVE me the tongue of the silver sea, 
 Or the flute of the twilight wind. 
 For a tenderer music my heart would find, 
 
 To sing of the sadness and sweetness of Memory ! 
 
 269 
 
270 ROMANCES AND LYRICS. 
 
 Joy is a goblet that soon is drained; 
 
 It cracks in our heedless hands; 
 
 But the cup of Remembrance forever stands, 
 Filled with libations the wormwood of tears has stained. 
 
 We Hft it against the dying sun; 
 
 We drink till the eyes run o'er; 
 
 We drink till the heart will contain no more, 
 And surfeited turns from the Lethe it has not won. 
 
 THE MARINERS. 
 
 They were born by the shore, by the shore. 
 When the surf was loud and the seagull cried; 
 
 They were rocked to the rhythm of its roar, 
 They were cradled in the arms of the tide. 
 
 Sporting on the fenceless sand, 
 
 Looking o'er the limitless blue, 
 Half on the water and half on the land, 
 
 Ruddily and lustily to manhood they grew. 
 
 How should they follow where the plough 
 Furrows at the heels of the lazy steers? 
 
 How should they stand with a sickly brow. 
 Pent behind a counter, wasting golden years? 
 
 They turned to the Earth, but she frowns on her child 
 They turned to the Sea, and he smiled as of old; 
 
 Sweeter was the peril of the breakers white and wild, 
 Sweeter than the land with its bondage and gold I 
 
 Now they walk on the rolling deck, 
 And they hang to the rocking shrouds. 
 
THE MARINERS. 
 
 When the lee-shore looms with a vision of wreck, 
 And the scud is flung to the stooping clouds. 
 
 Shifting the changeless horizon ring, 
 
 Which the lands and islands in turn look o'er, 
 
 They traverse the zones with a veering wing. 
 From shore to sea, and from sea to shore. 
 
 They know the South and the North; 
 
 They know the East and the West; 
 Shuttles of fortune, flung back and forth 
 
 In the web of motion, the woof of rest. 
 
 They do not act with a studied grace, 
 They do not speak in delicate phrase. 
 
 But the candor of heaven is on their face. 
 And the freedom of ocean in all their ways. 
 
 They cannot fathom the subtle cheats. 
 The lying arts which the landsmen learn : 
 
 Each looks in the eyes of the man he meets. 
 And whoso trusts him, he trusts in turn. 
 
 Say that they curse, if you will, 
 
 That the tavern and harlot possess their gains : 
 On the surface floats what they do of ill, — 
 
 At the bottom the manhood remains. 
 
 When they slide from the gangway-plank below, 
 Deep as the plummeted shroud may drag. 
 
 They hold it comfort enough, to know 
 
 The corpse is wrapped in their country's flag. 
 
 But whether they die on the sea or shore. 
 And He under water, or sand, or sod, 
 
 Christ give them the rest that he keeps in store, 
 And anchor their souls in the harbors of God ! 
 
 271 
 
272 ROMANCES AND LYRICS. 
 
 HYMN TO AIR. 
 I. 
 
 The mightiest thou, among the Powers of Earth, 
 The viewless Agent of the unseen God, 
 
 What immemorial era saw thy birth ? 
 
 What pathless fields of new Creation trod 
 
 Thy noiseless feet ? Where was thy dwelling-place 
 In the blind realm of Chaos, ere the word 
 Of Sovereign Order by the stars was heard, 
 
 Or the young planet knew her Maker's face? 
 
 No wrecks are hid in thine unfathomed sea; 
 Thy crystal tablets no inscription bear; 
 
 The awful Infinite is shrined in thee. 
 Immeasurable Air ! 
 
 n. 
 
 Thou art the Soul wherein the Earth renews 
 The nobler life, that heals her primal scars; 
 
 Thine is the mantle of all-glorious hues, 
 
 Which makes her beautiful among the stars; 
 
 Thine is the essence that informs her frame 
 With manifold existence, thine the wing 
 From gulfs of outer darkness sheltering. 
 
 And from the Sun's uplifted sword of flame. ' 
 
 She sleeps in thy protection, lives in thee; 
 
 Thou mak'st the foreheads of her mountains smile; 
 
 His heart to thine, the all-surrounding Sea 
 Spreads thy blue drapery o'er his cradled isle. 
 
 Thou art the breath of Nature, and the tongue 
 Unto her dumb material being granted. 
 And by thy voice her sorrowing psalms are chanted — 
 Her hymns of triumph sung ! 
 
HYMN TO AIR, 273 
 
 in. 
 
 Thine azure fountains nourish all that Hves; 
 Forever drained, yet ever brimming o'er, ' 
 Their billows in eternal freshness pour, ' 
 And from her choicest treasury Nature gives 
 A glad repayment of the debt she owes, 
 
 Replenishing thy sources : — balmy dews, 
 
 That on thy breast their summer tears diffuse; 
 Strength from the pine, and sweetness from the rose; 
 The spice of gorgeous Ind, the scents that fill 
 
 Ambrosial forests in the isles of palm; 
 Leagues of perennial bloom on every hill; 
 
 Lily and lotus in the water's calm; 
 And where the torrent leaps to take thy wing, 
 
 But dashes out its life in diamond spray, 
 Or multitudinous waves of ocean fling 
 
 Their briny strength along thy rapid way — 
 Escapes some virtue which from thee they hold: 
 
 And even the grosser exhalations, fed 
 
 From Earth's decay. Time's crowded charnel-bed. 
 Fused in thy vast alembic, turn to gold. 
 
 IV. 
 
 What is the scenery of Earth to thine? 
 Here all is fixed in everlasting shapes, 
 
 But where the realms of gorgeous Cloudland shine. 
 There stretch afar thy sun-illumined capes, 
 
 Embaying reaches of the amber seas 
 Of sunset, on whose tranquil bosom lie 
 The happy islands of the upper sky. 
 
 The halcyon shores of thine Atlantides. 
 
 Anon the airy headlands change, and drift 
 Into sublimer forms, that slowly heave 
 Their toppling masses up the front of eve, 
 
2/4 ROMANCES AND LYRICS. 
 
 Crag heaped on crag, with many a fiery rift, 
 And hoary summits, throned beyond the reach 
 Of Alp or Caucasus: again they change, 
 And down the vast, interminable range 
 Of towers and palaces, transcending each 
 The workmanship of Fable-Land, we see 
 
 The crystal hyaline of Heaven's own floor, — 
 The radiance of the far Eternity 
 
 Reflected on thy shore ! 
 
 V. 
 
 Thine are the treasuries of Hail and Snow; 
 
 Thy hand lets fall the Thunder's bolt of fire; 
 And when from out thy seething caldrons blow 
 
 The vapors of the whirlwind, spire on spire 
 In terrible convolution wreathed and blent. 
 
 The unimagined strength that lay concealed 
 
 Within thy quiet bosom is revealed 
 To the racked Earth and trembling firmament. 
 And thou dost hold, awaiting God's decree. 
 
 The keys of all destruction : — in that hour 
 
 When the Almighty Wrath shall loose thy power, 
 Before thy breath shall disappear the sea. 
 To ashes turn the mountain's mighty frame, 
 
 And as the seven-fold fervors wider roll. 
 
 Thou, self-consuming, shrivel as a scroll. 
 And wrap the world in one wide pall of flame ! 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Now the days are brief and drear: 
 Naked lies the new-born Year 
 In his cradle of the snow, 
 
THE MYSTERY, 
 
 And the winds unbridled blow, 
 And the skies hang dark and low, — 
 For the Summers come and go. 
 
 Leave the clashing cymbals mute ! 
 Pipe no more the happy flute ! 
 Sing no more that dancing rhyme 
 Of the rose's harvest-time; — 
 Sing a requiem, sad and low : 
 For the Summers come and go. 
 
 Where is Youth ? He strayed away 
 Through the meadow-flowers of May. 
 Where is Love? The leaves that fell 
 From his trysting-bower, can tell. 
 Wisdom stays, sedate and slow, 
 And the Summers come and go. 
 
 Yet a few more years to run, 
 Wheeling round in gloom and sun; 
 Other raptures, other woes, — 
 Toil alternate with Repose: 
 Then to sleep where daisies grow. 
 While the Summers come and go. 
 
 THE MYSTERY. 
 
 Thou art not dead; thou art not gone to dust; 
 
 No line of all thy loveliness shall fall 
 To formless ruin, smote by Time, and thrust 
 
 Into the solemn gulf that covers all. 
 
 Thou canst not wholly perish, though the sod 
 Sink with its violets closer to thy breast; 
 
 Though by the feet of generations trod, 
 
 The headstone crumbles from thy place of rest. 
 
 275 
 
276 ROMANCES AND LYRICS. 
 
 The marvel of thy beauty cannot die; 
 
 The sweetness of thy presence shall not fade; 
 Earth gave not all the glory of thine eye, — 
 
 Death may not keep vi'hat Death has never made. 
 
 It was not thine, that forehead strange and cold. 
 Nor those dumb Hps, they hid beneath the snow; 
 
 Thy heart would throb beneath that passive fold, 
 Thy hands for me that stony clasp forego. 
 
 But thou hadst gone, — gone from the dreary land, 
 Gone from the storms let loose on every hill. 
 
 Lured by the sweet persuasion of a hand 
 Which leads thee somewhere in the distance still. 
 
 Where'er thou art, I know thou wearest yet 
 The same bewildering beauty, sanctified 
 
 By calmer joy, and touched with soft regret 
 For him who seeks, but cannot reach thy side., 
 
 I keep for thee the living love of old, 
 And seek thy place in Nature, as a child 
 
 Whose hand is parted from his playmate's hold, 
 Wanders and cries along a lonesome wild. 
 
 When, in the watches of my heart, I hear 
 The messages of purer life, and know 
 
 The footsteps of thy spirit lingering near, 
 
 The darkness hides the way that I should go. 
 
 Canst thou not bid the empty realms restore 
 That form, the symbol of thy heavenly part? 
 
 Or on the fields of barren silence pour 
 
 That voice, the perfect music of thy heart? 
 
A PICTURE. 
 
 2/7 
 
 O once, once bending to these widowed lips, 
 Take back the tender warmth of Hfe from me, 
 
 Or let thy kisses cloud with swift eclipse 
 The light of mine, and give me death with thee ! 
 
 A PICTURE. 
 
 Sometimes, in sleeping dreams of night, 
 
 Or waking dreams of day, 
 The selfsame picture seeks my sight 
 
 And will not fade away. 
 
 I see a valley, cold and still. 
 
 Beneath a leaden sky: 
 The woods are leafless on the hill. 
 
 The fields deserted lie. 
 
 The gray November eve benumbs 
 
 The damp and cheerless air; 
 A wailing from the forest comes, 
 
 As of the world's despair. 
 
 But on the verge of night and storm. 
 
 Far down the valley's line, 
 I see the lustre, red and warm, 
 
 Of cottage windows shine. 
 
 And men are housed, and in their place 
 
 In snug and happy rest. 
 Save one, who walks with weary pace 
 
 The highway's frozen breast. 
 
 His Hmbs, that tremble with the cold 
 
 Shrink from the coming storm; 
 But underneath his mantle's fold 
 
 His heart beats quick and warm. 
 
2/8 ROMANCES AND LYRICS. 
 
 He hears the laugh of those who sit 
 In Home's contented air; 
 
 He sees the busy shadows flit 
 Across the window's glare. 
 
 His heart is full of love unspent, 
 His eyes are wet and dim; 
 
 For in those circles of content 
 There is no room for him. 
 
 He clasps his hands and looks above; 
 
 He makes the bitter cry; 
 *'A11, all are happy in their love, — 
 
 All are beloved but I!" 
 
 Across no threshold streams the light, 
 Expectant, o'er his track; 
 
 No door is opened on the night, 
 To bid him welcome back. 
 
 There is no other man abroad 
 
 In all the wintry vale. 
 And lower upon his lonely road 
 
 The darkness and the gale. 
 
 I see him through the doleful shades 
 Press onward, sad and slow. 
 
 Till from my dream the picture fades. 
 And from my heart the woe. 
 
 IN THE MEADOWS. 
 
 I LIE in the summer meadows. 
 In the meadows all alone. 
 
 With the infinite sky above me. 
 And the sun on his midday throne. 
 
IN THE MEADOWS. 279 
 
 The smell of the flowering grasses 
 
 Is sweeter than any rose, 
 And a million happy insects 
 
 Sing in the warm repose. 
 
 The mother lark that is brooding 
 
 Feels the sun on her wings, 
 And the deeps of the noonday glitter 
 
 With swarms of fairy things. 
 
 From the billowy green beneath me 
 
 To the fathomless blue above, 
 The creatures of God are happy 
 
 In the warmth of their summer love. 
 
 The infinite bliss of Nature 
 
 I feel in every vein; 
 The light and the life of Summer 
 
 Blossom in heart and brain. 
 
 But darker than any shadow 
 
 By thunder-clouds unfurled, 
 The awful truth arises, 
 
 That Death is in the world ! 
 
 And the sky may beam as ever, 
 
 And never a cloud be curled; 
 And the airs be living odors, 
 
 But Death is in the world ! 
 
 Out of the deeps of sunshine 
 
 The invisible bolt is hurled : 
 There's life in the summer meadows. 
 
 But Death is in the world ! 
 
280 ROMANCES AND LYRICS. 
 
 THE WINTER SOLSTICE. 
 
 O DARKEST day of all the year ! 
 
 O day of Winter and of Death ! 
 Thy reign is in the North, yet here 
 
 The Southern Ocean feels thy breath. 
 Yon ruddy sun, that from the wave 
 
 Climbs up his path in summer glow. 
 Will light, erelong, a frozen grave, 
 
 Too cold to melt its pall of snow. 
 
 And I must find the sunshine pale. 
 
 The tropic breezes chill and drear, 
 For when the gray autumnal gale 
 
 Came to despoil the dying year, 
 Passed with the slow retreating sun. 
 
 As day by day some beams depart, 
 The beauty and the life of one, 
 
 Whose love made summer in my heart. 
 
 Day after day, the latest flower, 
 
 Her faded being waned away. 
 More pale and dim with every hour, — 
 
 And ceased upon the darkest day ! 
 The warmth and glow that with her died 
 
 No light of coming suns shall bring; 
 The heart its wintry gloom may hide. 
 
 But cannot feel a second Spring. 
 
 O darkest day of all the year ! 
 
 In vain thou com'st with balmy skies, 
 For, blotting out their azure sphere. 
 
 The phantoms of my Fate arise: 
 A blighted life, whose shattered plan 
 
 No after fortune can restore; 
 
SATURDAY NIGHT AT SEA. 28 1 
 
 The perfect lot, designed for Man, 
 That should be mine, but is no more. 
 
 She was the sun, that rose above 
 
 The landscape of the life I dreamed, 
 And through the portals of her love 
 
 The promise of my Future beamed. 
 Though buried long, those dreams arise 
 
 To mock me wheresoe'er I roam, — 
 The happy light of household eyes. 
 
 The blessing and the peace of Home. 
 
 And I behold the changing fire 
 
 Of alien heavens increase and pale 
 On many a sunbeam-gilded spire 
 
 And many a moonlight-silvered sail: 
 The pomp and glory of the lands. 
 
 The range of Earth, is given to me; 
 But every touch of loving hands 
 
 Recalls my blighted destiny. 
 
 SATURDAY NIGHT AT SEA. 
 
 Come, messmates, fill the cheerful bowl ! 
 
 To-night let no one fail. 
 No matter how the billows roll, 
 
 Or roars the ocean gale. 
 There's toil and danger in our lives. 
 
 But let us jovial be, 
 And drink to sweethearts and to wives. 
 
 On Saturday night at sea ! 
 
 The chill nor'wester hurls the spray 
 Our icy bulwarks o'er, 
 
282 ROMANCES AND LYRICS. 
 
 As swift we cleave our stormy way, 
 A thousand miles from shore; 
 
 And while the good ship onward drives, 
 Let none forget that he 
 
 Must drink to sweethearts and to wives, 
 On Saturday night at sea ! 
 
 The joys that landsmen little reck 
 
 We best can understand, 
 Who live a year upon the deck, 
 
 A month upon the land. 
 And rough as are our sailor lives. 
 
 Full tender hearts have we 
 To drink to sweethearts and to wives. 
 
 On Saturday night at sea ! 
 
 Our frames are worn and little worth, 
 
 And hard our rugged hands; 
 We struggle for our hold on Earth 
 
 With the storms of many lands: 
 But the only love that lights our lives 
 
 Shall still remembered be; 
 We drink to sweethearts and to wives. 
 
 On Saturday night at sea ! 
 
 SONG. 
 
 They call thee false as thou art fair. 
 
 They call thee fair and free, — 
 A creature pliant as the air 
 
 And changeful as the sea: 
 But I, who gaze with other eyes, — 
 
 Who stand and watch afar, — 
 Behold thee pure as yonder skies 
 
 And steadfast as a star ! 
 
THE PHANTOM. 283 
 
 Thine is a rarer nature, born 
 
 To rule the common crowd, 
 And thou dost h'ghtly laugh to scorn 
 
 The hearts before thee bowed. 
 Thou dreamest of a different love 
 
 Than comes to such as these; 
 That soars as high as heaven above 
 
 Their shallow sympathies. 
 
 A star that shines with flickering spark, 
 
 Thou dost not wane away, 
 But shed'st adown the purple dark 
 
 The fulness of thy ray: 
 A rose, whose odors freely part 
 
 At every zephyr's will, 
 Thou keep'st within thy folded heart 
 
 Its virgin sweetness still ! 
 
 THE PHANTOM. 
 
 Again I sit within the mansion. 
 
 In the old, familiar seat; 
 And shade and sunshine chase each other 
 
 O'er the carpet at my feet. 
 
 But the sweet-brier's arms have wrestled upwards 
 
 In the summers that are past. 
 And the willow trails its branches lower 
 
 Than when I saw them last. 
 
 They strive to shut the sunshine wholly 
 
 From out the haunted room; 
 To fill the house, that once was joyful, 
 
 With silence and with gloom. 
 
284 ROMANCES AND LYRICS. 
 
 And many kind, remembered faces 
 Within the doorway come, — 
 
 Voices, that wake the sweeter music 
 Of one that now is dumb. 
 
 They sing, in tones as glad as ever, 
 The songs she loved to hear; 
 
 They braid the rose in summer garlands, 
 Whose flowers to her were dear. 
 
 And still, her footsteps in the passage, 
 
 Her blushes at the door. 
 Her timid words of maiden welcome. 
 
 Come back to me once more. 
 
 And, all forgetful of my sorrow, 
 
 Unmindful of my pain, 
 I think she has but newly left me, 
 
 And soon will come again. 
 
 She stays without, perchance, a 'moment. 
 To dress her dark-brown hair; 
 
 I hear the rustle of her garments, — 
 Her light step on the stair ! 
 
 O, fluttering heart ! control thy tumult. 
 Lest eyes profane should see 
 
 My cheeks betray the rush of rapture 
 Her coming brings to me ! 
 
 She tarries long : but lo ! a whisper 
 
 Beyond the open door. 
 And, gliding through the quiet sunshine, 
 
 A shadow on the floor ! 
 
THE CONSOLATION OF SONG. 285 
 
 Ah ! 'tis the whispering pine that calls me, 
 
 The vine, whose shadow strays ; 
 And my patient heart must still await her, 
 
 Nor chide her long delays. 
 
 But my heart grows sick with weary waiting. 
 
 As many a time before : 
 Her foot is ever at the threshold. 
 
 Yet never passes o'er. 
 
 THE CONSOLATION OF SONG. 
 
 False, fleeting Youth, ah ! whither fled 
 
 Thy golden promise? 
 Thy joy is past, thy love is dead, 
 And every arrowy hope we sped 
 
 Falls distant from us. 
 
 Ah, where the wondrous alchemy 
 Thy steps that haunted.^ 
 
 The happy airs of Arcady 
 
 That fanned thy brow, the fancy free, 
 The faith undaunted ? 
 
 The glories caught from Nature die, 
 
 And men deceive me; 
 Star after star goes down the sky, 
 And darker, sadder hours are nigh, 
 
 If Song should leave me. 
 
 For Song can still the living light 
 
 Of Memory borrow. 
 With faded dawns to flush the night, 
 And hide with gleams of old delight 
 
 The present sorrow. 
 
286 ROMANCES AND LYRICS. 
 
 Let Faith and Love and Hope depart, 
 
 Since Fate so wills it: 
 Some foliage yet may shade the heart, 
 And blossom in the beams of Art, 
 Whose presence fills it. 
 
 On thee, dear Song ! the loss I cast, 
 
 Beyond redressing: 
 Let gone be gone, and past be past. 
 But, Angel ! I will hold thee fast. 
 
 And force thy blessing ! 
 
 SOLDIER'S SONG. 
 
 FROM "FAUST." 
 
 Castles with lofty 
 
 Ramparts and towers, — 
 Maidens disdainful 
 
 In Beauty's array, — 
 
 All shall be ours ! 
 Bold is the venture. 
 
 Splendid the pay ! 
 Lads, let the trumpets 
 
 For us be suing, 
 Calling to pleasure, 
 
 Galling to ruin ! 
 Stormy our life is; 
 
 Such is its boon: 
 Maidens and castles 
 
 Capitulate soon. 
 Bold is the venture, 
 
 Splendid the pay ! 
 And the soldiers go marching. 
 
 Marching away. 
 
THE SHEPHERD'S LAMENT. 287 
 
 THE SHEPHERD'S LAMENT. 
 
 FROM GOETHE. 
 
 Up yonder on the mountain 
 
 A thousand times I stand, 
 Leant on my crook, and gazing 
 
 Down on the valley-land. 
 
 I follow the flock to the pasture; 
 
 My little dog watches them still: 
 I have come below, but I know not 
 
 How I descended the hill. 
 
 The beautiful meadow is covered 
 
 With blossoms of every hue; 
 I pluck them, alas ! without knowing 
 
 Whom I shall give them to. 
 
 I seek, in the rain and the tempest, 
 
 A refuge under the tree: 
 Yonder the doors are fastened, 
 
 And all is a dream to me. 
 
 Right over the roof of the dwelling 
 
 I see a rainbow stand; 
 But she has departed forever, 
 
 And gone far out in the land. 
 
 Far out in the land, and farther, — 
 
 Perhaps to an alien shore : 
 Go forward, ye sheep ! go forward, — 
 
 The heart of the shepherd is sore. 
 
288 ROMANCES AND LYRICS. 
 
 THE GARDEN OF ROSES. 
 
 FROM UHLAND. 
 
 Of the beautiful Garden of Roses 
 I will sing, with your gracious leave: 
 
 There the dames walked forth at morning, 
 And the heroes fought at eve. 
 
 "My Lord is King of the country, 
 
 But I am the Garden's Queen; 
 His crown with the red gold sparkles, 
 
 And mine with the rose's sheen. 
 
 "So hear me, ye youthful gallants. 
 
 My favorite guardsmen three; 
 The garden is free to the maidens, 
 
 To the knights it must not be. 
 
 "They would trample my beautiful roses. 
 And bring me trouble enow," — 
 
 Said the Queen, as she walked in the morning. 
 With the garland on her brow. 
 
 Then went the three young gallants 
 
 And guarded the gate about; 
 And peacefully blossomed the roses 
 
 And sent their odors out. 
 
 Now came three fair young maidens, 
 
 Virgins that knew not sin: 
 "Ye guardsmen, ye gallant three guardsmen. 
 
 Open, and let us in ! " 
 
 And when they had gathered the roses, 
 They spake, with looks forlorn: 
 
THE GARDEN OF ROSES. 289 
 
 "What makes our hands so bloody? 
 Is it the prick of the thorn?" 
 
 And still the three young gallants 
 
 Guarded the gate about, 
 And peacefully blossomed the roses, 
 
 And sent their odors out. 
 
 Now came upon prancing stallions 
 
 Three lawless knights, and cried : 
 ''Ye guardsmen, ye surly three guardsmen, 
 
 Open the portal wide!" 
 
 "The portal is shut and bolted: 
 
 Our naked swords will teach 
 That the price of the roses is costly; 
 
 Ye must pay a wound for each !" 
 
 Then fought the knights and the gallants, 
 
 But the knights had the victory, 
 And the roses were torn and trampled, 
 
 And died with the guardsmen three. 
 
 And when the evening darkened, 
 The Queen came by with her train: 
 
 "Now that my roses are trampled 
 And my faithful guardsmen slain, 
 
 "I will lay them on leaves of roses. 
 
 And bury them solemnly: 
 And where was the Garden of Roses, 
 
 The Garden of Lilies shall be. 
 
 "But who will watch my lilies, 
 When their blossoms open white? 
 
 By day the sun shall be sentry, 
 And the moon and the stars by night ! 
 
290 ROMANCES AND LYRICS. 
 
 THE THREE SONGS. 
 
 FROM UHLAND. 
 
 King Siegfried sat in his lofty hall: 
 "Ye harpers! who sings the best song of all?" 
 Then a youth stepped forth with a scornful lip, 
 The harp in his hand, and the sword at his hip. 
 
 ''Three songs I know; but this first song 
 
 Thou, O King ! hast forgotten long : 
 
 Thou hast stabbed my brother with murderous hand, 
 
 Hast stabbed my brother with murderous hand ! 
 
 ''The second song I learned aright 
 In the midst of a dark and stormy night : 
 Thou must fight with me for life or death, — 
 Must fight with me for life or death !" 
 
 On the banquet-table he laid his harp, 
 And they both drew out their swords so sharp; 
 And they fought in the sight of the harpers all 
 Till the King sank dead in the lofty hall. 
 
 "And now for the third, the proudest, best! 
 I shall sing it, sing it, and never rest: 
 King Siegfried lies in his red, red blood, — 
 Siegfried lies in his red, red blood!" 
 
CALIFORNIAN BALLADS AND 
 POEMS. 
 
MANUELA. 
 
 From the doorway, Manuela, in the sunny April morn, 
 Southward looks, along the valley, over leagues of gleaming 
 
 corn ; 
 Where the mountain's misty rampart like the wall of Eden 
 
 towers, 
 And the isles of oak are sleeping on a painted sea of flowers. 
 
 All the air is full of music, for the winter rains are o'er, 
 
 And the noisy magpies chatter from the budding syca- 
 more; 
 
 Blithely frisk unnumbered squirrels, over all the grassy 
 slope ; 
 
 Where the airy summits brighten, nimbly leaps the ante- 
 lope. 
 
 Gentle eyes of Manuela ! tell me wherefore do ye rest 
 
 On the oak's enchanted islands and the flowery ocean's 
 breast ? 
 
 Tell me wherefore, down the valley, ye have traced the high- 
 way's mark. 
 
 Far beyond the belts of timber, to the mountain-shadows 
 dark? 
 
 Ah, the fragrant bay may blossom and the sprouting ver- 
 dure shine 
 
 With the tears of amber dropping from the tassels of the 
 pine, 
 
 293 
 
294 CALIFORNIAN BALLADS AND POEMS. 
 
 And the morning's breath of balsam lightly brush her sunny 
 
 cheek, — 
 Little recketh Manuela of the tales of Spring they speak. 
 
 When the Summer's burning solstice on the mountain-har- 
 vests glowed, 
 
 She had watched a gallant horseman riding down the val- 
 ley road; 
 
 Many times she saw him turning, looking back with part- 
 ing thrills. 
 
 Till amid her tears she lost him, in the shadow of the hills. 
 
 Ere the cloudless moons were over, he had passed the 
 
 Desert's sand. 
 Crossed the rushing Colorado and the wild Apache Land, 
 And his laden mules were driven, when the time of rains 
 
 began, 
 With the traders of Chihuahua, to the Fair of San Juan. 
 
 Therefore watches Manuela, — therefore lightly doth she 
 
 start, 
 When the sound of distant footsteps seems the beating of 
 
 her heart; 
 Not a wind the green oak rustles or the redwood branches 
 
 stirs. 
 But she hears the silver jingle of his ringing bit and spurs. 
 
 Often, out the hazy distance, come the horsemen, day by day. 
 But they come not as Bernardo, — she can see it, far away; 
 Well she knows the airy gallop of his mettled alazan. 
 Light as any antelope upon the Hills of Gavilan. 
 
 She would know him 'mid a thousand, by his free and gal- 
 lant air ; 
 By the featly-knit sarape, such as wealthy traders wear; 
 
MANUELA. ■ 295 
 
 By his broidered calzoneros and his saddle, gayly spread, 
 With its cantle rimmed with silver, and its horn a lion's head. 
 
 None like him the hght riata on the maddened bull can 
 
 throw ; 
 None amid the mountain-canons track Hke him the stealthy 
 
 doe; 
 And at all the Mission festals, few indeed the revellers 
 
 are 
 Who can dance with him the jota, touch with him the gay 
 
 guitar. 
 
 He has said to Manuela, and the echoes linger still 
 
 In the cloisters of her bosom, with a secret, tender thrill 
 
 When the bay again has blossomed, and the valley stands 
 
 in corn, 
 Shall the bells of Santa Clara usher in the wedding morn." 
 
 He has pictured the procession, all in holiday attire, 
 
 And the laugh of bridal gladness, when they see the distant 
 
 spire ; 
 Then their love shall kindle newly, and the world be doubly 
 
 fair 
 In the cool, delicious crystal of the summer morning air. 
 
 Tender eyes of Manuela 1 what has dimmed your lus- 
 trous beam? 
 
 'Tis a tear that falls to glitter on the casket of her dream. 
 
 Ah, the eye of Love must brighten, if its watches would be 
 true, 
 
 For the star is falsely mirrored in the rose's drop of dew ! . 
 
 But her eager eyes rekindle, and her breathless bosom 
 
 thrills. 
 As she sees a horseman moving in the shadow of the hills : 
 
296 CALIFORNIAN BALLADS AND POEMS. 
 
 Now in love and fond thanksgiving they may loose their 
 
 pearly tides, — 
 'Tis the alazan that gallops, 'tis Bernardo's self that rides! 
 
 THE FIGHT OF PASO DEL MAR. 
 
 Gusty and raw was the morning, 
 
 A fog hung over the seas. 
 And its gray skirts, rolling inland, 
 
 Were torn by the mountain trees; 
 No sound was heard but the dashing 
 
 Of waves on the sandy bar, 
 When Pablo of San Diego 
 
 Rode down to the Paso del Mar. 
 
 The pescad6r, out in his shallop. 
 
 Gathering his harvest so wide, 
 Sees the dim bulk of the headland 
 
 Loom over the waste of the tide; 
 He sees, like a white thread, the pathway 
 
 Wind round on the terrible wall, 
 Where the faint, moving speck of the rider 
 
 Seems hovering close to its fall. 
 
 Stout Pablo of San Diego 
 
 Rode down from the hills behind; 
 With the bells on his gray mule tinkling 
 
 He sang through the fog and wind. 
 Under his thick, misted eyebrows 
 
 Twinkled his eye like a star. 
 And fiercer he sang as the sea-winds 
 
 Drove cold on the Paso del Mar. 
 
THE FIGHT OF PASO DEL MAR. 
 
 Now Bernal, the herdsman of Chino, 
 
 Had travelled the shore since dawn, 
 Leaving the ranches behind him — 
 
 Good reason had he to be gone ! 
 The blood was still red on his dagger, 
 
 The fury was hot in his brain. 
 And the chill, driving scud of the breakers 
 
 Beat thick on his forehead in vain. 
 
 With his poncho wrapped gloomily round him. 
 
 He mounted the dizzying road. 
 And the chasms and steeps of the headland 
 
 Were slippery and wet, as he trod : 
 Wild swept the wind of the ocean, 
 
 Rolling the fog from afar. 
 When near him a mule-bell came tinkling, 
 
 Midway on the Paso del Mar. 
 
 ''Back!" shouted Bernal, full fiercely. 
 
 And ''Back!" shouted Pablo, in wrath, 
 As his mule halted, startled and shrinking. 
 
 On the perilous line of the path. 
 The roar of devouring surges 
 
 Came up from the breakers' hoarse war; 
 And "Back, or you perish!" cried Bernal, 
 
 "I turn not on Paso del Mar!" 
 
 The gray mule stood firm as the headland: 
 
 He clutched at the jingling rein, 
 When Pablo rose up in his saddle 
 
 And smote till he dropped it again. 
 A wild oath of passion swore Bernal, 
 
 And brandished his dagger, still red, 
 While fiercely stout Pablo leaned forward, 
 
 And fought o'er his trusty mule's head. 
 
 297 
 
298 CALIFORNIAN BALLADS AND POEMS. 
 
 They fought till the black wall below them 
 
 Shone red through the misty blast; 
 Stout Pablo then struck, leaning farther, 
 
 The broad breast of Bernal at last. 
 And, frenzied with pain, the swart herdsman 
 
 Closed on him with terrible strength. 
 And jerked him, despite of his struggles, 
 
 Down from the saddle at length. 
 
 They grappled with desperate madness, 
 
 On the sHppery edge of the wall; 
 They swayed on the brink, and together 
 
 Reeled out to the rush of the fall. 
 A cry of the wildest death-anguish 
 
 Rang faint through the mist afar. 
 And the riderless mule went homeward 
 
 From the fight of the Paso del Mar. 
 
 THE PINE FOREST OF MONTEREY. 
 
 What point of Time, unchronicled, and dim 
 As yon gray mist that canopies your heads, 
 Took from the greedy wave and gave the sun 
 Your dweUing-place, ye gaunt and hoary Pines? 
 When, from the barren bosoms of the hills. 
 With scanty nurture, did ye slowly climb, 
 Of these remote and latest-fashioned shores 
 The first-born forest ? Titans gnarled and rough, 
 Such as from out subsiding Chaos grew 
 To clothe the cold loins of the savage earth, 
 What fresh commixture of the elements, 
 What earliest thrill of life, the stubborn soil 
 Slow-mastering, engendered ye to give 
 The hills a mantle and the wind a voice ? 
 
THE PINE FOREST OF MONTEREY. 299 
 
 Along the shore ye lift your rugged arms, 
 
 Blackened with many fires, and with hoarse chant, — 
 
 UnHke the fibrous lute your co-mates touch 
 
 In elder regions, — fill the awful stops 
 
 Between the crashing cataracts of the surf. 
 
 Have ye no tongue, in all your sea of sound, 
 
 To syllable the secret, — no still voice 
 
 To give your airy myths a shadowy form, 
 
 And make us of lost centuries of lore 
 
 The rich inheritors? 
 
 The sea-winds pluck 
 Your mossy beards, and gathering as they sweep, 
 Vex your high heads, and with your sinewy arms 
 Grapple and toil in vain. A deeper roar, 
 Sullen and cold, and rousing into spells 
 Of stormy volume, is your sole reply. 
 Anchored in firm-set rock, ye ride the blast, 
 And from the promontory's utmost verge , 
 
 Make signal o'er the waters. So ye stood. 
 When, like a star, behind the lonely sea. 
 Far shone the white speck of Grijalva's sail; 
 And when, through driving fog, the breaker's sound 
 Frighted Otondo's men, your spicy breath 
 Played as in welcome round their rusty helms. 
 And backward from its staff shook out the folds 
 Of Spain's emblazoned banner. 
 
 Ancient Pines, 
 Ye bear no record of the years of man. 
 Spring is your sole historian, — Spring, that paints 
 These savage shores with hues of Paradise; 
 That decks your branches with a fresher green. 
 And through your lonely, far cafiadas pours 
 Her floods of bloom, rivers of opal dye 
 That wander down to lakes and widening seas 
 
300 CALIFORNIAN BALLADS AND POEMS. 
 
 Of blossom and of fragrance, — laughing Spring, 
 
 That with her wanton blood refills your veins, 
 
 And weds ye to your juicy youth again 
 
 With a new ring, the while your rifted bark 
 
 Drops odorous tears. Your knotty fibres yield 
 
 To the light touch of her unfaiHng pen, 
 
 As freely as the lupin's violet cup. 
 
 Ye keep, close-locked, the memories of her stay, 
 
 As in their shells the avelones keep 
 
 Morn's rosy flush and moonlight's pearly glow. 
 
 The wild northwest, that from Alaska sweeps. 
 
 To drown Point Lobos with the icy scud 
 
 And white sea-foam, may rend your boughs and leave 
 
 Their blasted antlers tossing in the gale; 
 
 Your steadfast hearts are mailed against the shock, 
 
 And on their annual tablets naught inscribe 
 
 Of such rude visitation. Ye are still 
 
 The simple children of a guiltless soil, 
 
 And in your natures show the sturdy grain 
 
 That passion cannot jar, nor force relax. 
 
 Nor aught but sweet and kindly airs compel 
 
 To gentler mood. No disappointed heart 
 
 Has sighed its bitterness beneath your shade; 
 
 No angry spirit ever came to make 
 
 Your silence its confessional; no voice. 
 
 Grown harsh in Crime's great market-place, the world, 
 
 Tainted with blasphemy your evening hush 
 
 And aromatic air. The deer alone, — 
 
 The ambushed hunter that brings down the deer, — 
 
 The fisher wandering on the misty shore 
 
 To watch sea-lions wallow in the flood, — 
 
 The shout, the sound of hoofs that chase and fly, 
 
 When swift vaqueros, dashing through the herds, 
 
 Ride down the angry bull, — perchance, the song 
 
THE PINE FOREST OF MONTEREY. 30I 
 
 Some Indian heired of long-forgotten sires, — 
 Disturb your solemn chorus. 
 
 Stately Pines, 
 But few more years around the promontory 
 Your chant will meet the thunders of the sea. 
 No more, a barrier to the encroaching sand, 
 Against the surf ye'U stretch defiant arm, 
 Though with its onset and besieging shock 
 Your firm knees tremble. Never more the wind 
 Shall pipe shrill music through your mossy beards, 
 Nor sunset's yellow blaze athwart your heads 
 Crown all the hills with gold. Your race is past: 
 The mystic cycle, whose unnoted birth 
 Coeval was with yours, has run its sands, 
 And other footsteps from these changing shores 
 Frighten its haunting Spirit. Men will come 
 To vex your quiet with the din of toil; 
 The smoky volumes of the forge will stain 
 This pure, sweet air; loud keels will ride the sea, 
 Dashing its glittering sapphire into foam; 
 Through all her green cafiadas Spring will seek 
 Her lavish blooms in vain, and clasping ye, 
 O mournful Pines, within her glowing arms, 
 Will weep soft rains to find ye fallen low. 
 Fall, therefore, yielding to the fiat ! Fall, 
 Ere the maturing soil, whose first dull life 
 Fed your belated germs, be rent and seamed ! 
 Fall, like the chiefs ye sheltered, stern, unbent, 
 Your gray beards hiding memorable scars ! 
 The winds will mourn ye, and the barren hills 
 Whose breast ye clothed; and when the pauses come 
 Between the crashing cataracts of the surf, 
 A funeral silence, terrible, profound. 
 Will make sad answer to the listening sea. 
 
302 CALIFORNIAN BALLADS AND POEMS. 
 
 EL CANELO. 
 
 I. 
 
 Now saddle El Canelo ! — the freshening wind of morn, 
 Down in the flowery vega, is stirring through the corn; 
 The thin smoke of the ranches grows red with coming day, 
 And the steed is fiercely stamping, in haste to be away. 
 
 II. 
 
 My glossy-limbed Canelo, thy neck is curved in pride, 
 Thy slender ears pricked forward, thy nostril straining 
 
 wide; 
 And as thy quick neigh greets me, and I catch thee by the 
 
 mane, 
 I'm off with the winds of morning, — the chieftain of the 
 
 plain ! 
 
 m. 
 
 I feel the swift air whirring, and see along our track. 
 From the flinty-paved sierra, the sparks go streaming 
 
 back; 
 And I clutch my rifle closer, as we sweep the dark defile. 
 Where the red guerillas ambush for many a lonely mile. 
 
 IV. 
 
 They reach not El Canelo; with the swiftness of a dream 
 We've passed the bleak Nevada, and San Fernando's 
 
 stream ; 
 But where, on sweeping gallop, my bullet backward sped 
 The keen-eyed mountain vultures v/ill wheel above the dead. 
 
 On ! on, my brave Canelo ! we've dashed the sand and 
 snow 
 
THE SUMMER CAMP. 303 
 
 From peaks upholding heaven, from deserts far below, — 
 We've thundered through the forest, while the crackling 
 
 branches rang. 
 And trooping elks, affrighted, from lair and covert sprang. 
 
 VI. 
 
 We've swum the swollen torrent, — we've distanced in the 
 
 race 
 The baying wolves of Pinos, that panted with the chase; 
 And still thy mane streams backward, at every thrilling 
 
 bound. 
 And still thy measured hoof-stroke beats with its morning 
 
 sound ! 
 
 VII. 
 
 The seaward winds are wailing through Santa Barbara's 
 
 pines. 
 And like a sheathless sabre, the far Pacific shines ; 
 Hold to thy speed, my arrow ! at nightfall thou shalt lave 
 Thy hot and smoking haunches beneath his silver wave ! 
 
 VIII. 
 
 My head upon thy shoulder, along the sloping sand 
 We'll sleep as trusty brothers, from out the mountain land ; 
 The pines will sound in answer to the surges on the shore, 
 And in our dreams, Canelo, we'll make the journey o'er. 
 
 THE SUMMER CAMP. 
 
 Here slacken rein; here let the dusty mules 
 Unsaddled graze ! The shadows of the oaks 
 Are on our brows, and through their knotted boles 
 We see the blue round of the boundless plain 
 
304 CALIFORNIAN BALLADS AND POEMS. 
 
 Vanish in glimmering heat: these aged oaks, 
 The island speck that beckoned us afar 
 Over the burning level, — as we came, 
 Spreading to shore and cape, and bays that ran 
 To leafy headlands, balanced on the haze, 
 Faint and receding as a cloud in air. 
 
 The mules may roam unsaddled: we will lie 
 
 Beneath the mighty trees, whose shade, like dew 
 
 Poured from the urns of Twilight, dries the sweat 
 
 Of sunburnt brows, and on the heavy lid 
 
 And heated eyeball sheds a balm, than sleep 
 
 Far sweeter. We have done with travel, — we 
 
 Are weary now, who never dreamed of Rest, 
 
 For until now did never Rest unbar 
 
 Her palace-doors, nor until now our ears 
 
 The silence drink, beyond all melodies 
 
 Of all imagined sound, that wraps her realm. 
 
 Here, where the desolating centuries 
 
 Have left no mark; where noises never came 
 
 From the far world of battle and of toil; 
 
 Where God looks down and sends no thunderbolt 
 
 To smite a human wrong, for all is good. 
 
 She finds a refuge. We will dwell with her. 
 
 No more of travel, where the flaming sword 
 Of the great sun divides the heavens; no more 
 Of climbing over jutty steeps that swim 
 In driving sea-mist, where the stunted tree 
 Slants inland, mimicking the stress of winds 
 When wind is none; of plain and steaming marsh 
 Where the dry bulrush crackles in the heat; 
 Of camps by starlight in the columned vault 
 Of sycamores, and the red, dancing fires 
 
305 
 
 THE SUMMER CAMP. 
 
 That build a leafy arch, efface and build, 
 And sink at last, to let the stars peep through; 
 Of canons grown with pine and folded deep 
 In golden mountain-sides; of airy sweeps 
 Of mighty landscape, lying all alone 
 Like some deserted world. They tempt no more. 
 It is enough that such things were: too blest, 
 O comrades mine, to lie in Summer's arms, 
 Lodged in her Camp of Rest, we will not dream 
 That they may vex us more. 
 
 The sun goes down: 
 The dun mules wander idly : motionless 
 Beneath the stars, the heavy foliage Hfts 
 Its rich, round masses, silent as a cloud 
 That sleeps at midday on a mountain peak. 
 All through the long, delicious night no stir 
 Is in the leaves; spangled with broken gleams. 
 Before the pining Moon, — that fain would drop 
 Into the lap of this deep quiet, — swerve 
 Eastward the shadows: Day comes on again. 
 Where is the life we led ? Whither hath fled 
 The turbulent stream that brought us hither? How, 
 So full of sound, so lately dancing down 
 The mountains, turbid, fretted into foam, — 
 How has it slipped, with scarce a gurgling coil. 
 Into this calm transparence, noise or wind 
 Hath ruffled never? Ages past, perchance, 
 Such wild turmoil was ours, or did some Dream 
 Mahgn, that last night nestled in the oak, 
 Whisper our ears, when not a star could see? 
 Give o'er the fruitless doubt: we wiH not waste 
 One thought of rest, nor spill one radiant drop 
 From the full goblet of this summer balm. 
 
306 CALIFORNIAN BALLADS AND POEMS. 
 
 Day after day the mellow sun slides o'er, 
 Night after night the mellow moon. The clouds 
 Are laid, enchanted: soft and bare, the heavens 
 Fold to their breast the dozing Earth, that lies 
 In languor of deep bliss. At times, a breath, 
 Remnant of gales far ofif, forgotten now. 
 Rustles the never-fading leaves, then drops 
 Afifrighted into silence. Near a slough 
 Of dark, still water, in the early morn 
 The shy coyotas prowl, or trooping elk 
 From the close covert of the bulrush-fields 
 Their dewy antlers toss : nor other sight, 
 Save when the falcon, poised on wheeling wings, 
 His bright eye on the burrowing coney, cuts 
 His arrowy plunge. Along the distant trail. 
 Dim with the heat, sometimes the miners go. 
 Bearded and rough, the swart Sonorians drive 
 Their laden asses, or vaqueros whirl 
 The lasso's coil and carol many a song. 
 Native to Spanish hills. As when we lie 
 On the soft brink of Sleep, not pillowed quite 
 To blest forgetfulness, some dim array 
 Of masking forms in long procession comes, 
 A sweet disturbance to the poppied sense. 
 That will not cease, but gently holds it back 
 From slumber's haven, so their figures pass. 
 With such disturbance cloud the blessed calm. 
 And hold our beings, ready to slip forth 
 O'er unmolested seas, still rocking near 
 The coasts of Action. 
 
 Other dreams are ours. 
 Of shocks that were, or seemed; whereof our souls 
 Feel the subsiding lapse, as feels the sand 
 Of tropic island -shores the dying pulse 
 
THE SUMMER CAMP. 307 
 
 Of storms that racked the Northern sea. My soul, 
 
 I do believe that thou hast toiled and striven, 
 
 And hoped and suffered wrong. I do believe 
 
 Great aims were thine, deep loves and fiery hates, 
 
 And though I may have lain a thousand years 
 
 Beneath these Oaks, the baffled trust of Youth, 
 
 Thy first keen sorrow, brings a gentle pang 
 
 To temper joy. Nor will the joy I drank 
 
 To wild intoxication, quit my heart : 
 
 It was no dream that still has power to droop 
 
 The soft-suffusing lid, and lift desire 
 
 Beyond this rapt repose. No dream, dear love ! 
 
 For thou art with me in our Camp of Peace. 
 
 O Friend, whose history is writ in deeds 
 That make your life a marvel, come no gleams 
 Of past adventure, echoes of old storms. 
 And Battle's tingling hum of flying shot, 
 To touch your easy blood and tempt you o'er 
 The round of yon blue plain } Or have they lost, 
 Heroic days, the virtue which the heart 
 That did their hest rejoicing, proved so high ? 
 Back through the long, long cycles of our rest 
 Your memory travels : through this hush you hear 
 The Gila's dashing, feel the yawning jaws 
 Of black volcanic gorges close you in 
 On waste and awful tracts of wilderness, 
 Which other than the eagle's cry, or bleat 
 Of mountain-goat, hear not : the scorching sand 
 Eddies around the tracks your fainting mules 
 Leave in the desert: thorn and cactus pierce 
 Your bleeding limbs, and stiff with raging thirst 
 Your tongue forgets its ofhce. Leave untried 
 That cruel trail, and leave the wintry hills 
 
308 CALIFORNIAN BALLADS AND POEMS. 
 
 And leave the tossing sea ! The Summer here 
 Builds us a tent of everlasting calm. 
 
 How shall we wholly sink our lives in thee, 
 Thrice-blessed Deep? O many-natured Soul 
 Chameleon-like, that, steeped in every phase 
 Of wide existence, tak'st the hue of each, 
 Here with the silent Oaks and azure Air 
 Incorporate grow ! Here loosen one by one 
 Thy vexing memories, burdens of the Past, 
 Till all unrest be laid, and strong Desire 
 Sleeps on his nerveless arm. Content to find 
 In liberal Peace thy being's high result 
 And crown of aspiration, gather all 
 The dreams of sense, the reachings of the mind 
 For ampler issues and dominion vain. 
 To fold them on her bosom, happier there 
 Than in exultant action : as a child 
 Forgets his meadow butterflies and flowers, 
 Upon his mother's breast. 
 
 It may not be. 
 Not in this Camp, in these enchanted Trees, 
 But in ourselves, must lodge the calm we seek, 
 Ere we can fix it here. We cannot take 
 From outward nature power to snap the curse 
 Which clothed our birth; and though 'twere easier 
 This hour to die than yield the blessed cup 
 Wherefrom our hearts divinest comfort draw, 
 It clothes us yet, and yet shall drive us forth 
 To breast the world. Then come: we will not bide 
 To tempt a ruin to this paradise. 
 Fulfilling Destiny. A mighty wind 
 Would gather on the plain, a cloud arise 
 To blot the sky, with thunder in its heart, 
 
THE BISON TRACK. 309 
 
 And the black column of the whirlwind spin 
 
 Out of the cloud, straight downward to this grove, 
 
 Take by their heads the shuddering trees, and wrench 
 
 With fearful clamor, limb from limb, till Rest 
 
 Should flee forever. Rather set at once 
 
 Our faces toward the noisy world again, 
 
 And gird our loins for action. Let us go ! 
 
 THE BISON TRACK. 
 
 Strike the tent ! the sun has risen ; not a vapor streaks the 
 
 dawn, 
 And the frosted prairie brightens to the westward, far and 
 
 wan: 
 Prime afresh the trusty rifle, — sharpen well the hunting 
 
 spear — 
 For the frozen sod is trembling, and a noise of hoofs I 
 
 hear 1 
 
 II. 
 
 Fiercely stamp the tethered horses, as they snuff the morn- 
 ing's fire; 
 
 Their impatient heads are tossing, and they neigh with 
 keen desire. 
 
 Strike the tent ! the saddles wait us, — let the bridle-reins 
 be slack, 
 
 For the prairie's distant thunder has betrayed the bison's 
 track. 
 
 in. 
 
 See! a dusky line approaches: hark, the onward-surging 
 roar, 
 
310 CALIFORNIAN BALLADS AND POEMS. 
 
 Like the din of wintry breakers on a sounding wall of 
 
 shore ! 
 Dust and sand behind them whirling, snort the foremost 
 
 of the van, 
 And their stubborn horns are clashing through the crowded 
 
 caravan. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Now the storm is down upon us : let the maddened horses 
 
 go! 
 We shall ride the living whirlwind, though a hundred 
 
 leagues it blow! 
 Though the cloudy manes should thicken, and the red 
 
 eyes' angry glare 
 Lighten round us as we gallop through the sand and rushing 
 
 air! 
 
 V. 
 
 Myriad hoofs will scar the prairie, in our wild, resistless 
 race. 
 
 And a sound, like mighty waters, thunder down the desert 
 space : 
 
 Yet the rein may not be tightened, nor the rider's eye look 
 back — 
 
 Death to him whose speed should slacken, on the mad- 
 dened bison 's track ! 
 
 VI. 
 
 Now the trampling herds are threaded, and the chase is 
 
 close and warm 
 For the giant bull that gallops in the edges of the storm : 
 Swiftly hurl the w^hizzing lasso, — swing your rifles as we 
 
 run: 
 See ! the dust is red behind him, — shout, my comrades, he 
 
 is won ! 
 
THE BISON TRACK. 311 
 
 VII. 
 
 Look not on him as he staggers, — 'tis the last shot he 
 
 will need ! 
 More shall fall, among his fellows, ere we run the mad 
 
 stampede, — 
 Ere we stem the brinded breakers, while the wolves, a 
 
 hungry pack, 
 Howl around each grim-eyed carcass, on the bloody Bison 
 
 Track ! 
 
EARLIER POEMS, 
 
THE HARP: AN ODE. 
 
 When bleak winds through the Northern pines were sweep- 
 ing, 
 
 Some hero-skald, reclining on the sand, 
 Attuned it first, the chords harmonious keeping 
 
 With murmuring forest and with moaning strand : 
 And when, at night, the horns of mead foamed over, 
 
 And torches flared around the wassail board. 
 It breathed no song of maid, nor sigh of lover, 
 
 It rang aloud the triumphs of the sword ! 
 It mocked the thunders of the ice-ribbed ocean. 
 
 With clenched hands beating back the dragon's prow; 
 It gave Berserker arms their battle motion, 
 
 And swelled the red veins on the Viking 's brow ! 
 
 n. 
 
 No myrtle, plucked in dalliance, ever sheathed it. 
 
 To melt the savage ardor of its flow; 
 The only gauds wherewith its lord enwreathed it. 
 
 The lusty fir and Druid mistletoe. 
 Thus bound, it kept the old, accustomed cadence. 
 
 Whether it pealed through slumberous ilex bowers 
 In stormy wooing of Byzantine maidens. 
 
 Or shook Trinacria's languid lap of flowers; 
 Whether Genseric's conquering march it chanted. 
 
 Till cloudy Atlas rang with Gothic staves, 
 315 
 
3l6 EARLIER POEMS. 
 
 Or where gray Calpe 's pillared feet are planted, 
 Died grandly out upon the unknown waves ! 
 
 m. 
 
 Not unto Scania's bards alone belonging, 
 
 The craft that loosed its tongues of changing sound, 
 For Ossian played, and ghosts of heroes, thronging, 
 
 Leaned on their spears above the misty mound. 
 The Cambrian eagle, round his eyrie wdnging, 
 
 Heard the wild chant through mountain-passes rolled, 
 When bearded throats chimed in with mighty singing, 
 
 And monarchs listened, in their torques of gold : 
 Its dreary wail, blent with the sea-mews' clangor. 
 
 Surged round the lonely keep of Penmaen-MawT ; 
 It pealed aloud, in battle's glorious anger, 
 
 Behind the banner of the Blazing Star ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 The strings are silent; who shall dare to wake them, 
 
 Though later deeds demand their living powers? 
 Silent in other lands, what hand shall make them 
 
 Leap as of old, to shape the songs of ours ? 
 Here, while the sapless bulk of Europe moulders, 
 
 Springs the rich blood to hero-veins unsealed, — 
 Source of that Will, that on its fearless shoulders 
 
 Would bear the world 's fate lightly as a shield : 
 Here moves a larger Hfe, to grander measures 
 
 Beneath our sky and through our forests rung; 
 Why sleeps the harp, forgetful of its treasures, — 
 
 Buried in songs that never yet were sung? 
 
 V. 
 
 Great, solemn songs, that with majestic sounding 
 Should swell the Nation's heart from sea to sea; 
 
SERAPION. 
 
 Informed with power, with earnest hope abounding 
 
 And prophecies of triumph yet to be ! 
 Songs, by the wild wind for a thousand ages 
 
 Hummed o'er our central prairies, vast and lone; 
 Glassed by the Northern lakes in crystal pages, 
 
 And carved by hills on pinnacles of stone; 
 Songs chanted now, where undiscovered fountains 
 
 Make in the wilderness their babbling home. 
 And through the deep-hewn canons of the mountains 
 
 Plunge the cold rivers in perpetual foam ! 
 
 , VI. 
 
 Sung but by these : our forests have no voices ; 
 
 Rapt with no loftier strain our rivers roll; 
 Far in the sky, no song-crowned peak rejoices 
 
 In words that give the silent air a soul. 
 Wake, mighty Harp ! and thrill the shores that hearken 
 
 For the first peal of thine immortal rhyme : 
 Call from the shadows that begin to darken 
 
 The beaming forms of our heroic time : 
 Sing us of deeds, that on thy strings outsoaring 
 
 The ancient soul they glorified so long, 
 Shall win the world to hear thy grand restoring, 
 
 And own thy latest thy sublimest song ! 
 
 SERAPION. 
 
 Come hither. Child ! thou silent, shy 
 Young creature of the glorious eye ! 
 Though never yet by ruder air 
 Than father's kiss or mother's prayer 
 Were stirred the tendrils of thy hair, 
 The sadness of a soul that stands 
 
 317 
 
3l8 EARLIER POEMS. 
 
 Withdrawn from Childhood's froHc bands, 
 A stranger in the land, I trace 
 Upon thy brow's cherubic grace 
 The tender pleading of thy face. 
 Where other stars than Joy and Hope 
 Have cast thy being's horoscope. 
 
 For thee, the threshold of the world 
 Is yet with morning dews impearled; 
 The nameless radiance of Birth 
 Imbathes thy atmosphere of Earth, 
 And, like a finer sunshine, swims 
 Round every motion of thy limbs: 
 The sweet, sad wonder and surprise 
 Of waking glimmers in thine eyes, 
 And wiser instinct, purer sense. 
 And gleams of rare intelligence 
 Betray the converse held by thee 
 With the angelic family. 
 
 Come hither. Boy 1 For while I press 
 Thy lips' confiding tenderness, 
 Less broad and dark the spaces be 
 Which Life has set 'twixt thee and me. 
 Thy soul's white feet shall soon depart 
 On paths I walked with eager heart; 
 God give thee, in His kindly grace, 
 A brighter road, a loftier place ! 
 I see thy generous nature flow 
 In boundless trust to friend and foe. 
 And leap, despite of shocks and harms, 
 To clasp the world in loving arms. 
 I see that glorious circle shrink 
 Back to thy feet, at Manhood's brink, 
 
SERAPION. 
 
 Narrowed to one, one image fair, 
 
 And all its splendor gathered there. 
 
 The shackles of experience then 
 
 Sit lightly as on meaner men : 
 
 In flinty paths thy feet may bleed, 
 
 Thorns pierce thy flesh, thou shalt not heed, 
 
 Till when, all panting from the task, 
 
 Thine arms outspread their right shall ask, 
 
 Thine arms outspread that right shall fly. 
 
 The star shall burst, the splendor die ! 
 
 Go, with thy happier brothers play, 
 
 As heedless and as wild as they; 
 
 Seek not so soon thy separate way. 
 
 Thou lamb in Childhood 's field astray ! 
 
 Whence camest thou? what angel bore 
 Thee past so many a fairer shore 
 Of guarding love, and guidance mild, 
 To drop thee on this barren wild ? 
 Thy soul is lonely as a star. 
 When all its fellows muffled are, — 
 A single star, whose light appears 
 To glimmer through subduing tears. 
 The father who begat thee sees 
 In thee no deeper mysteries 
 Than load his heavy ledger's page, 
 And sweU for him thy heritage. 
 A hard, cold man, of punctual face, 
 Renowned in Credit's holy-place, 
 Whose very wrinkles seem arrayed 
 In cunning hieroglyphs of trade, — 
 Whose gravest thought but just unlocks 
 The problems of uncertain stocks, — 
 Whose farthest flights of hope extend 
 
 319 
 
320 EARLIER POEMS. 
 
 From dividend to dividend. 
 
 Thy mother, — but a mother 's name 
 
 Too sacred is, too sweet for blame. 
 
 No doubt she loves thee, — loves the shy, 
 
 Strange beauty of thy glorious eye; 
 
 Loves the soft mouth, whose drooping Une 
 
 Is silent music; loves to twine 
 
 Thy silky hair in ringlets trim; 
 
 To watch thy lightsome play of limb; 
 
 But, God forgive me 1 I, who find 
 
 The soul within that beauty shrined, 
 
 I love thee more, I know thy worth 
 
 Better, than she who gave thee birth. 
 
 Are they thy keepers? They would thrust 
 
 The priceless jewel in the dust; 
 
 Would tarnish in their careless hold 
 
 The vessel of celestial gold. 
 
 Who gave them thee? What fortune lent 
 
 Their hands the delicate instrument, 
 
 Which finer hands might teach to hymn 
 
 The harmonies of Seraphim, 
 
 Which they shall make discordant soon, 
 
 The sweet bells jangled, out of tune? 
 
 Mine eyes are dim : I cannot see 
 The purposes of Destiny, 
 But than my love Heaven could not shine 
 More lovingly, if thou wert mine ! 
 Rest then securely on my heart : 
 Give me thy trust: my child thou art. 
 And I shall lead thee through the years 
 To Hopes and Passions, Loves and Fears, 
 Till, following up Life's endless plan, 
 
TAURUS. 
 
 A Strong and self-dependent Man, 
 I see thee stand and strive with men 
 Thy Father now, thy Brother then. 
 
 32: 
 
 Moan, ye wild winds ! around the pane, 
 And fall, thou drear December rain ! 
 Fill with your gusts the sullen day, 
 Tear the last clinging leaves away ! 
 Reckless as yonder naked tree, 
 No blast of yours can trouble me. 
 
 Give me your chill and stern embrace, 
 And pour your baptism on my face; 
 Sound in mine ears the airy moan 
 That sweeps in desolate monotone. 
 Where on the unsheltered hill-top beat 
 The marches of your homeless feet. 
 
 Moan on, ye winds ! and pour, thou rain ! 
 
 Your stormy sobs and tears are vain, 
 
 If shed for her whose fading eyes 
 
 Will open soon on Paradise: 
 
 The eye of Heaven shall blinded be, 
 
 Or ere ye cease, if shed for me. 
 
 TAURUS. 
 I. 
 
 The Scorpion's stars crawl down behind the sun. 
 And when he drops below the verge of day, 
 
 The glittering fangs, their fervid courses run. 
 Cling to his skirts and follow him away. 
 
 Then, ere the heels of flying Capricorn 
 
322 EARLIER POEMS. 
 
 Have touched the western mountain's darkening 
 rim, 
 I mark, stern Taurus, through the twilight gray 
 The gHnting of thy horn. 
 And sullen front, uprising large and dim, 
 Bent to the starry hunter's sword, at bay. 
 
 II. 
 
 Thy hoofs, unwilling, climb the sphery vault; 
 
 Thy red eye trembles with an angry glare, 
 When the hounds follow, and in fierce assault 
 
 Bay through the fringes of the lion's hair. 
 The stars that once were mortal in their love, 
 
 And by their love are made immortal now, 
 Cluster Hke golden bees upon thy mane. 
 When thou, possessed with Jove, 
 
 Bore sweet Europa's garlands on thy brow. 
 And stole her from the green Sicilian plain. 
 
 ni. 
 
 Type of the stubborn force that will not bend 
 
 To loftier art, — soul of defiant breath 
 That bhndly stands and battles to the end. 
 
 Nerving resistance with the throes of death, — 
 Majestic Taurus ! when thy wrathful eye 
 
 Flamed brightest, and thy hoofs a moment 
 stayed 
 Their march at Night's meridian, I was born: 
 But in the western sky. 
 
 Like sweet Europa, Love's fair star delayed, 
 To hang her garland on thy silver horn. 
 
TAURUS. 323 
 
 IV. 
 
 Thou giv'st that temper of enduring mould, 
 
 That slights the wayward bent of Destiny, — 
 Such as sent forth the shaggy Jarls of old 
 
 To launch their dragons on the unknown sea: 
 Such as kept strong the sinews of the sword. 
 
 The proud, hot blood of battle, — welcome 
 made 
 The headsman's axe, the rack, the martyr-fire, 
 The ignominious cord, 
 
 When but to yield, had pomps and honors laid 
 On heads that moulder in ignoble mire. 
 
 Night is the summer when the soul grows ripe 
 
 With Life's full harvest: of her myriad suns. 
 Thou dost not gild the quiet herdsman's pipe, 
 
 Nor royal state, that royal action shuns. 
 But in the noontide of thy ruddy stars 
 
 Thrive strength, and daring, and the blood 
 whence springs 
 The Heraclidean seed of heroes; then 
 Were sundered Gaza's bars; 
 
 Then, 'mid the smitten Hydra's loosened rings, 
 His slayer rested, in the Lernean fen. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Thine is the subtle element that turns 
 To fearless act the impulse of the hour, — 
 
 The secret fire, whose flash electric burns 
 To every source of passion and of power. 
 
 Therefore I hail thee, on thy glittering track: 
 
324 EARLIER POEMS. 
 
 Therefore I watch thee, when the night grows 
 dark, 
 Slow-rising, front Orion's sword along 
 The starry zodiac, 
 And from thy mystic beam demand a spark 
 To warm my soul with more heroic song. 
 
 THE ODALISQUE. 
 
 In marble shells the fountain splashes; 
 
 Its falling spray is turned to stars, 
 When some light wind its pinion dashes 
 
 Against thy gilded lattice-bars. 
 Around the shafts, in breathing cluster. 
 
 The roses of Damascus run. 
 And through the summer's moons of lustre 
 
 The tulip's goblet drinks the sun. 
 
 The day, through shadowy arches fainting. 
 
 Reveals the garden's burst of bloom. 
 With lights of shifting iris painting 
 
 The jasper pavement of thy room : 
 Enroofed with palm and laurel bowers, 
 
 Thou seest, beyond, the cool kiosk. 
 And far away the pencilled towers 
 
 That shoot from many a stately mosque. 
 
 Thou hast no world beyond the chamber 
 
 Whose inlaid marbles mock the flowers. 
 Where burns thy lord's chibouk of amber. 
 
 To charm the languid evening hours; 
 Where sounds the lute's impassioned yearning 
 
 Through all enchanted tales of old. 
 And spicy cressets, dimly burning. 
 
 Swing on their chains of Persian gold. 
 
SORR O WFUL MUSIC. 
 
 No more, in half-remembered vision, 
 
 Thy distant childhood comes to view; 
 That star-like world of shapes Elysian 
 
 Has faded from thy morning's blue: 
 The eastern winds that cross the Taurus 
 
 Have now no voice of home beyond, 
 Where light waves foam in endless chorus 
 
 Against the walls of Trebizond. 
 
 For thee the Past may never reckon 
 
 Its hoard of saddening memories o'er, 
 Nor shapes from out the Future beckon 
 
 To joys that only Hve in store. 
 Thy life is in the gorgeous Present, 
 
 An Orient summer, warm and bright; 
 No gleam of beauty evanescent. 
 
 But one long time of deep delight. 
 
 SORROWFUL MUSIC. 
 
 Give me music, or I die; 
 Music, wherein Sorrow's cry 
 Is a sweet, aerial sigh, — 
 Where Despair is harmony. 
 
 Give me music, such as winds 
 To the ambushed grief, and finds 
 Clews of soft-enticing sound, 
 Notes that soothe and cannot wound, 
 Leading with a tender care 
 Outward into brighter air: 
 Music which, with welcome pain, 
 Melted from the master's brain, 
 When his sorrow, freed from smart, 
 Laid its head upon his heart, 
 
 32s 
 
326 EARLIER POEMS. 
 
 And the measure, broken, slow, — 
 Shed with tears in mingled flow, — 
 All its mighty secret spake 
 And it slept: it will not wake. 
 
 Give me music, sad and strong. 
 Drawn from deeper founts than Song; 
 More impassioned, full, and free 
 Than the Poet's numbers be: 
 Music which can master thee, 
 Stern enchantress, Memory! 
 Piercing through the gloomy stress 
 Of thy gathered bitterness. 
 As the summer lightnings play 
 Through a cloud's edge far away. 
 
 Give me music, I am dumb; 
 Choked with tears that never come. 
 Give me music; sigh or word 
 Such a sorrow never stirred, — 
 Sorrow that with blinding pain 
 Lies like fire on heart and brain. 
 Earth and Heaven bring no relief; 
 I am dumb; this weight of grief 
 Locks my lips; I cannot cry: 
 Give me music, or I die. 
 
 AUTUMNAL VESPERS. 
 
 The clarion Wind, that blew so loud at morn, 
 Whirling a thousand leaves from every bough 
 Of the purple woods, has not a whisper now; 
 Hushed on the uplands is the huntsman's horn. 
 And buskers whistling round the tented corn : 
 
AUTUMNAL VESPERS. 
 
 327 
 
 The snug warm cricket lets his clock run down, 
 Scared by the chill, sad hour that makes forlorn 
 The Autumn's gold and brown. 
 
 The light is dying out on field and wold ; 
 The life is dying in the leaves and grass. 
 The World 's last breath no longer dims the glass 
 Of waning sunset, yellow, pale, and cold. 
 His genial pulse, which Summer made so bold. 
 Has ceased. Haste, Night, and spread thy de- 
 cent pall ! 
 The silent, stiffening Frost makes havoc : fold 
 The darkness over all ! 
 
 The light is dying out o'er all the land, 
 
 And in my heart the light is dying. She, 
 My Hfe's best life, is fading silently 
 
 From Earth, from me, and from the dreams we 
 planned, 
 
 Since first Love led us with his beaming hand 
 
 From hope to hope, yet kept his crown in store. 
 
 The light is dying out o 'er all the land : 
 To me it comes no more. 
 
 The blossom of my heart, she shrinks away, 
 
 Stricken with deadly blight : more wan and weak 
 Her love replies in blanching lip and cheek, 
 
 And gentler in her dear eyes, day by day. 
 
 God, in Thy mercy, bid the arm delay. 
 
 Which thro' her being smites to dust my own ! 
 
 Thou gav'st the seed thy sun and showers; why slay 
 The blossoms yet unblown? 
 
328 EARLIER POEMS. 
 
 In vain, — in vain ! God will not bid the Spring 
 Replace with sudden green the Autumn's gold; 
 And as the night-mists, gathering damp and cold, 
 
 Strike up the vales where w^atercourses sing. 
 
 Death's mist shall strike along her veins, and cling 
 Thenceforth forever round her glorious frame: 
 
 For all her radiant presence, May shall bring 
 A memory and a name. 
 
 What know the woods, that soon shall be so stark? 
 What know the barren fields, the songless air. 
 Locked in benumbing cold, of blooms more fair 
 
 In mornings ushered by the April lark? 
 
 Weak solace this, which Grief will never hark; 
 Blind as a bud in stiff December's mail, 
 
 To lift her look beyond the frozen dark 
 No memory can avail. 
 
 I never knew the autumnal eves could wear, 
 
 With all their pomp, so drear a hue of Death; 
 I never knew their still and solemn breath 
 
 Could rob the breaking heart of strength to bear, 
 
 Feeding the blank submission of despair. 
 
 Yet, peace, sad soul ! reproach and pity shine 
 
 Suffused through starry tears: bend thou in prayer, 
 Rebuked by Love divine. 
 
 Our Hfe is scarce the twinkle of a star 
 
 In God's eternal day. Obscure and dim 
 With mortal clouds, it yet may beam for Him, 
 
 And darkened here, shine fair to spheres afar. 
 
 I will be patient, lest my sorrow bar 
 
 His grace and blessing, and I fall supine: 
 
 In my own hands my want and weakness are, — 
 My strength, O God ! in Thine. 
 
ODE TO SHELLEY. 329 
 
 ODE TO SHELLEY. 
 I. 
 
 Why art thou dead ? Upon the hills once more 
 
 The golden mist of waning Autumn lies; 
 The slow-pulsed billows wash along the shore, 
 
 And phantom isles are floating in the skies. 
 They wait for thee: a spirit in the sand 
 
 Hushes, expectant for thy coming tread; 
 The light wind pants to lift thy trembhng hair; 
 Inward, the silent land 
 
 Lies with its mournful woods ; — why art thou 
 dead, 
 When Earth demands that thou shalt call her fair? 
 
 II. 
 
 Why art thou dead ? I too demand thy song, 
 
 To speak the language yet denied to mine. 
 Twin-doomed with thee, to feel the scorn of Wrong, 
 
 To worship Beauty as a thing divine ! 
 Thou art afar: wilt thou not soon return 
 
 To tell me that which thou hast never told ? 
 To clasp my throbbing hand, and, by the shore 
 Or dewy mountain-fern. 
 
 Pour out thy heart as to a friend of old. 
 Touched with a twilight sadness? Nevermore. 
 
 in. 
 
 I could have told thee all the sylvan joy 
 Of trackless woods; the meadows far apart, 
 
 Within whose fragrant grass, a lonely boy, 
 I thought of God ; the trumpet at my heart, 
 
330 EARLIER POEMS. 
 
 When on bleak mountains roared the midnight storm, 
 And I was bathed in lightning, broad and grand : 
 
 O, more than all, with soft and reverent breath 
 And forehead flushing warm, 
 I would have led thee through the summer land 
 
 Of early Love, and past my dreams of Death ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 In thee, Immortal Brother ! had I found 
 
 That Voice of Earth, that fails my feebler lines: 
 The awful speech of Rome's sepulchral ground; 
 
 The dusky hymn of Vallombrosa's pines ! 
 From thee the noise of Ocean would have taken 
 
 A grand defiance round the moveless shores. 
 And vocal grown the Mountain's silent head: 
 Canst thou not yet awaken 
 
 Beneath the funeral cypress ? Earth implores 
 Thy presence for her son ; — why art thou dead ? 
 
 V. 
 
 I do but rave : for it is better thus. 
 
 Were once thy starry nature given to mine. 
 In the one life which would encircle us 
 
 My voice would melt, my soul be lost in thine. 
 Better to bear the far sublimer pain 
 
 Of Thought that has not ripened into speech. 
 To hear in silence Truth and Beauty sing 
 Divinely to the brain; 
 
 For thus the Poet at the last shall reach 
 His own soul's voice, nor crave a brother's string. 
 
SICILIAN WINE. 231 
 
 SICILIAN WINE. 
 
 I've drunk Sicilia's crimson wine ! 
 
 The blazing vintage pressed 
 
 From grapes on Etna's breast, 
 
 What time the mellowing autumn sun did shine: 
 
 I've drunk the wine ! 
 
 I feel its blood divine 
 
 Poured on the sluggish tide of mine, 
 
 Till, kindling slow. 
 
 Its fountains glow 
 
 With the light that swims 
 
 On their trembling brims, 
 
 And a molten sunrise floods my limbs ! 
 
 What do I here ? 
 
 I've drunk the wine. 
 
 And lo ! the bright blue heaven is clear 
 
 Above the ocean's bluer sphere, 
 
 Seen through the long arcades of pine. 
 
 Inwoven and arched with vine ! 
 
 The glades are green below; 
 
 The temple shines afar; 
 
 Above, old Etna's snow 
 
 Sparkles with many an icy star : 
 
 I see the mountain and its marble wall. 
 
 Where gleaming waters fall 
 
 And voices call. 
 
 Singing and calling 
 
 Like chorals falling 
 
 Through pearly doors of some Olympian hall, 
 
 Where Love holds bacchanal. 
 
 Sicilian wine ! Sicilian wine ! 
 Summer, and Music, and Song divine 
 
332 EARLIER POEMS. 
 
 Are thine, — all thine ! 
 
 A sweet wind over the roses plays; 
 
 The wild bee hums at my languid ear; 
 
 The mute-winged moth serenely strays 
 
 On the downy atmosphere, 
 
 Like hovering Sleep, that overweighs 
 
 My lids with his shadow, yet comes not near. 
 
 Who'll share with me this languor? 
 
 With me the juice of Etna sip? 
 
 Who press the goblet's hp. 
 
 Refusing mine the while with love 's enchanting anger ? 
 
 Would I were young Adonis now ! 
 
 With what an ardor bold 
 
 Within my arms I'd fold 
 
 Fair Aphrodite of Idalian mould, 
 
 And let the locks that hide her gleaming brow 
 
 Fall o'er my shoulder as she lay 
 
 With the fair swell of her immortal breast 
 
 Upon my bosom pressed, 
 
 Giving Olympian thrills to its enamored clay! 
 
 Bacchus and Pan have fled: 
 
 No heavy Satyr crushes with his tread 
 
 The verdure of the meadow ground. 
 
 But in their stead 
 
 The Nymphs are leading a bewildering round. 
 
 Vivid and light as o'er some flowering rise 
 
 A dance of butterflies, 
 
 Their tossing hair with slender Hlies crowned. 
 
 And greener ivy than o'erran 
 
 The brows of Bacchus and the reed of Pan ! 
 
 I faint, I die: 
 The flames expire, 
 
SICILIAN WINE. 333 
 
 That made by blood a fluid fire: 
 
 Steeped in delicious weariness I lie. 
 
 O, lay me in some pearled shell, 
 
 Soft-balanced on the rippling sea, 
 
 Where sweet, cheek-kissing airs may wave 
 
 Their fresh wings over me; 
 
 Let me be wafted with the swell 
 
 Of Nereid voices; let no billow rave 
 
 To break the cool green crystal of the sea. 
 
 For I will wander free 
 
 Past the blue islands and the fading shores, 
 
 To Calpe and the far Azores, 
 
 And still beyond, and wide away, 
 
 Beneath the dazzling wings of tropic day, 
 
 Where, on unruffled seas. 
 
 Sleep the green isles of the Hesperides. 
 
 The Triton's trumpet calls: 
 
 I hear, I wake, I rise: 
 
 The sound peals up the skies. 
 
 And mellowed Echo falls 
 
 In answer back from Heaven's cerulean walls. 
 
 Give me the lyre that Orpheus played upon, 
 
 Or bright Hyperion, — 
 
 Nay, rather come, thou of the mighty bow. 
 
 Come thou below. 
 
 Leaving thy steeds unharnessed go ! 
 
 Sing as thou wilt, my voice shall dare to follow, 
 
 And I will sun me in thine awful glow, 
 
 Divine Apollo ! 
 
 Then thou thy lute shalt twine 
 
 With Bacchic tendrils of the glorious vine 
 
 That gave Sicilian wine: 
 
 And henceforth when the breezes run 
 
334 EARLIER POEMS. 
 
 Over its clusters, ripening in the sun, 
 
 The leaves shall still be playing, 
 
 Unto thy lute its melody repaying, 
 
 And I, that quafif, shall evermore be free 
 
 To mount thy car and ride the heavens with thee ! 
 
 SUMMER'S BACCHANAL. 
 
 Fill the cup from some secretest fountain, 
 Under granite ledges, deep and low. 
 
 Where the crystal vintage of the mountain. 
 Runs in foam from dazzling fields of snow. 
 
 Some lost stream, that in a woodland hollow 
 
 Coils, to sleep its weariness away, 
 Shut from prying stars, that fain would follow, 
 
 In the emerald glooms of hemlock spray. 
 
 Fill, dear friend, a goblet cool and sparkling 
 As the sunlight of October morns, — 
 
 Not for us the crimson wave, that darkling 
 Stains the lips of olden drinking-horns ! 
 
 We will quaff, beneath the noontide glowing. 
 Draughts of nectar, sweet as faery dew; 
 
 Couched on ferny banks, where light airs blowing, 
 Shake the leaves between us and the blue. 
 
 We will pledge in breathless, long libation, 
 All we have been, or have sworn to be, — 
 
 Fame, and Joy, and Love's dear adoration, — 
 Summer's lusty bacchanals are we ! 
 
 Round the white roots of the fragrant lily. 
 And the mossy hazels, purple-stained, 
 
STORM'LINES. 
 
 335 
 
 Once the music of these waters chilly 
 Gave return for all the sweetness drained. 
 
 How that rare, delicious, woodland flavor 
 Mocked my palate in the fever hours, 
 
 When I pined for springs of coolest savor, 
 As the burning Earth for thunder-showers ! 
 
 In the wave, which through my maddened dreaming 
 Flowed to cheat me, fill the cups again ! 
 
 Drink, dear friend, to life which is not seeming, — 
 Fresh as this to manhood's heart and brain ! 
 
 Fill, fill high ! and while our goblets, ringing, 
 Shine with vintage of the mountain-snow, 
 
 Youth shall bid his Fountain, blithely springing, 
 Brim our souls to endless overflow ! 
 
 STORM-LINES. 
 
 When the rains of November are dark on the hills, and 
 
 the pine-trees incessantly roar 
 To the sound of the wind-beaten crags, and the floods that 
 
 in foam through their black channels pour: 
 
 When the breaker-lined coast stretches dimly afar through 
 
 the desolate waste of the gale. 
 And the clang of the sea-gull at nightfall is heard from the 
 
 deep, Hke a mariner's wail: 
 
 When the gray sky drops low, and the forest is bare, and 
 
 the laborer is housed from the storm. 
 And the world is a blank, save the light of his home 
 
 through the gust shining redly and warm : — 
 
336 EARLIER POEMS. 
 
 Go thou forth, if the brim of thy heart with its tropical 
 
 fulness of hfe overflow, — 
 If the sun of thy bhss in the zenith is hung, nor a shadow 
 
 reminds thee of woe ! 
 
 Leave the home of thy love; leave thy labors of fame; in 
 
 the rain and the darkness go forth, 
 When the cold winds unpausingly wail as they drive from 
 
 the cheerless expanse of the North. 
 
 Thou shalt turn from the cup that was mantling before; 
 
 thou shalt hear the eternal despair 
 Of the hearts that endured and were broken at last, from 
 
 the hills and the sea and the air ! 
 
 Thou shalt hear how the Earth, the maternal, laments for 
 
 the children she nurtured with tears, — 
 How the forest but deepens its wail and the breakers their 
 
 roar, with the march of the years ! 
 
 Then the gleam of thy hearth-fire shall dwindle away, and 
 the lips of thy loved ones be still; 
 
 And thy soul shall lament in the moan of the storm, sound- 
 ing wide on the shelterless hill. 
 
 All the woes of existence shall stand at thy heart, and the 
 sad eyes of myriads implore. 
 
 In the darkness and storm of their being, the ray, stream- 
 ing out through thy radiant door. 
 
 Look again: how that star of thy Paradise dims, through 
 
 the warm tears, unwittingly shed ; — 
 Thou art man, and a sorrow so bitterly wrung never fell 
 
 on the dust of the Dead ! 
 
THE TWO VISIONS. 33;^ 
 
 Let the rain of the midnight beat cold on thy cheek, and 
 
 the proud pulses chill in thy frame, 
 Till the love of thy bosom is grateful and sad, and thou 
 
 turn'st from the mockery of Fame ! 
 
 Take with humble acceptance the gifts of thy life; let thy 
 
 joy touch the fountain of tears; 
 For the soul of the Earth, in endurance and pain, gathers 
 
 promise of happier years ! 
 
 THE TWO VISIONS. 
 
 Through days of toil, through nightly fears, 
 A vision blessed my heart for years; 
 And so secure its features grew. 
 My heart believed the blessing true. 
 
 I saw her there, a household dove, 
 In consummated peace of love, 
 And sweeter joy and saintlier grace 
 Breathed o'er the beauty of her face: 
 
 The joy and grace of love at rest, 
 The fireside music of the breast, 
 When vain desires and restless schemes 
 Sleep, pillowed on our early dreams. 
 
 Nor her alone : beside her stood, 
 In gentler types, our love renewed; 
 Our separate beings one, in Birth, — 
 The darling miracles of Earth. 
 
 The mother's smile, the children's kiss, 
 And home's serene, abounding bliss; 
 The fruitage of a life that bore 
 But idle summer blooms before: 
 
338 EARLIER POEMS. 
 
 Such was the vision, far and sweet, 
 That, still beyond Time's lagging feet, 
 Lay glimmering in my heart for years, 
 Dim with the mist of happy tears, 
 
 That vision died, in drops of woe, 
 In blotting drops, dissolving slow: 
 Now, toiling day and sorrowing night. 
 Another vision fills my sight. 
 
 A cold mound in the winter snow; 
 A colder heart at rest below; 
 A life in utter loneness hurled. 
 And darkness over all the world. 
 
 THE LIFE OF EARTH. 
 
 The breeze is blowing fresh and strong. 
 
 The rocking shallop chafes its chain. 
 And the billows are breaking in swells of song 
 
 The rhythmical joy of the restless main. 
 A spirited stallion paws the sand; 
 
 A hound is watching with eager eye; 
 The tramp of armies is felt in the land. 
 
 And banners are dancing beneath the sky ! 
 
 Let horns be heard in the gray ravine. 
 
 And stormy songs from off the sea ! 
 There's blood in my heart, where tears have been. 
 
 And the blood of youth is warm and free. 
 Leave, weary Soul, the lifeless lore 
 
 That kept these limbs in a slothful rust: 
 Lie down to rest on the quiet shore, — 
 
 The Dust has need of the life of dust ! 
 
THE LIFE OF EARTH. 339 
 
 Thou art weak and pallid, O form of flesh, 
 
 Where the rubicund dawn once left its hue, 
 But the Earth shall bare her bosom afresh, 
 
 And give thee the milk of manhood anew. 
 Thy locks shall toss on the mountain air. 
 
 Thy limbs shall cool in the sparkhng brine; 
 She will brace thy nerves with her forest-fare, 
 
 And warm thy veins with generous wine ! 
 
 Thy loins shall grow to a pard-like power 
 
 On the windy slopes of the riven hills; 
 Thou shalt bare thy breast to the arrowy shower, 
 
 And catch in thine arms the icy rills 1 
 Thy vigorous blood shall exult the same. 
 
 Though fevered cares in the spirit start. 
 As a pine, when the mountain is swathed in flame. 
 
 Keeps green and fresh in his spicy heart. 
 
 Thou shalt go where the battle-clarions blare, 
 
 As heroes went, ere the brain was lord; 
 Thine eye with the soldier's lust shall glare, 
 
 Thy heart shall smite in the clanging sword. 
 The cannon will bellow thy mad desire, 
 
 And the shock of combat thine arm employ. 
 Till the thews are steel, and the veins are fire, 
 
 And death at last is a terrible joy ! 
 
 Then tighten the girth and loosen the rein ! 
 
 Unleash the baying, impatient hound, 
 And deep in the surging and seething main 
 
 Let every quivering oar be drowned. 
 We are free! we have quelled the tyrant Soul: 
 
 We shall fill the world with our rebel mirth, 
 While the laughing vineyards crown the bowl 
 
 That brims for us with the Life of Earth ! 
 
340 EARLIER POEMS, 
 
 STORM SONG. 
 
 The clouds are scudding across the moon, 
 
 A misty light is on the sea; 
 The wind in the shrouds has a wintry tune, 
 
 And the foam is flying free. 
 
 Brothers, a night of terror and gloom 
 Speaks in the cloud and gathering roar; 
 
 Thank God, He has given us broad sea-room, 
 A thousand miles from shore. 
 
 Down with the hatches on those who sleep ! 
 
 The wild and whistHng deck have we; 
 Good watch, my brothers, to-night we'll keep, 
 
 While the tempest is on the sea ! 
 
 Though the rigging shriek in his terrible grip, 
 And the naked spars be snapped away, 
 
 Lashed to the helm, we'll drive our ship 
 In the teeth of the whelming spray ! 
 
 Hark ! how the surges o'er leap the deck ! 
 
 Hark ! how the pitiless tempest raves ! 
 Ah, daylight will look upon many a wreck 
 
 Drifting over the desert waves. 
 
 Yet, courage, brothers ! we trust the wa\e. 
 With God above us, our guiding chart : 
 
 So, whether to harbor or ocean-grave. 
 Be it still with a cheery heart 1 
 
 SONG. 
 
 I PLUCKED for thee the wilding rose 
 And wore it on my breast, 
 
THE WAVES. 
 
 And there, till daylight's dusky close, 
 
 Its silken cheek was pressed; 
 Its desert breath was sweeter far 
 
 Than palace-rose could be. 
 Sweeter than all Earth's blossoms are, 
 
 But that thou gav'st to me. 
 
 I kissed its leaves, in fond despite 
 
 Of lips that failed my own, 
 And Love recalled that sacred night 
 
 His blushing flower was blown. 
 I vowed, no rose should rival mine, 
 
 Though withered now, and pale. 
 Till those are plucked, whose white buds twine 
 
 Above thy bridal veil. 
 
 THE WAVES. 
 
 I. 
 
 Children are we 
 
 Of the restless sea. 
 Swelling in anger or sparkling in glee; 
 
 -We follow our race. 
 
 In shifting chase. 
 Over the boundless ocean-space ! 
 Who hath beheld where the race begun ? 
 
 Who shall behold it run ? 
 
 Who shall behold it run ? 
 
 II. 
 When the smooth airs keep 
 Their noontide sleep. 
 We dimple the cheek of the dreaming deep; 
 When the rough winds come. 
 From their cloudy home, 
 
 34: 
 
342 
 
 EARLIER POEMS. 
 
 At the tap of the hurricane's thunder-drum, 
 Deep are the furrows of wrath we plough, 
 
 Ridging his darkened brow ! 
 
 Ridging his darkened brow ! 
 
 m. 
 
 Over us born, 
 
 The unclouded Morn 
 Trumpets her joy with the Triton's horn, 
 
 And sun and star 
 
 By the thousand are 
 Orbed in our glittering, near and far: 
 And the splendor of Heaven, the pomp of Day, 
 
 Shine in our laughing spray ! 
 
 Shine in our laughing spray ! 
 
 rv. 
 
 We murmur our spell 
 
 Over sand and shell; 
 We girdle the reef with a combing swell; 
 
 And bound in the vice 
 
 Of the Arctic ice, 
 We build us a palace of grand device, — 
 Walls of crystal and splintered spires. 
 
 Flashing with diamond fires ! 
 
 Flashing with diamond fires ! 
 
 V. 
 
 In the endless round 
 Of our motion and sound, 
 The fairest dwelling of Beauty is found, 
 And with voice of strange 
 And solemn change, 
 
WORDSWORTH. 
 
 343 
 
 The elements speak in our world-wide range, 
 Harping the terror, the might, the mirth, 
 
 Sorrows and hopes of Earth ! 
 
 Sorrows and hopes of Earth 1 
 
 SONG. 
 
 From the bosom of ocean I seek thee, 
 
 Thou lamp of my spirit afar. 
 As the seaman, adrift in the darkness, 
 
 Looks up for the beam of his star; 
 And when on the moon-lighted water ' 
 
 The spirts of solitude sleep. 
 My soul, in the light of thy beauty. 
 
 Lies hushed as the waves of the deep. 
 
 As the shafts of the sunrise are broken 
 
 Far over the glittering sea, 
 Thou hast dawned on the waves of my dreaming, 
 
 And each thought has a sparkle of thee. 
 And though, with the white sail distended, 
 
 I speed from the vanishing shore. 
 Thou wilt give to the silence of ocean 
 
 The spell of thy beauty the more. 
 
 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 I SAW thee not, what time mine eyes beheld 
 Far-off Helvellyn skirt the misty sea. 
 When wild Manx waters foamed and tumbled free 
 Around my keel : I saw thee not, when swelled 
 Beyond Northumbrian moors the soft-blue line 
 Of mountain chains that look on Windermere; 
 Yet was it joy to know thy paths so near. 
 Thy voice on all those hills, O Bard divine ! 
 
344 EARLIER POEMS. 
 
 But I shall see thee where thou sittest now, 
 Musing, uplift o'er deeps of diamond air. 
 And I shall feel the splendor of thy brow 
 Thrown on the scanty wreath that binds my hair. 
 As, looking down benignly on my place, 
 Thou read'st the reverence in my hfted face. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 TO G. H. B. 
 
 You comfort me as one that, knowing Fate, 
 
 Would paint her visage kinder than you deem; 
 
 You say, my only bhss that is no dream 
 
 She clouds, but makes not wholly desolate. 
 
 Ah, Friend ! your heart speaks words of little weight 
 
 To veil that sadder knowledge, learned in song, 
 
 And 'gainst your solace Grief has made me strong : 
 
 The Gods are jealous of our low estate; 
 
 They give not Fame to Love, nor Love to Fame; 
 
 Power cannot taste the joy the humbler share, 
 
 Nor holy Beauty breathe in Luxury's air. 
 
 And all in darkness Genius feeds his flame. 
 
 We build and build, poor fools ! and all the while 
 
 Some Demon works unseen, and saps the pile. 
 
 THE TOMB OF CHARLEMAGNE. 
 
 I STOOD in that cathedral old, the work of kingly power, 
 
 That from the clustered roofs of Aix lifts up its mouldering 
 tower. 
 
 And, Hke a legend strange and rude, speaks of an earlier 
 day,— 
 
 Of saint and knight, the tourney's pomp, and the Minne- 
 singer 's lay ! 
 
THE TOMB OF CHARLEMAGNE. 345 
 
 Above me rose the pillared dome, with many a statue grim 
 And through the chancel-oriel came a splendor soft and 
 dim, 
 
 Till dusky shrine and painting old glowed in the lustre 
 wan: 
 
 Below me was a marble slab, -the Tomb of Charle- 
 magne. 
 
 A burst of organ-music rang so grandly, sadly slow, 
 It seemed a requiem thundered o'er the dead who slept be- 
 low; 
 
 And with the sound came thronging round the stern men of 
 that time. 
 
 When best was he who bravest fought, and cowardice was 
 crime. 
 
 I thought upon the day when he, whose dust I stood upon. 
 Ruled with a monarch's boundless right the kingdoms he 
 
 had won, — 
 When rose the broad Alps in his realm, and roared the 
 
 Baltic's wave; 
 And now — the lowest serf might stand, unheeded, on his 
 
 grave. 
 
 And ruthless hands despoiled his dust, attired in regal 
 
 pride. 
 The crown upon his crumbled brows, and Joyeuse by his 
 
 side, — 
 Whose rusted blade, at Ronpeval, flamed in the hero's hand 
 In answer to the silver horn of the Paladin, Roland. 
 
 I stood on that neglected stone, thrilled with the glorious 
 
 sound, 
 While bowed at many a holier shrine the worshippers 
 
 around, — 
 
346 EARLIER POEMS. 
 
 And through the cloud of incense-smoke burned many a 
 
 taper dim, 
 And priestly stoles went sweeping by — I could but think 
 
 of him ! 
 
 I saw the boy with yellow locks, crowned at St. Deny's 
 
 shrine ; 
 The emperor in his purple cloak, the lord of all the Rhine; 
 The conqueror of a thousand foes, in battle stern and hard ; 
 The widowed mourner at thy tomb, O fairest Hildegarde ! 
 
 Long pealed the music of the choir through chancel-arch 
 
 and nave. 
 As, lost in those old memories, I stood upon his grave; 
 And when the morning anthem ceased, and solemn mass 
 
 began, 
 I left that minster gray and old, — the Tomb of Charle- 
 
 magne 1 
 
 Aix-la-Chapelle, 1844. 
 
 THE WAYSIDE DREAM. 
 
 The deep and lordly Danube 
 
 Goes winding far below; 
 I see the white-walled hamlets 
 
 Amid his vineyards glow, 
 And southward, through the ether, shine 
 
 The Styrian hills of snow. 
 
 O'er many a league of landscape 
 Sleeps the warm haze of noon; 
 
 The wooing winds come freighted 
 With messages of June, 
 
 And down among the corn and flowers 
 I hear the water's tune. 
 
THE WAYSIDE DREAM, 
 
 The meadow-lark is singing, 
 
 As if it still were morn; 
 Within the dark pine-forest 
 
 The hunter winds his horn, 
 And the cuckoo's shy, complaining note 
 
 Mocks the maidens in the corn. 
 
 I watch the cloud-armada 
 
 Go sailing up the sky, 
 Lulled by the murmuring mountain grass 
 
 Upon whose bed I lie. 
 And the faint sound of noonday chimes 
 
 That in the distance die. 
 
 A warm and drowsy sweetness 
 
 Is steaHng o'er my brain; 
 I see no more the Danube 
 
 Sweep through his royal plain; 
 I hear no more the peasant girls 
 
 Singing amid the grain. 
 
 Soft, silvery wings, a moment 
 
 Have swept across my brow: 
 Again I hear the water, 
 
 But its voice is sweeter now, 
 And the mocking-bird and oriole 
 
 Are singing on the bough 1 
 
 The elm and linden branches 
 Droop close and dark o'erhead, 
 
 And the foaming forest brooklet 
 Leaps down its rocky bed: 
 
 Be still, my heart ! the seas are passed, — 
 The paths of home I tread ! 
 
 347 
 
348 EARLIER POEMS. 
 
 The showers of creamy blossoms 
 Are on the Hnden spray, 
 
 And down the clover meadow 
 They heap the scented hay, 
 
 And glad winds toss the forest leaves, 
 All the bright summer day. 
 
 Old playmates ! bid me welcome 
 Amid your brother-band; 
 
 Give me the old affection, — 
 The glowing grasp of hand ! 
 
 I seek no more the realms of old, — 
 Here is my Fatherland ! 
 
 Come hither, gentle maiden, 
 Who weep'st in tender joy ! 
 
 The rapture of thy presence 
 Repays the world's annoy. 
 
 And calms the wild and ardent heart 
 Which warms the wandering boy. 
 
 In many a mountain fastness, 
 By many a river's foam. 
 
 And through the gorgeous cities, 
 'Twas loneHness to roam; 
 
 For the sweetest music in my heart 
 Was the olden songs of home. 
 
 Ah, glen and grove are vanished, 
 And friends have faded now ! 
 
 The balmy Styrian breezes 
 Are blowing on my brow. 
 
 And sounds again the cuckoo's call 
 From the forest's inmost bough. 
 
STEYERMARK, ^.q 
 
 Fled is that happy vision, — 
 
 The gates of slumber fold; 
 I rise and journey onward 
 
 Through valleys green and old, 
 Where the far, white Alps announce the morn. 
 
 And keep the sunset's gold. 
 
 Upper Austria, 1845. 
 
 STEYERMARK. 
 
 In Steyermark, — green Steyermark, 
 
 The fields are bright and the forests dark, — 
 
 Bright with the maids that bind the sheaves, 
 
 Dark with the arches of whispering leaves ! 
 
 Voices and streams and sweet bells chime 
 
 Over the land, in the harvest-time, 
 
 And the blithest songs of the finch and lark 
 
 Are heard in the orchards of Steyermark. 
 
 In Steyermark,— old Steyermark, 
 
 The mountain summits are white and stark; 
 
 The rough winds furrow their trackless snow, 
 
 But the mirrors of crystal are smooth below; 
 
 The stormy Danube clasps the wave 
 
 That downward sweeps with the Drave and Save, 
 
 And the Euxine is whitened with many a bark, 
 
 Freighted with ores of Steyermark ! 
 
 In Steyermark, — rough Steyermark, 
 The anvils ring from dawn till dark; 
 The molten streams of the furnace glare, 
 Blurring with crimson the midnight air; 
 The lusty voices of forgemen chord. 
 Chanting the ballad of Siegfried's Sword, 
 
350 EAkLIER POEMS. 
 
 While the hammers swung by their arms so stark 
 Strike to the music of Steyermark ! 
 
 In Steyermark, — dear Steyermark, 
 Each heart is light as the morning lark: 
 There men are framed in the manly mould 
 Of their stalwart sires, of the times of old, 
 And the sunny blue of the Styrian sky 
 Grows soft in the timid maiden's eye, 
 When love descends with the twilight dark, 
 In the beechen groves of Steyermark. 
 
 TO A BAVARIAN GIRL. 
 
 Thou, Bavaria's brown-eyed daughter, 
 
 Art a shape of joy. 
 Standing by the Isar's water 
 
 With thy brother-boy; 
 In thy dream, with idle fingers 
 
 Threading through his curls. 
 On thy cheek the sun's kiss lingers. 
 
 Rosiest of girls ! 
 
 Woods of glossy oak are ringing 
 
 With the echoes bland. 
 While thy generous voice is singing 
 
 Songs of Fatherland, — 
 Songs, that by the Danube's river 
 
 Sound on hills of vine, 
 And where waves in green light quiver, 
 
 Down the rushing Rhine. 
 
 Life, with all its hues and changes, 
 
 To thy heart doth lie 
 Like those dreamy Alpine ranges 
 
 In the southern sky; 
 
IN ITALY. 
 
 351 
 
 Where in haze the clefts are hidden, 
 Which the foot should fear, 
 
 And the crags that, all unbidden 
 Startle not the ear. 
 
 Where the village maidens gather 
 
 At the fountain's brim, 
 Or in sunny harvest-weather. 
 
 With the reapers trim; 
 Where the autumn fires are burning 
 
 On the vintage-hills; 
 Where the mossy wheels are turning 
 
 In the ancient mills; 
 
 Where from ruined robber-towers 
 
 Hangs the ivy's hair. 
 And the crimson foxbell flowers 
 
 On the crumbling stair: — 
 Everywhere, without thy presence. 
 
 Would the sunshine fail. 
 Fairest of the maiden peasants ! 
 
 Flower of Isar 's vale ! 
 
 Munich, 1845. 
 
 IN ITALY. 
 
 Dear Lilhan, all I wished is won ! 
 I sit beneath Italia 's sun, 
 Where olive-orchards gleam and quiver 
 Along the banks of Arno's river. 
 
 Through laurel leaves, the dim green light 
 Falls on my forehead as I write, 
 And the sweet chimes of vesper, ringing. 
 Blend with the contadina's singing. 
 
352 
 
 EARLIER POEMS. 
 
 Rich is the soil with Fancy's gold; 
 The stirring memories of old 
 Rise thronging in my haunted vision, 
 And wake my spirit's young ambition. 
 
 But as the radiant sunsets close 
 Above Val d'Arno's bowers of rose, 
 My soul forgets the olden glory, 
 And deems our love a dearer story. 
 
 Thy words, in Memory's ear, outchime 
 The music of the Tuscan rhyme; 
 Thou standest here — the gentle-hearted — 
 Amid the shades of bards departed. 
 
 I see before thee fade away 
 
 Their garlands of immortal bay. 
 
 And turn from Petrarch's passion-glances 
 
 To my own dearer heart-romances. 
 
 Sad is the opal glow that fires 
 The midnight of the cypress spires, 
 And cold the scented wind that closes 
 The heart of bright Etruscan roses. 
 
 A single thought of thee effaced 
 The fair Italian dream I chased ; 
 For the true clime of song and sun 
 Lies in the heart which mine hath won ! 
 
 Florence, 1845. 
 
 A BACCHIC ODE. 
 
 Wine, — bring wine ! 
 
 Let the crystal beaker flame and shine, 
 
 Brimming o'er with the draught divine! 
 
A BACCHIC ODE, 353 
 
 The crimson glow 
 
 Of the lifted cup on my forehead throw, 
 
 Like the sunset's flush on a field of snow. 
 
 I burn to lave 
 
 My thirsty lip in the ruddy wave; 
 
 Freedom bringeth the wine so brave ! 
 
 The world is cold : 
 
 Sorrow and pain have gloomy hold, 
 
 Chilling the bosom warm and bold. 
 
 Doubts and fears 
 
 Veil the shine of my morning years, — 
 
 My life's lone rainbow springs from tears. 
 
 But Eden-gleams 
 
 Visit my soul in immortal dreams, 
 
 When the wave of the goblet burns and beams. 
 
 Not from the Rhine, 
 
 Not from fields of Burgundian vine. 
 
 Bring me the bright Olympian wine ! 
 
 Not with a ray 
 
 Born where the winds of Shiraz play. 
 
 Or the fiery blood of the ripe Tokay. 
 
 Not where the glee 
 
 Of Falernian vintage echoes free. 
 
 Or the Chian gardens gem the sea. 
 
 But wine, — bring wine, 
 
 Royally flushed with its growth divine, 
 
 In the crystal depth of my soul to shine ! 
 
354 EARLIER POEMS. 
 
 Whose glow was caught 
 
 From the warmth which Fancy's summer brought 
 
 To the vintage-fields in the Land of Thought. 
 
 Rich and free 
 
 To my thristing soul will the goblet be, 
 
 Poured by the Hebe, Poesy. 
 
 A FUNERAL THOUGHT. 
 
 When the stern Genius, to whose hollow tramp 
 
 Echo the startled chambers of the soul, 
 Waves his inverted torch o'er that pale camp 
 
 Where the archangel's final trumpets roll, 
 I would not meet him in the chamber dim. 
 
 Hushed, and pervaded with a nameless fear, 
 When the breath flutters and the senses swim, 
 And the dread hour is near. 
 
 II. 
 
 Though Love's dear arms might clasp me fondly then 
 
 As if to keep the Summoner at bay. 
 And woman's woe and the calm grief of men 
 
 Hallow at last the chill, unbreathing clay — 
 These are Earth's fetters, and the soul would shrink. 
 
 Thus bound, from Darkness and the dread Unknown, 
 Stretching its arms from Death's eternal brink. 
 Which it must dare alone. 
 
 III. 
 
 But in the awful silence of the sky. 
 
 Upon some mountain summit, yet untrod, 
 
AN HOUR, 
 
 Through the blue ether would I cHmb, to die 
 Afar from mortals and alone with God ! 
 
 To the pure keeping of the stainless air 
 
 Would I resign my faint and fluttering breath, 
 
 And with the rapture of an answered prayer 
 Receive the kiss of Death. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Then to the elements my frame would turn; 
 
 No worms should riot on my coffined clay, 
 But the cold limbs, from that sepulchral urn, 
 
 In the slow storms of ages waste away. 
 Loud winds and thunder's diapason high 
 
 Should be my requiem through the coming time, 
 And the white summit, fading in the sky, 
 My monument subhme. 
 
 AN HOUR. 
 
 I've left the keen, cold winds to blow 
 
 Around the summits bare; 
 My sunny pathway to the sea 
 
 Leads downward, green and fair, 
 Where leaves and blossoms toss and glow 
 
 Amid the southern air. 
 
 The fern its fragrant plumage droops 
 
 O'er mosses crisp and gray, 
 Where on the shaded crags I sit. 
 
 Beside the cataract's spray. 
 And watch the far-off, shining sails 
 
 Go down the gleaming bay. 
 
 I 've left the wintry winds of life 
 On barren hearts to blow, — 
 
 355 
 
356 EARLIER POEMS. 
 
 The anguish and the gnawing care, 
 
 The torture and the woe 1 
 I sail the sunny sea of dreams 
 
 Where'er its winds may blow. 
 
 Away ! away ! I hear the horn 
 
 Among the hills of Spain : 
 The old, chivalric glory fires 
 
 Her warrior hearts again: 
 Ho ! how their banners light the morn 
 
 Along Granada's plain ! 
 
 I hear the hymns of holy faith 
 
 The red Crusaders sang, 
 And the silver horn of Ronfeval, 
 
 That o'er the tecbir rang, 
 When prince and kaiser through the fray 
 
 To the dying paladin sprang. 
 
 A beam of burning light I hold, 
 My good Damascus brand. 
 
 And the jet-black charger that I ride 
 Was foaled in the Arab land. 
 
 And a hundred horsemen, mailed in steel, 
 Follow at my command 1 
 
 Through royal cities goes our march; 
 
 The minster-bells are rung; 
 The trumpets give a lordly peal, 
 
 The battle-flags are swung. 
 And lips of lovely ladies praise 
 
 The chieftain, brave and young. 
 
 And now, in soft Proven fal bowers, 
 A minstrel-knight am I: 
 
THE NORSEMAN'S RIDE. 
 
 A gentle bosom on my own 
 
 Throbs back its ecstasy; 
 A cheek, as fair as the almond flowers, 
 
 Thrills to my lip's reply. 
 
 I tread the fanes of wondrous Rome, 
 Crowned with immortal bay, 
 
 And myriads crowd the Capitol 
 To hear my lofty lay. 
 
 While, sounding o'er the Tiber's foam. 
 Their shoutings peal away. 
 
 O, triumph such as this were worth 
 
 The Poet's doom of pain, 
 Whose hours are brazen on the earth, 
 
 But golden in the brain : 
 I close the starry Gate of Dreams, 
 
 And walk the dust again. 
 
 THE NORSEMAN'S RIDE. 
 
 The frosty fires of Northern starlight 
 
 Gleamed on the glittering snow, 
 And through the forest's frozen branches 
 
 The shrieking winds did blow; 
 A floor of blue, translucent marble 
 
 Kept ocean's pulses still, 
 When, in the depth of dreary midnight, 
 
 Qpened the burial hill. 
 
 Then while a low and creeping shudder 
 Thrilled upward through the ground, 
 
 The Norseman came, as armed for battle. 
 In silence from his mound : 
 
 357 
 
358 EARLIER POEMS. 
 
 He, who was mourned in solemn sorrow 
 
 By many a swordsman bold, 
 And harps that wailed along the ocean, 
 
 Struck by the Skalds of old. 
 
 Sudden, a swift and silver shadow 
 
 Rushed up from out the gloom, — 
 A horse that stamped with hoof impatient, 
 
 Yet noiseless, on the tomb. 
 ''Ha, Surtur! let me hear thy tramping. 
 
 Thou noblest Northern steed. 
 Whose neigh along the stormy headlands 
 
 Bade the bold Viking heed!" 
 
 He mounted : like a north-light streaking 
 
 The sky with flaming bars, 
 They, on the winds so wildly shrieking. 
 
 Shot up before the stars. 
 ''Is this thy mane, my fearless Surtur, 
 
 That streams against my breast? 
 Is this thy neck, that curve of moonlight, 
 
 Which Helva's hand caressed? 
 
 "No misty breathing strains thy nostril, 
 
 Thine eye shines blue and cold. 
 Yet, mounting up our airy pathway, 
 
 I see thy hoofs of gold ! 
 Not lighter o'er the springing rainbow 
 
 Walhalla's gods repair. 
 Than we, in sweeping journey over 
 
 The bending bridge of air. 
 
 "Far, far around, star-gleams are sparkling 
 
 Amid the twilight space; 
 And Earth, that lay so cold and darkling, 
 
 Has veiled her dusky face. 
 
THE VOICE OF THE FIRE. 
 
 Are those the Nornes that beckon onward 
 
 To seats at Odin's board, 
 Where nightly by the hands of heroes 
 
 The foaming mead is poured? 
 
 ** 'Tis Skuld ! her star-eye speaks the glory 
 
 That waits the warrior's soul, 
 When on its hinge of music opens 
 
 The gateway of the Pole, — 
 When Odin's warder leads the hero 
 
 To banquets never done. 
 And Freya's eyes outshine in summer 
 
 The ever-risen sun. 
 
 *' On ! on ! the Northern lights are streaming 
 
 In brightness like the morn, 
 And pealing far amid the vastness, 
 
 I hear the Gjallarhorn: 
 The heart of starry space is throbbing 
 
 With songs of minstrels old. 
 And now, on high Walhalla's portal, 
 
 Gleam Surtur's hoofs of gold!" 
 
 THE VOICE OF THE FIRE. 
 
 They sat by the hearth-stone, broad and bright, 
 Whose burning brands threw a cheerful light 
 On the frosty calm of the winter's night. 
 
 Her tresses soft to his lips were pressed. 
 Her head was laid on his happy breast, 
 And a tender silence their love expressed : 
 
 359 
 
360 EARLIER POEMS, 
 
 And ever a gentle murmur came 
 
 From the clear, bright heart of the wavering flame, 
 
 Like the first sweet call of the dearest name. 
 
 He kissed on the warm, white brow. 
 
 And told her in fonder words, the vow 
 
 He had whispered under the moonlit bough; 
 
 And o'er them a steady radiance came 
 
 From the shining heart of the mountain flame, 
 
 Like the love that burneth forever the same. 
 
 The maiden smiled through her soft brown eyes. 
 As he led her forward to sunnier skies. 
 Whose cloudless light on the Future lies ; 
 
 And a moment paused the laughing flame. 
 And it listened awhile, and then there came 
 A cheery burst from its sparkling frame. 
 
 In the home he pictured, the home so blest. 
 Their souls should sit in a calmer rest, 
 Like woodland birds in their shaded nest. 
 
 There slept, foreshadowed, the bliss to be, 
 When a tenderer life that home should see, 
 In the wingless cherub that climbed his knee. 
 
 And the flame went on with its flickering song. 
 And beckoned and laughed to the lovers long. 
 Who sat in its radiance, red and strong. 
 
 And ever its burden seemed to be 
 The mingled voices of household glee. 
 Like the gush of winds in a mountain tree. 
 
A REQUIEM IN THE NORTH. 36 1 
 
 Then broke and fell a glimmering brand 
 To the cold, dead ashes it fed and fanned, 
 And its last gleam waved like a warning hand. 
 
 They did not speak, for there came a fear, 
 As a spirit of evil were wandering near, 
 A menace of danger to something dear. 
 
 And, hovering over its mouldering bed, 
 
 A feebler pinion the flame outspread, 
 
 And a paler light through the chamber shed. 
 
 He clasped the maid in a fonder thrall : 
 ''We shall love each other, whatever befall, 
 And the Merciful Father is over all." 
 
 A REQUIEM IN THE NORTH 
 
 Speed swifter. Night ! — wild Northern Night, 
 
 Whose feet the Arctic islands know, 
 When stiffening breakers, sharp and white, 
 
 Gird the complaining shores of snow ! 
 Send all thy winds to sweep the wold. 
 
 And howl in mountain passes far. 
 And hang thy banners, red and cold, 
 
 Against the shield of every star ! 
 
 For what have I to do with morn. 
 
 Or summer 's glory in the vales, — 
 With the bhthe ring of forest-horn. 
 
 Or beckoning gleam of snowy sails ? 
 Art thou not gone, in whose blue eye 
 
 The fleeting summer dawned to me? 
 Gone, like the echo of a sigh 
 
 Beside the loud, resounding sea ! 
 
362 EARLIER POEMS. 
 
 O, brief that time of song and flowers, 
 
 Which blessed, through thee, the Northern Land ! 
 I pine amid its leafless bowers, 
 
 And on the bleak and lonely strand. 
 The forest wails the starry bloom 
 
 Which yet shall light its dusky floor, 
 But down my spirit's paths of gloom 
 
 Thy love shall blossom nevermore. 
 
 And nevermore shall battling pines 
 
 Their solemn triumph sound for me; 
 Nor morning gild the mountain Hnes, 
 
 Nor sunset flush the hoary sea; 
 But Night and Winter fill the sky, 
 
 And load with frost the shivering air, 
 Till every gust that hurries by 
 
 Repeats the voice of my despair. 
 
 The leaden twiUght, cold and long, 
 
 Is slowly settHng o'er the wave; 
 No wandering blast awakes a song 
 
 In naked boughs, above thy grave. 
 The frozen air is still and dark; 
 
 The numb earth hes in icy rest; 
 And all is dead save this one spark 
 
 Of burning grief, within my breast. 
 
 Life's darkened orb shall wheel no more 
 
 To Love's rejoicing summer back: 
 My spirit walks a wintry shore. 
 
 With not a star to cheer its track. 
 Speed swifter, Night ! thy gloom and frost 
 
 Are free to spoil and ravage here; 
 This last wild requiem for the lost 
 
 I pour in thy unheeding ear ! 
 
THE CONTINENTS. 363 
 
 THE CONTINENTS. 
 
 I HAD a vision in that solemn hour, 
 
 Last of the year sublime, 
 Whose wave sweeps downward, with its dying power 
 
 Rippling the shores of Time. 
 On the bleak margin of that hoary sea 
 
 My spirit stood alone, 
 Watching the gleams of phantom History, 
 
 Which through the darkness shone. 
 
 Then, when the bell of midnight ghostly hands 
 
 Tolled for the dead year's doom, 
 I saw the spirits of Earth's ancient lands 
 
 Stand up amid the gloom 1 
 The crowned deities, whose reign began 
 
 In the forgotten Past, 
 When first the fresh world gave to sovereign Man 
 
 Her empires green and vast. 
 
 First queenly Asia, from the fallen thrones 
 
 Of twice three thousand years, 
 Came with the woe a grieving goddess owns. 
 
 Who longs for mortal tears. 
 The dust of ruin to her mantle clung 
 
 And dimmed her crown of gold, 
 While the majestic sorrows of her tongue 
 
 From Tyre to Indus rolled : 
 
 "Mourn with me, sisters, in my realm of woe. 
 
 Whose only glory streams 
 From its lost childhood, Hke the arctic glow 
 
 Which sunless Winter dreams ! 
 In the red desert moulders Babylon, 
 
 And the wild serpent's hiss 
 
364 EARLIER POEMS. 
 
 Echoes in Petra's palaces of stone, 
 And waste Persepolis. 
 
 "Gone are the deities that ruled enshrined 
 
 In Elephanta's caves, 
 And Brahma's wailings fill the fragrant wind 
 
 That ripples Ganges' waves: 
 The ancient gods amid their temples fall, 
 
 And shapes of some near doom, 
 TrembHng and waving on the Future's wall, 
 
 More fearful make my gloom!" 
 
 Then, from her seat, amid the palms embowered 
 
 That shade the lion-land, 
 Swart Africa in dusky aspect towered, 
 
 The fetters on her hand ! 
 Backward she saw, from out her drear eclipse. 
 
 The mighty Theban years. 
 And the deep anguish of her mournful lips 
 
 Interpreted her tears. 
 
 "Woe for my children, whom your gyves have bound 
 
 Through centuries of toil; 
 The bitter wailings of whose bondage sound 
 
 From many an ahen soil ! 
 Leave me but free, though the eternal sand 
 
 Be all my kingdom now, — 
 Though the rude splendors of barbaric land 
 
 But mock my crownless brow !" 
 
 There was a sound, like sudden trumpets blown, 
 
 A ringing, as of arms. 
 When Europe rose, a stately amazon, 
 
 Stern in her mailed charms. 
 She brooded long beneath the weary bars 
 
 That chafed her soul of flame, 
 
THE CONTINENTS. 365 
 
 And like a seer, who reads the awful stars, 
 Her words prophetic came : 
 
 ''I hear new sounds along the ancient shore, 
 
 Whose dull old monotone 
 Of tides, that broke on many a system hoar, 
 
 Moaned through the ages lone: 
 I see a gleaming, like the crimson morn 
 
 Beneath a stormy sky. 
 And warning throes, which long my breast has borne, 
 
 Proclaim the struggle nigh." 
 
 radiant-browed, the latest born of Time ! 
 
 How waned thy sisters old. 
 Before the splendors of thine eye sublime, 
 
 And mien erect and bold ! 
 Free, as the winds of thine own forests are, 
 
 Thy brow beamed lofty cheer, 
 And Day's bright oriflamme, the Morning Star, 
 
 Flashed on thy lifted spear. 
 
 *'I bear no weight" — rang thine exulting tones — 
 
 "Of memories weird and vast; 
 No crushing heritage of iron thrones, 
 
 Bequeathed by some dead Past; 
 But hopes, that give my children power to cHmb 
 
 Above the old-world fears — 
 Whose prophecies forerun the latest time, 
 
 And lead the crowning years 1 
 
 "Like spectral lamps, that burn before a tomb, 
 The ancient lights expire; 
 
 1 hold a torch, that floods the fading gloom 
 
 With everlasting fire: 
 
366 EARLIER POEMS. 
 
 Crowned with my constellated stars, I stand 
 
 Beside the foaming sea, 
 And from the Future, with a victor's hand, 
 
 Claim empire for the Free!" 
 
 January, 1848. 
 
 THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 O DEEP, exulting freedom of the hills ! 
 
 O summits vast, that to the climbing view 
 
 In naked glory stand against the blue ! 
 O cold and buoyant air, whose crystal fills 
 Heaven's amethystine bowl ! O speeding streams, 
 
 That foam and thunder from the cHfifs below ! 
 
 O slippery brinks and sohtudes of snow. 
 And granite bleakness, where the vulture screams ! 
 
 stormy pines, that wrestle with the breath 
 Of every tempest, sharp and icy horns. 
 And hoary glaciers, sparkUng in the morns, 
 
 And broad, dim wonders of the world beneath ! 
 
 1 summon ye, and 'mid the glare which fills 
 The noisy mart, my spirit walks the hills. 
 
 L 'ENVOI. 
 
 I've passed the grim and threatening warders 
 
 That guard the vestibule of Song, 
 And traced the print of bolder footsteps 
 
 The lengthened corridors along; 
 WTiere every thought I strove to blazon 
 
 Beside the bannered lays of old, 
 Was dim below some bright escutcheon, 
 
 Or shaded by some grander fold. 
 
VENVOL 367 
 
 I saw, in veiled and shadowy glimpses, 
 
 The solemn halls expand afar. 
 And through the twilight, half despairing, 
 
 Looked trembUng up to find a star; 
 Till, in the rush of wings, awakened 
 
 My soul to utterance free and strong. 
 And with impassioned exultation, 
 
 I revelled in the rage of Song ! 
 
 Then, though the world beside, unheeding. 
 
 Heard other voices than my own, 
 Thou, thou didst mark the broken music. 
 
 And cheer its proud, aspiring tone: 
 Thou cam'st in many a lovely vision 
 
 To lead my ardent spirit on. 
 Thine eye my morning-star of promise, 
 
 The sweet anticipant of dawn. 
 
 And if I look to holier altars. 
 
 Thou still art near me, as of old, 
 And thou wilt give the living laurel, 
 
 When the shrined Presence I behold. 
 Take, then, these echoes of thy being, 
 
 My lips have weakly striven to frame; 
 For when I speak what thou inspirest, 
 
 I know my songs are nearest fame. 
 
SINCE 1861. 
 
THROUGH BALTIMORE. 
 
 'TwAS Friday morn: the train drew near 
 
 The city and the shore. 
 Far through the sunshine, soft and clear, 
 We saw the dear old flag appear, 
 And in our hearts arose a cheer 
 For Baltimore. 
 
 II. 
 
 Across the broad Patapsco's wave, 
 
 Old Fort McHenry bore 
 The starry banner of the brave, 
 As when our fathers went to save, 
 Or in the trenches find a grave 
 At Baltimore. 
 
 HI.- 
 
 Before us, pillared in the sky. 
 
 We saw the statue soar 
 
 Of Washington, serene and high : — 
 
 Could traitors view that form, nor fly ? 
 
 Could patriots see, nor gladly die 
 For Baltimore? 
 
 IV. 
 
 "O city of our country's song! 
 
 By that swift aid we bore 
 When sorely pressed, receive the throng 
 371 
 
3/2 SINCE iS6i. 
 
 Who go to shield our flag from wrong, 
 And give us welcome, warm and strong. 
 In Baltimore!" 
 
 V. 
 
 We had no arms; as friends we came, 
 
 As brothers evermore, 
 To rally round one sacred name, — 
 The charter of our power and fame : 
 We never dreamed of guilt and shame 
 In Baltimore. 
 
 VI. 
 
 The coward mob upon us fell: 
 
 McHenry's flag they tore: 
 Surprised, borne backward by the swell, 
 Beat down with mad, inhuman yell, 
 Before us yawned a traitorous hell 
 In Baltimore! 
 
 vn. 
 
 The streets our soldier-fathers trod 
 
 Blushed with their children's gore; 
 We saw the craven rulers nod. 
 And dip in blood the civic rod — 
 Shall such things be, O righteous God, 
 In Baltimore? 
 
 vm. 
 
 No, never ! By that outrage black, 
 
 A solemn oath we swore, 
 To bring the Keystone's thousands back, 
 
TO THE AMERICAN PEOPLE. 373 
 
 Strike down the dastards who attack, 
 And leave a red and fiery track 
 Through Baltimore ! 
 
 IX. 
 
 Bow down, in haste, thy guilty head ! 
 
 God's wrath is swift and sore: 
 The sky with gathering bolts is red, — 
 Cleanse from thy skirts the slaughter shed. 
 Or make thyself an ashen bed, 
 
 O Baltimore! 
 
 TO THE AMERICAN PEOPLE. 
 
 That late, in half -despair, I said : 
 "The Nation's ancient life is dead; 
 Her arm is weak, her blood is cold ; 
 She hugs the peace that gives her gold, — 
 The shameful peace, that sees expire 
 Each beacon-light of patriot fire. 
 And makes her court a traitors' den," — 
 Forgive me this, my countrymen ! 
 
 O, in your long forbearance grand, 
 Slow to suspect the treason planned, 
 Enduring wrong, yet hoping good 
 For sake of olden brotherhood. 
 How grander, how sublimer far 
 At the roused Eagle's call ye are. 
 Leaping from slumber to the fight 
 For Freedom and for Chartered Right ! 
 
 Throughout the land there goes a cry; 
 A sudden splendor fills the sky : 
 
374 SIXCE iSdi. 
 
 From every hill the banners burst, 
 Like buds by April breezes nurst; 
 In every hamlet, home, and mart, 
 The fire-beat of a single heart 
 Keeps time to strains v^^hose pulses mix 
 Our blood with that of Seventy-Six ! 
 
 The shot whereby the old flag fell 
 From Sumter's battered citadel 
 Struck down the lines of party creed 
 And made ye One in soul and deed, — 
 One mighty People, stern and strong 
 To crush the consummated wrong; 
 Indignant with the wrath whose rod 
 Smites as the awful sw^ord of God ! 
 
 The cup is full 1 They thought ye bUnd 
 The props of state they undermined; 
 Abused your trust, your strength defied. 
 And stained the Nation's name of pride. 
 Now lift to Heaven your loyal brows, 
 Swear once again your fathers' vows, 
 And cut through traitor hearts a track 
 To nobler fame and freedom back ! 
 
 Draw forth your million blades as one; 
 Complete the battle then begun ! 
 God fights with ye, and overhead 
 Floats the dear banner of your dead. 
 They, and the glories of the Past, 
 The Future, dawning dim and vast, 
 And all the holiest hopes of Man, 
 Are beaming triumph in your van ! 
 
SCOTT AND THE VETERAN. 375 
 
 Slow to resolve, be swift to do ! 
 Teach ye the False how fight the True ! 
 How bucklered Perfidy shall feel 
 In her black heart the Patriot's steel; 
 How sure the bolt that Justice wings; 
 How weak the arm a traitor brings; 
 How mighty they, who steadfast stand 
 For Freedom's Flag and Freedom's Land! 
 April 30, 1 861. 
 
 SCOTT AND THE VETERAN. 
 I. 
 
 An old and crippled veteran to the War Department came; 
 He sought the Chief who led him on many a field of 
 fame, — 
 
 The Chief who shouted ''Forward!" where'er his banner 
 
 rose, 
 And bore its stars in triumph behind the flying foes. 
 
 II. 
 
 ''Have you forgotten, General," the battered soldier cried, 
 "The days of Eighteen Hundred Twelve, when I was at 
 
 your side? 
 Have you forgotten Johnson, that fought at Lundy's Lane ? 
 'Tis true, I'm old and pensioned, but I want to fight 
 
 again." 
 
 III. 
 
 "Have I forgotten?" said the Chief; "my brave old 
 soldier, No ! 
 
3/6 SINCE 1861. 
 
 And here's the hand I gave you then, and let it tell you 
 so: 
 
 But you have done your share, my friend; you're crippled, 
 old, and gray, 
 
 And we have need of younger arms and fresher blood to- 
 day." 
 
 IV. 
 
 "But, General," cried the veteran, a flush upon his brow, 
 **The very men who fought with us, they say, are traitors 
 
 now; 
 They've torn the flag of Lundy's Lane, — our old red, 
 
 white, and blue; 
 And while a drop of blood is left, I'll show that drop is 
 
 true. 
 
 V. 
 
 "I'm not so weak but I can strike, and I've a good old 
 
 gun 
 To get the range of traitors' hearts, and pick them, one by 
 
 one. 
 Your Minie rifles, and such arms, it a'n't worth while to 
 
 try: 
 I couldn't get the hang o' them, but I'll keep my powder 
 
 dry!" 
 
 VI. 
 
 "God bless you, comrade!" said the Chief; "God bless 
 
 your loyal heart ! 
 But younger men are in the field, and claim to have their 
 
 part: 
 They'll plant our sacred banner in each rebellious town. 
 And woe, henceforth, to any hand that dares to pull it 
 
 down ! " 
 
SCOTT AND THE VETERAN. 377 
 
 VII. 
 
 "But, General," — still persisting, the weeping veteran 
 
 cried, 
 "I'm young enough to follow, so long as you've my guide; 
 And some, you know, must bite the dust, and that, at least, 
 
 can I, — 
 So, give the young ones place to fight, but me a place to 
 
 die! 
 
 VIII. 
 
 "If they should fire on Pickens, let the Colonel in com- 
 mand 
 Put me upon the rampart, with the flagstaff in my hand : 
 No odds how hot the cannon-smoke, or how the shells may 
 
 fly; 
 
 I'll hold the Stars and Stripes aloft, and hold them till I 
 die! 
 
 IX. 
 
 "I'm ready. General, so you let a post to me be given. 
 Where Washington can see me, as he looks from highest 
 
 heaven, 
 And say to Putnam at his side, or, may be, General 
 
 Wayne ; 
 'There stands old Billy Johnson, that fought at Lundy's 
 
 Lane ! ' 
 
 "And when the fight is hottest, before the traitors fly. 
 When shell and ball are screeching and bursting in the sky, 
 If any shot should hit me, and lay me on my face. 
 My soul would go to Washington's, and not to Arnold 's 
 
 place!" 
 May, 1861. 
 
378 
 
 SINCE 1861. 
 
 MARCH. 
 
 With rushing winds and gloomy skies 
 The dark and stubborn Winter dies. 
 Far-off, unseen, Spring faintly cries, 
 Bidding her earliest child arise: 
 
 By streams still held in icy snare. 
 On southern hillsides, melting bare, 
 O'er fields that motley colors wear, 
 That summons fills the changeful air: 
 
 What though conflicting seasons make 
 Thy days their field, they woo or shake 
 The sleeping lids of Life awake. 
 And hope is stronger for thy sake. 
 
 March ! 
 
 March ! 
 
 March ! 
 
 Then from thy mountains, ribbed with snow, 
 Once more thy rousing bugle blow, 
 And East and West, and to and fro, 
 Announce thy coming to the foe, 
 
 March ! 
 
 Say to the picket, chilled and numb; 
 Say to the camp's impatient hum; 
 Say to the trumpet and the drum: 
 "Lift up your hearts, I come! I come!" 
 
 March ! 
 
 Cry to the waiting hosts that stray 
 On sandy seasides, far away. 
 By marshy isle and gleaming bay, 
 Where Southern March is Northern May 
 
 March ! 
 
A THOUSAND YEARS. 379 
 
 Announce thyself with welcome noise, 
 Where Glory's victor-eagles poise 
 Above the proud, heroic boys 
 Of Iowa and Illinois : 
 
 March ! 
 
 Then down the long Potomac's line 
 Shout Hke a storm on hills of pine. 
 Till ramrods ring and bayonets shine: 
 ''Advance! The Chieftain's call is mine,— 
 
 March!" 
 
 March i, 1862. 
 
 A THOUSAND YEARS. 
 
 [Novgorod, Russia, Sept. 20, 1862.] 
 
 A THOUSAND years ! Through storm and fire, 
 With varying fate, the work has grown, 
 
 Till Alexander crowns the spire. 
 Where Rurik laid the corner-stone. 
 
 The chieftain's sword, that could not rust, 
 
 But bright in constant battle grew. 
 Raised to the world a throne august, — 
 
 A nation grander than he knew. 
 
 Nor he, alone; but those who have. 
 Through faith or deed, an equal part: 
 
 The subtle brain of Yaroslav, 
 
 Vladimir's arm and Nikon's heart: 
 
 The later hands, that built so well 
 The work sublime which these began, 
 
 And up from base to pinnacle 
 
 Wrought out the Empire's mighty plan. 
 
38o SINCE 1 86 1. 
 
 All these, to-day, are crowned anew, 
 And rule in splendor where they trod, 
 
 While Russia's children throng to view 
 Her holy cradle, Novgorod. 
 
 From Volga's banks; from Dwina's side; 
 
 From pine-clad Ural, dark and long; 
 Or where the foaming Terek's tide 
 
 Leaps down from Kasbek, bright with song 
 
 From Altai's chain of mountain-cones; 
 
 Mongolian deserts, far and free; 
 And lands that bind, through changing zones, 
 
 The Eastern and the Western sea ! 
 
 To every race she gives a home. 
 
 And creeds and laws enjoy her shade. 
 
 Till, far beyond the dreams of Rome, 
 Her Caesar's mandate is obeyed. 
 
 She blends the virtues they impart, 
 And holds, within her life combined. 
 
 The patient faith of Asia's heart, — 
 The force of Europe's restless mind. 
 
 She bids the nomad's wanderings cease; 
 
 She binds the wild marauder fast; 
 Her ploughshares turn to homes of peace 
 
 The battle-fields of ages past. 
 
 And, nobler yet, she dares to know 
 Her future's task, nor knows in vain; 
 
 But strikes at once the generous blow 
 That makes her millions men again ! 
 
DAY IN MARCH. 38 1 
 
 So, firmer-based, her power expands, 
 Nor yet has seen its crowning hour, — 
 
 Still teaching to the struggling lands 
 That Peace the offspring is of Power. 
 
 Build, then, the storied bronze, to tell 
 
 The steps whereby this height she trod, — 
 
 The thousand years that chronicle 
 The toil of Man, the help of God ! 
 
 And may the thousand years to come, — 
 
 The future ages, wise and free, — 
 Still see her flag, and hear her drum 
 
 Across the world, from sea to sea 1 — 
 
 Still find, a symbol stern and grand, 
 
 Her ancient eagle 's wings unshorn : 
 One head to watch the Western land. 
 
 And one to guard the land of morn ! 
 
 A DAY IN MARCH. 
 
 Look forth. Beloved, from thy mansion high, 
 
 By soft airs fanned, 
 And see the summer from her bluest sky 
 
 Surprise the land ! 
 
 See how the bare hills bask in purple bliss 
 
 Along the south: 
 On the brown death of winter falls a kiss 
 
 From summer 's mouth ! 
 
 From pines that weave, among the ravished trees. 
 
 Their phantom bowers, 
 A murmur comes, as sought the ghosts of bees 
 
 The ghosts of flowers. 
 
382 SINCE 1861. 
 
 Though yet no blood may swell the willow rind, 
 
 No grass-blade start, 
 A dream of blossoms fills the yearning wind, 
 
 Of love, my heart. 
 
 Look forth, Beloved, through the tender air, 
 
 And let thine eyes 
 The violets be, it finds not anywhere, 
 
 And scentless dies. 
 
 Look, and thy trembling locks of plenteous gold 
 
 The day shall see, 
 And search no more where first, on yonder wold. 
 
 The cowslips be. 
 
 Look, and the wandering summer not forlorn 
 
 Shall turn aside, 
 Content to leave her million flowers unborn. 
 
 Her songs untried. 
 
 Drowsy with life and not with sleep or death 
 
 I dream of thee: 
 Breathe forth thy being in one answering breath, 
 
 And come to me ! 
 Come forth, Beloved! Love's exultant sign 
 
 Is in the sky: 
 And let me lay my panting heart to thine 
 
 And die ! 
 
 THE TEST. 
 
 " Farewell awhile, my bonnie darling ! 
 
 One long, close kiss, and I depart : 
 I hear the angry trumpets snarling, 
 
 The drum-beat tingles at my heart." 
 
THE TEST. 
 
 Behind him, softest flutes were breathing, 
 Across the vale their sweet recall; 
 
 Before him burst the battle, seething 
 In flame beneath its thunder-pall. 
 
 All sights and sounds to stay invited; 
 
 The meadows tossed their foam of' flowers- 
 The lingering Day beheld, delighted. 
 
 The dances of his amorous Hours. 
 
 He paused: again the fond temptation 
 Assailed his heart, so firm before, 
 
 And tender dreams, of Love's creation, 
 Persuaded from the peaceful shore. 
 
 ''But no!" he sternly cried; ''I follow 
 The trumpet, not the shepherd 's reed : 
 
 Let idlers pipe in pastoral hollow, — 
 Be mine the sword, and mine the deed ! 
 
 "Farewell to Love!" he murmured, sighing: 
 ''Perchance I lose what most is dear; 
 
 But better there, struck down and dying, 
 Than be a man and wanton here!" 
 
 He went where battle's voice was loudest; 
 
 He pressed where danger nearest came; 
 His hand advanced, among the proudest, 
 
 Their banner through the lines of flame. 
 
 And there, when wearied Carnage faltered, 
 
 He, foremost of the fallen, lay, 
 While Night looked down with brow unaltered. 
 
 And breathed the battle's dust away. 
 
 383 
 
384 SINCE J 86 1. 
 
 There lying, sore from wounds untended, 
 A vision crossed the starry gleam : 
 
 The girl he loved beside him bended, 
 And kissed him in his fever-dream. 
 
 ''O love!" she cried, ''you fled, to find me; 
 
 I left with you the daisied vale; 
 I turned from flutes that wailed behind me, 
 
 To hear your trumpet's distant hail. 
 
 ''Your tender vows, your peaceful kisses, 
 They scarce outHved the moment's breath 
 
 But now we clasp immortal bhsses 
 
 Of passion proved on brinks of Death ! 
 
 "No fate henceforward shall estrange her 
 Who finds a heart more brave than fond; 
 
 For Love, forsook this side of danger. 
 Waits for the man who goes beyond !" 
 
 THE NEVA. 
 
 I WALK, as in a dream. 
 
 Beside the sweeping stream, 
 Wrapped in the summer midnight's amber haze: 
 
 Serene the temples stand. 
 
 And sleep, on either hand. 
 The palace-fronts along the granite quays. 
 
 Where golden domes, remote, 
 
 Above the sea-mist float. 
 The river-arms, dividing, hurry forth; 
 
 And Peter's fortress-spire, 
 
 A slender lance of fire. 
 Still sparkles back the splendor of the North. 
 
THE NEVA, 385 
 
 The pillared angel soars 
 
 Above the silent shores; 
 Dark from his rock the horseman hangs in air; 
 
 And down the watery line 
 
 The exiled Sphinxes pine 
 For Karnak's morning in the mellow glare. 
 
 I hear, amid the hush, 
 
 The restless current's rush. 
 The Neva murmuring through his crystal zone : 
 
 A voice portentous, deep, 
 
 To charm a monarch's sleep 
 With dreams of power resistless as his own. 
 
 Strong from the stormy Lake, 
 
 Pure from the springs that break 
 In Valdai vales the forest's mossy floor, 
 
 Greener than beryl-stone 
 
 From fir-woods vast and lone. 
 In one full stream the braided currents pour. 
 
 ''Build up your granite piles 
 
 Around my trembling isles," 
 I hear the River's scornful Genius say: 
 
 ''Raise for eternal time 
 
 Your palaces sublime, 
 And flash your golden turrets in the day ! 
 
 "But in my waters cold 
 
 A mystery I hold, — 
 Of empires and of dynasties the fate : 
 
 I bend my haughty will. 
 
 Unchanged, unconquered still, 
 And smile to note your triumph : mine can wait. 
 
386 
 
 SINCE j86i. 
 
 ''Your fetters I allow, 
 
 As a strong man may bow 
 His sportive neck to meet a child's command, 
 
 And curb the conscious power 
 
 That in one awful hour 
 Could whelm your halls and temples where they stand. 
 
 "When infant Rurik first 
 
 His Norseland mother nursed, 
 My willing flood the future chieftain bore : 
 
 To Alexander's fame 
 
 I lent my ancient name, 
 What time my waves ran red with Pagan gore. 
 
 "Then Peter came. I laughed 
 
 To feel his little craft 
 Borne on my bosom round the marshy isles: 
 
 His daring dream to aid. 
 
 My chafing floods I laid, 
 And saw my shores transfixed with arrowy piles. 
 
 "I wait the far-off day 
 
 When other dreams shah sway 
 The House of Empire builded by my side, — 
 
 Dreams that already soar 
 
 From yonder palace-door, 
 And cast their wavering colors on my tide, — 
 
 "Dreams where white temples rise 
 
 Below the purple skies, 
 By waters blue, which winter never frets, — 
 
 Where trees of dusky green 
 
 From terraced gardens lean, 
 And shoot on high the reedy minarets. 
 
THE NEVA, 
 
 "Shadows of mountain-peaks 
 Vex my unshadowed creeks ; 
 
 Dark woods o'erhang, my silvery birchen bowers; 
 And islands, bald and high, 
 Break my clear round of sky. 
 
 And ghostly odors blow from distant flowers. 
 
 ''Then, ere the cold winds chase 
 
 These visions from my face, 
 I see the starry phantom of a crown, 
 
 Beside whose blazing gold 
 
 This cheating pomp is cold, 
 A moment hover, as the veil drops down. 
 
 ''Build on ! That day shall see 
 
 My streams forever free. 
 Swift as the wind, and silent as the snow, 
 
 The frost shall split each wall: 
 
 Your domes shall crack and fall : 
 My bolts of ice shall strike your barriers low!'* 
 
 On palace, temple, spire, 
 
 The morn's descending fire 
 In thousand sparkles o'er the city fell: 
 
 Life's rising murmur drowned 
 
 The Neva where he wound 
 Between his isles: he keeps his secret well. 
 
 38; 
 
JUN IC 1907