OF THE UNIVERSITY OF THE BELLS: A COLLECTION OF CHIMES. BY T. B. A. ' I thought how like these chimes Are the Poet's airy rhymes, All his rhymes and roundelays, His conceits, and songs, and ditties, From the Belfry of his brain ! " BELFRY OP BRUGES. NEW YORK: J. C. DERBY, 119 NASSAU STREET. BOSTON : PHILLIPS, SAMPSON & CO. CINCINNATI : H. W. DERBY. 1855. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1854, by J. C. DERBY, In the Clerk's office of the United States District Court for the Southern District of New York. Printed by HOLMAN, GRAY & Co., N. Y. A TO MY MOTHER. M632653 CONTENTS PAGE PROEM 9 PRELUDE TO THE STEEPLE OF ST. AYNE . . .13 THE STEEPLE OF ST. AYNE 14 CHATTERTON 20 H. W. L 24 CRESCENT CITY AT NIGHT . . . . . .26 SONG OF A HEART 28 THE ANGEL 30 FANNIE 32 MAUD OF ALLINGGALE 35 TO MARIE 44 THE KNIGHT OF POESY 46 A CHRISTMAS CHIME 49 EUDELE 55 DRIP, DRIP, DRIP 57 TOUSOULIA 60 A MADRIGAL 66 I MIGHT HAVE BEEN 67 # # # # ...... 69 THE TWO CITIES 71 THE NIGHT WIND 73 VI PAGE IMORE 74 FOREVER AND FOREVER 78 A NEST OF SONNETS 80 THE LITTLE WITCHES AT THE CROSSINGS . . 80 PH(EBUS 82 THE NIGHT RAIN 83 " THANATOPSIS " 84 NOON 85 TO 86 ELEGIAC 87 BERTHABELL 89 ABOUT A TINY GIRL 91 THE GENTLE HAND .93 THE THREE CONCEITS 97 EPIGRAMMATICAL 100 TO SUE 101 ANACREONTIC ........ 103 WITH THE STARS AND THE STRIPES AROUND HIM . 106 THE LACHRYMOSE 109 THE OLD HOUSE 112 MY HIGHLAND MARY 116 TWILIGHT IDYL 118 THE GOLDEN ISLAND 121 THE BARD 124 HOPE ; ... 127 LILLYAN .129 IV. SCENE OF BLANCHETTE 133 NIGHT SCENE. 144 PROEM. PROEM. I. THE CHRISTENING. I'VE christened these, my poesies, THE BELLS, Because there is, or should be, in all rhymes, A music soft and silv'ry as the chimes That float at evening through the twilight dells, Born in the belfry of some village church, Hid by the ivy clamb'ring from its porch. Because some verses have a solemn roll, Sweetly sad, a melancholy swelling, Like the deep bells of a cathedral, telling The sad departure of another Soul For the Eternal City ! that far shore, Where, like a sea, Time breaketh evermore ! 10 Because in Bells there something is to me Of rhythms and the poets of gone years A sad reverberation, breeding tears, Touching the finer chords of memory ! Bells be the name ! may their vibrations clear, Fall in mild cadences upon thine ear ! II. TO MY FRIENDS. YE friends that gild my humbler way ! Ye stars that brighten year by year ! I know your hearts are with him here Who seeks to tread a wider sphere ; I know the words that ye would say. And thou, friend ! I have not seen ! Whose hand has never grasped my own, Whose ear has never caught a tone From lips of mine, to whom I'm known In thoughts, and not by form or mien ; May I not hope some passing tone May start thy sleeping memory, May bring some clouded joy to thee? 'Twere sweet to know, though strangers we, Thy heart is chiming with my own ! TEE BELLS. PRELUDE TO THE STEEPLE OF ST. AYNE. THE snow was on the house-top, And on the poplars tall ; And the fire-light's hand was tracing Weird pictures on the wall ; And nearer to the embers I drew my little chair, And gazing on the winking logs I saw wild figures there. Sometimes it was a castle With turrets all a-gleam ; A draw-bridge, stretching like an arm, Across the molten stream ; 14 Gonfalons, and warriors Encased in armor red ; And all the legends I had heard, Came trooping thro' my head. I thought of ruins hoary Beside the Danube's wave, Of Vogelweid whose treasures fed The birds around his grave. I thought of shadows sleeping Around the Rodenstein ; And tales that hover bird-like o'er The silver river Rhine. And melody stole on me Like a sweet midnight chime ; And 'mong the branches of my brain I found this nest of rhyme. THE STEEPLE OF ST. AYNE. YOU'LL see it through the hemlock boughs, As down the moorland road you pass, Standing ghostly, brown and still In the shadow of a hill. 15 There is not a pane of glass In any of the carven sashes ; But thick around them, like eye-lashes, Hang the cobwebs old and gray ! In and out those glassless sockets, Floats the lazy sun all day. I have often heard it said Hair grows on the coffined dead : I know not if it be so ; But upon the belfry's crown, Mosses of a dappled brown And many curious colors grow ! In the steeple, where the swallows Dart, like lightning, to and fro, Swings the ponderous bell, which monks -In that tower long ago, Hung with many pater nosters, Chanted hymns and litanies ! Praying when, at eve, it swung Between its lips its iron tongue, What it said might reach far cities And their sinful inmates save ; Telling with its solemn tolling Time was ever, ever knolling Mortals to the cold, damp grave ! 16 As I stand, the twilight with me, In the Steeple of St. Ayne, Far I wander in the regions Of the misty Land of Legends, Painting pictures on my brain. Olden scenes came back to me ; The past throws off its dusty shroud. The. Abbot and the monkish train In the old cathedral crowd, Filling aisles and niches dim With their pious murmuring ; And, as silver censers swing, Swells and sinks their evening hymn. To the gorgeous frescoed dome Paintings, brought from holy Rome Floats in clouds the soft perfume ; While the pensive evening gloom, With a foot that seems to falter, Mounts the carved steps of the altar, Standing silently beside An image of the Crucified ! Now the solemn chant of souls Through gallery and cloister rolls ! While, as if with sudden pain, Dolorous the Curfew tolls In the Steeple of St. Ayne. 17 Now I see a marriage cortege, Mailed knights and cavaliers ; Eeeling plumes and glist'ning lances ; Maidens with tkeir stolen glances ; Dames in kirtles of brocade All the pomp of other years. Then the bride in white arrayed, Milky roses on her brow, White and beautiful as snow, While her deep and blond eyes glisten As the beams from Dian's* bow. On her bosom, budding forth Like lilies from the pregnant earth, Gems, as rich as those of Ind, From the caverns of the East, Rise and fall at every breath As she gives her hand beneath .The benediction of the priest. Hushed the epithalamium ! All the gaudy train is gone, Priest, choragus ; and deep Silence Sits within the pews alone ! And, now through the open door Streams the sunshine on the floor, Throwing sparkles where the dismal, Breathless shadows moped before. 18 By the marble urn baptismal, Standeth two to whom is given A revelation late from heaven ! A piece of clay ! a little breath ! A form to toil and bear its cross Like the Christ of Nazareth ! Now I see a funeral train, Passing sorrowful and slow Through the chiseled portico, Where are shadows sad and solemn Cast by many a fluted column. To the altar's front they bear Their lifeless charge and leave it there. At the feet and at the head Of the shrived and shrouded dead, Candles burn. The sunlight's fingers, Dipped in the window's hues, Throw an iridescent light On the coffin, and it lingers Till the gibbous moon at night, Looking through that painted window, Throws her lovelier tints below. Mournfully the funeral train, Tearful, sad and slow, Passes thro' the porch again, 19 While the bell within the steeple, Throbbeth like a heart in wo ! 'Tis gone ! 'tis gone ! I am alone, With the calm, starry night alone, In the old Steeple of St. Ayne ! The chanting, hooded monks are gone ; The marriage train has sought the regions Of the misty Land of Legends ; And the sunshine through the door Sleepeth not upon the floor; And the dead one, borne so slow Through the friezed portico, Has come back again To the charnel of my brain ! O'er these shadows shadows all Reality has thrown a pall. Yet the steeple loometh still In the shadow of the hill ; Standing, shattered, yet sublime A tombstone to departed Time ! ' 20 CHATTERTON. i. Tins eve my heart is floating upon tears, A fallen rose-leaf floating on a stream. Li the dim shadow of departed years I have been lying with a saddened dream A dream of poor, poor CHATTERTON ! That soul which, like the thousand-lanced sun, Ate itself into night ! that monarch soul ! Which foamed and muttered like the sobbing sea, And broke a heart that it could not control. Poor CHATTERTON ! who does not weep for thee? 21 What bosom melts not at the mournful tale Of thy short, fevered life ? Thou diedst in scorn, Like the proud moon that doth majestic sail The ebon night, and sinks before the dawn. n. As the soft snow comes down And fills each secret nook, Robing the ice-stilled brook And the house-tops of the town, And the chimneys as they look, With open mouths, to all The flakes, till in a pall Of white the earth is hid ; So did Ambition creep Upon the child unbid. Each grotto of his heart It filled, each crevice deep, E'en as the eye its lid. 'Twas of his soul a part. in. 'Twas twilight ebb, and the boy was sitting In a deep recess of the gothic hall ; Wildest thoughts across his heart were flitting, Wild as the tracery upon the wall. 22 Upon a stair of stars the Night came down, With footfalls noiseless as the stealthy air, And like a mantle wrapped the shouldered town ; And still the child sat dreaming, brooding there. The moon sleeked " anciente " Bristol with her beams, And from St. Mary's swelled the midnight chime ; Still sat the boy, his hot brain moulding dreams Which cluster, star-like, on the sky of Time ! ****** ****** v. Morn broke on restless London, like a sea, In rippling waves of light ; the sun sent all The sleepy stars to bed. The great city Was awakened to wrangle in its thrall Of crime and servitude ; and in its streets, Through which the pulse of greedy Traffic beats, The crier's voice mixed with the rattling wheel ; And all the vast machinery din Went on as if from out that place of sin In the cold night, a spirit did not steal, Wininno- its way thro' Heaven's starry fires, O O J * To rest forever on th' eternal shore. Mora broke on London, crowning all its spires With gold but CHATTERTOM ! he was no more. VI. In coffin roughly nailed, They placed his boyish form While yet his blood was warm, His forehead scarcely paled ; And bore him quick along Amid the heedless throng. Ah ! cruel hands that laid That little weary frame Within the grave they made,* With nought to tell his name ; It should not have been so ; No pauper ground should own That shattered casket, tho' The gem itself is gone ! * He was cast into the burying-ground of Shoe-lane Work house the pauper's burying-ground the end, so far as his clayey tabernacle was concerned, of all his dreamy greatness. Mus. S. C. HALL. H. W. L. LIKE him of old, whose touch divine Drew water from the senseless stone, Thy words have drawn a silver tone Of music from this heart of mine. O Poet-soul ! O gentle one ! Thy thought has made my darkness light ; The solemn Voices of the Night Have filled me with an inner tone. Their echoes linger on my ear ; The footsteps of the Angels come Thro' the long entry to my room ; I almost fancy that I hear A low, sweet breathing at the door, And do not dare to move, for I Would not dispel the fantasy That grows upon me more and more. To gain that near, that far off shore We only cross a bridge of Sleep ; That bridge sinks not into the deep, When we have passed, for evermore. The unfleshed dead can cross again Unto this sphere. ! I am sure They're near us, when high thoughts and pure, Like monarchs, pace our chamber' d brain. Bard of Shadows ! thine the art To lead us through the realm of dreams. Robing the Real until it seems Of the fair Ideal a part. I'll drink thy praise in olden wine, And in the cloak of fine conceite I'll tell thee how my pulses beat, How half my being runs to thine. CRESCENT CITY AT NIGHT. SEEiY FROM THE FRENCH CATHEDRAL AT PLACE How grand to sit in this old steeple high, And view the city with its veins of streets ! A muffled sound, like troubled winds that die, Mounts to the house-tops and in space re treats. The soot-faced chimneys whisper far beneath With heads half hidden in their smoky breath ! Now, as Night draws her counterpane of black, And tucks it closely round the horizon, The lamp-fringed streets are lighted one by one Each seems a serpent with a glossy back ! With spectral fingers quiv'ring in the air, The churches point to where " our Father " dwells ; Ava Maria from the tongues of bells Floats to the zenith and the angels there, Who, crowned with asphodel and twilight dim, Are messengers between this world and Him ! SONG OF A HEART. YE who love Nature, and in Nature, God, Listen to one whose heart is full of song And gratitude unto his very lips. His music is not art-born ; it leaps forth Untutored, like the daisies of the spring, Or brooks that babble of their own free will. In the sweet faces of the buds I see The God that swings this flower-scented sphere, Like a great censer, in the purple void ! I have a sense within me that perceives His Presence in the blowing wind, and in The footsteps of the crystal-footed Rain ! To him that holdeth Nature near his heart, The brooks are hymning praises, and the sea Is ever rolling some grand authem forth ! The grass that comes in April to the mounds In grave-yards, and the vines that creep along The humble porch of village churches, are So many fingers pointing up to God ! So many holy monitors that tell His majesty in silent eloquence ! . O, Pilgrim to the Unseen Land ! if thou Art thirsty for the Living Waters ; if Thy lips do hunger for the Bread of Life, And yet thou fearest " the cold feel of death," The grave that gate-way to eternity And Paradise love Nature, for 'tis God. 30 THE ANGEL. O ! MEMORY, the painter ! Limns upon rny brain The faces of beloved ones I'll never see again ! There is one sainted picture O, fancy keep it near ! 'Mid golden hair, Madonna eyes, Serene, and deep, and clear. We knew she was an Angel, We knew she could not stay ! And long we waited tearfully To see her fly away ! 31 We knew that she was passing Thro' life untouched, serene, As far from earth's impurities As Christ from Magdalene. The Angels wearied for her, And so from Paradise Death came, and kissed her tenderly, His hand upon her eyes ! And as a flower at evening- Folds its leaves to rest, She meekly crossed her whitened hands Upon her peaceful breast : Loid so white and beautiful, So full of holy trust, It seemed a shame to lay so pure A flower in tfte dust. We saw no seraph's pinions, We saw no mystic things ; But going from our hearts we felt An Angel's rustling wings ! '32 FANNIE. FANNIE has the sweetest foot Ever in a gaiter boot ! And the hoyden knows it, And, of course, she shows it, Not the knowledge, but the foot, Yet with such a modest grace, Never seems it out of place, Ah, there are not many Half so sly, or sad, or mad, Or wickeder than Fannie. Fannie has the blackest hair Of any of the village girls ; It does not shower on her neck In silken or coquettish curls. 33 It droops in folds around her brow, As clouds, at night, around the moon, Looped with lilies here and there, In many a dangerous festoon. And Fannie wears a gipsy hat, Saucily yes, all of that ! Ah, there are not many Half so sly, or sad, or mad, Or wickeder than Fannie. Fannie wears an open dress Ah ! the charming chemisette ! Half concealing, half revealing Something far more charming yet. Fannie drapes her breast with lace, As one would drape a costly vase To keep away mischievous flies ; But lace can't keep away one's eyes, For every time her*bosom heaves, Ah, it peepeth through it ; Yet Fannie looks the while as if Never once she knew it. Ah, there are not many Half so sly, or sad, or mad, Or innocent as Fannie. 34 Fannie lays her hand in mine ; Fannie speaks with naivete, Fannie kisses me, she does ! In her own coquettish way. Then softly speaks and deeply sighs, With angels nestled in her eyes. In the merrie month of May, Fannie swears sincerely She will be my own, my wife, And love me dearly, dearly Ever after all her life. Ah, there are not many Half so sly, or sad, or mad, As my true-hearted Fannie. 35 MAUD OF ALLINGOALE. PART I. I. THE wind was toying with her hair, As on the turret top she stood ; Her gaze was on the bending wood, And in her eyes a dim despair. Moaning CEnone, sad and pale, Sweet Psyche when her love had gone Were not more tearful or forlorn Than Maud of Allinggale. n. And "Ah," she said, " he will not come! faad I have waited all the day." 36 Afar she saw the ocean spray, Like lances glimmer in the gloom. And then the moon came sideling up Deep set within a milky girth : And at the zenith turned on earth Like an inverted cup. in. Two moons o'er sleeping earth had bent, Then stately through the heavens strode, Since Walter from the castle rode Armed cap-d-pie for tournament : " O Maud of Allinggale !" he said, "A little while arid I will come," And fondly o'er her drooped the plume That floated from his head. IV. She heard his footsteps on the floor, She saw him thro' the forest leaves, The orange sunshine on his greaves ; And he was gone for ever more ; For in the heart of that green wood, Unknown, unseen by mortal eyes, The Castle of a Thousand Dyes Of fairy Monok stood. 37 v. This queen immortal loved the knight, And so she sent an airling brood To lead him thro' the bosky wood Until he knew no left nor right ; And as he paused upon a steep That rose from out a fountain place, They sprinkled dew-drops on his face, And so he fell asleep. VI. And two white-breasted wood-nymphs took The dreaming youth in their soft arms, And bore him where a row of Palms Shaddowed a draw-bridge on the brook ; And 'tween two cedars, old and gaunt, Their summits tinged with yellow light, They passed, and bore the sleeping knight Into the fairy haunt. VII. They took the helmet from his brow, Unlaced his breast-plate, white as milk, And draped him with a robe of silk Glittering like a frozen snow ! 3 i 38 And in his coat of mail instead They placed a form like Walter's made, And laid it in the forest glade As though that he were dead. PART II. I. When Walter woke his dream-filled eyes Were dazzled with the rainbow light ; " St. George !" he cried, " I'm lost to sight And sense, be this not Paradise !" He heard the trembles of a lute, He saw the fountains leap in air, And spread around him everywhere The most delicious fruit. n. And chalices ambrosial brimmed, Flagons of the costliest wine Fresh from the vineyards of the Rhine, And honey from the richest skimmed ; Rich cordials full of golden eyes ; And delicacies of all isles, Scattered around him, in huge piles Lay like wrecked argosies. in. The trilling of a thousand birds Burst on him with canorous swells, And the faint tinkling of far bells Came rustling through his sense's chords. The walls were rough with priceless stones, The window niches diamond-laid, And the long fluted colonnade Was girt with wealth of zones. IV. And there were halls so vast and deep The eye could scarcely reach half through ; E'en music's echo weary grew, And tripping through them fell asleep ! Upon his raptured senses stole The rarest perfume of the spheres Rich with the crystal, star-born tears Found in the rose's bowl. 40 v. " What mystic things will fancy do!" He said, and, as he spoke, white hands Undid the glitt'ring silver bands That held a gorgeous curtain to, And drawing back the silken screen His eyes beheld, on throne of gold, Like Egypt's courtesan of old, Monok, the fairy Queen. VI. " O ! thou that sittest goddess like !" He, kneeling, cried before the throne, " Tell me if all my brain be gone ! And what these wondrous scenes that strike My fancy captive ? Whence thou art ? And whence this dulcet melody ? These nectar-laden gales, and why This rustling in my heart ?" VII. Then rich she made him with a smile, And sweeping from her throne with pride, She laid her hand on his and sighed, Half laughing at him all the while ; 41 And to his ear bent down her head, With voice that had a cymbal's ring "Sir Knight of Ains worth thou art king Of this domain !" she said. VIII. She led him to the 'nameled throne, And placed a crown upon his brow, And kneeling at his footstool low, " Sir Knight," she said, " I am thine own !" Her breath, like a soft summer gale Nursed in the heart of some sweet grot, Was on his cheek, and he forgot His Maud of Allinggale ! PART III. I. As Lady Maud, heart-sick and pale, From Ainsworth's tower watched that night, She saw a strange and flick'ring light Moving across the darkened vale ; And nearer, nearer still it came, Until she saw amid the gloom The floating of a snowy plume. Her lips half breathed a name. n. And down the spiral stair she sped, And in the long torch-lighted hall She saw upon a bloody pall Walter of Ainsworth, lying dead. O ! wild and mournful was her wail ! Pale Venus when Adonis died Had not a sorrow wilder-eyed, Than Maud of Allinggale. in. " Whose hand did this ?" and then a flood Of tears o'er her eyelids broke ; And thus the knight of Lyclwick spoke " We found him slain in yonder wood, His red blood mingling with the brook, And his large thoughtful, staring eyes Fixed on a cloudlet in the skies With melancholy look. 43 IV. " We know not how Sir Walter fell ; But if 'twas in concerted fight, We know he fell like a true knight. Who struck the blow, it were not well That he a knight of Ainsworth meet ; We 'd teach him that our Walter's death Has made ten swords in each sheath, And he should kiss our feet !" Then Lady Maud bent down her head Upon the image's cold breast, Like one that lieth down to rest ; They spoke to her, but she was dead ! Ah, why prolong the saddened tale ? In Ainsworth chapel, side by side. Lies Walter's armor and his bride, Sw T eet Maud of Allinggale. 44 O MARIE. As sea-shells whisper of the sleepless sea, Memory whispers of the past and you, Charming my bosom with its melody. Those summer nights, which all too quickly flew, Like singing birds upon their noiseless wings, Ghost-like rise up before me, and I turn To sip the chalice pleasing mem'ry brings. There is one eve I cherish in my breast Like holy water in a marble urn : The sun was treading to the yawning West To that great grave-yard of the buried Days ! And at our feet a devious river rolled, Squirming and gliding in the sunset's blaze, Like a great serpent with a skin of gold ! We had been reading a young Bard, who'd stemmed The sea of criticism, and unfurled His daring colors to a charmed world ; In his rich heart our poorer hearts were hem med. Your voice was full of tears, and there stood Two, trembling, on the threshhold of your eyes. ! much, my friend, I envied him who could Lure two such angels out of paradise. You bent above me, and your nighty hair, Like dusk and sunset mixing, mixed with mine ; 1 felt a kiss, or 'twas a passing air That had been loitering on lips divine. Then you drew back, and with a crimson look Grazed at the pebbles in the talking brook. 3* 46 THE KNIGHT OF POESY. ANOTHER Minstrel, panting for a name, Enters the lists of Rhyme To run a tilt with Time, And bring, low kneeling at his feet, great Fame, With vizard down, he comes as one in mask, Like some adventurer of old Who, till he won the Spurs of Gold, Laid not aside his hauberk or his casque ; He comes, his name, and prowess all untold. Unknown, this Poet-knight, Mounted on Pegasus, most famous steed ! Seeketh the Tournament of Poesy, Full of the hope of glorious deed ; 47 And dares in deadly fight Invoking first his patron Muse All knights that speak maliciously ; All that discourteously refuse To press their goblet's mouth of wine, When he shall give as toast divine, His Ladye-love, the loveliest of the Nine Dark-veiled Melpomene ! For Beauty be it in A blue-bell's or a woman's eyes, A rose's or a maiden's lips in bloom, A forest, waving like a helmet plume, Or the soft tintings of the sunset skies He has a soul that claims the chance To blunt a sword or to break a lance. Beauty's champion, he is Virtue's too ; For are not grace and goodness sisters twin ? Virtue is a beauty that within Sheds radiance without, as does a light Through the windows of a room at night, Or flowers, breathing from a vase, Or jewels from their case. 48 He loves all forms of loveliness, And Nature sits within him like a heart, Ruling with magic tenderness. The air-winged birds that dart Up the blue stair-case of the porphyry clouds ; The Autumn-fingered foliage that shrouds A sleeping church-yard, or the evening dim, Stalking majestically down Upon the noisy and mast-fringed town, Or the winged and ever restless ships, Or the murmuring of Ocean's lips, Are everlasting joys to him ; For he is one whose bosom doubted never " A thing of beauty" is " a joy forever." His war-cry shall be heard ; It is that mystic word Which, on a banner in the twilight brown, A youth once carried thro' an Alpine town Excelsior ! 49 A CHRISTMAS CHIME. THE GUESTS, AND WHAT THE STRANGE OLD MAN DOES IN THE OLD HOUSE EVERY CHRISTMAS NIGHT. All houses wherein men have lived and died, Are haunted houses." LONGFELLOW. THE angels bend in heaven's arch to-night, And sprinkle snow-flakes on the city's streets ; The wind moans round the chimney-tops in fright And sprightly hail taps every one it meets. 50 The lamps that stud the white and pearled way, Glare like mad demons thro' the blinding storm ; Shop-windows watch the snow sprites as they play, Or throw their rays upon each passing form. 'Tis Christmas night ; and while from street to street, The echo hurries, like a startled mouse, And phantom laughs are mingling with the sleet, An Old Man sits within an olden house. ' The house is quaint, odd-fashioned, and antique ; Grim Time has passed his palm across the roof And left it wrinkled ! 'Tis so dark and bleak At twilight play the children keep aloof. There's not a sound in all its sombre halls, And brooding silence sits upon the stair ; One can most see the " quiet as it crawls" Along the entry through the biting air. 51 Why sits the Old Man in the big old room, Watching the hearth-light o'er the mouldings climb ? The man and chamber in its ghostly gloom Seem things forgotten in the flight of time. Why sits he thus beside the wide-mouthed hearth ? Does he call up sweet forms that, like the leaves, Have mixed with flowers in the wombed earth ? Or does he hear the hail upon the eaves ? The jingling sleigh-bells in the street below, The goblin sleet that droppeth down the flue, The huntsman wind that whistles to the snow Are these the noises that he listens to ? Or does he catch the echoes of the Past, Like fine vibrations of a distant bell ? Do memories fall on him thick and fast As hail without upon the snowy swell ? I wot not either ; but the Old Man seems A link between this mortal life and death A dreamy pilgrim to the Land of Dreams, His life, a feather balanced on a breath. He bends his head ; he hears the panels creak ; Then by the chimney leaves his cushioned chair ; And, with a joy his moistened eyelids speak, He draws three seats beside his own with care. He holds his old hands out, as if to grasp Some other hands ; he sighs and smiles and sighs ; Now stands as if within some loving clasp His eyes intently gaze in other eyes ! And now he points his phantom guests their seats. He heaps fresh fuel upon the fire-place ; And all is still, save one quick heart that beats In yonder clock, within its coffin case. 53 O, what a queer Old Man ! And does he see Ethereal spirits seated in those chairs ? Do souls come back from God's eternity To mingle with us and our daily cares ? I do believe it ! and 'tis grand to feel That, when the breezes lift our fevered hair, Some friend's hand does it, and at ev'ry meal The loved are near us, round us like the air ! I do believe they're with^us all the day, And o'er our holier hours vigils keep ; That they kneel with us when we kneel to pray, And bend above us when we fall asleep. Bui see, he smiles ! O sure some airy one Has twined a sunbeam round his parted lips ; He hears a voice, a voice for him alone We hear it not, nor see the ghost that trips Around the arm-chair of the dreamy man. A lip intangible his own lip nears ; It falls so kindly on his thin cheek wan, The Old Man weeps, and slumbers in his tears. 54 And every year when holy Christmas comes, He draws those chairs within the hearth-stone gleams, And fondly all his viewless household sums, Then falls asleep 'mid kisses, tears, and dreams. 55 EUDELE. THE soft wind moved the curtain's fold, And rippled her gold waves of hair, While like some voiceless lily's lip, Touched by a gentle whiff of air, Moved as by inward melody, Her lips were trembling with a prayer, Which lark-like soared from out this world of sin. " To-morrow," and she raised her eyes, " I'll walk with Christ in Paradise." And thro' the window came the Twilight in. The soft wind moved the curtain's fold, And cooled her cheek with kisses faint ; And as she lay upon the bed, The curls that clustered o'er her head Were like the halo of a saint. A light was breaking on her lips, Like that which tinges mountain tips At death of August days ; While with her on the pillow lay The golden parasites of day The sunset's amber rays. The flowers closed their eyelids up ; The harebell and the butter-cup, The tulip and the sun-struck jessamine. With whispered sighs and dainty feet, The evening zephyrs tripped about ; Then, as a flower yields its sweet, A pure spirit flitted out, And thro' the window came the Twilight in, We hid her in a green retreat, With daisies at her heart and feet, To guard her with sweet eyes ; And when we weep Eadele as dead, We smile to think of what she said Of " Christ" and " Paradise" Of that far sphere where neither sin Nor sombre Twilight enter in. 57 DRIP, DRIP, DRIP. A RAINY DAY LYRIC. ALL through that dreariest day, Out of the window pane We gazed, but our eyes could see The rain, nothing but rain. Drip, drip, drip, It said to the sullen eaves ; Drip, drip, drip, And danced upon the leaves. The flowers that clomb the porch, Violets like the skies, Grew as dreamy and dim as A tearful maiden's eyes. Drip, drip, drip, It said to the sullen eaves ; Drip, drip, drip, And trembled on the leaves. 58 A thrill, like a thrill of joy, Ran through the fields of grain ; And they bowed their heads beneath The blessing of the rain ! Drip, drip, drip, It said to the sullen eaves ; Drip, drip, drip, And danced upon the leaves. The barn grew solemn and brown, The white-washed fence and wall ; And the " poplars" at the gate Looked odd, and grim, and tall. Drip, drip, drip, It said to the sullen eaves ; Drip, drip, drip, And trembled on the leaves. When seated around the hearth - The evening meal was through We could hear the cunning rain Come singing down the flue. Drip, drip, drip, It said to the sullen eaves ; Drip, drip, drip, And danced upon the leaves. oO And when we went to our beds, Still we could hear the rain ; It tried the kitchen door, and Spit on the window pane ! Drip, drip, drip, It said to the sullen eaves ; Drip, drip, drip, And trembled on the leaves. Still does it haunt our dreams, that Weariest, dreary rain, That came from the mouths of clouds, To bless the golden grain! Drip, drip, drip, It says to the sullen eaves ; Drip, drip, drip, And trembles on the leaves. 60 TOUSOULIA. A LEGEND OF THE MOHEGAN. THE Juniata rippled at her feet, And like a fallen giant lay the sun Aslant the silent trees. Tousoulia Was sad. The maiden had been waiting through Three crescent moons ; had marked them orb and go, Like dreamy Houris, down the stairs of night To bathe in mists behind the purple hills ; And yet her Indian warrior came Not back. Thus to the stream that wandered by, Thus to the shadows of the coming night Tousoulia made her moan : 61 " The autumn has been breathing on the leaves, And burnt them into redness with her lips ; And I am sadder than the Whip-po-will. " The summer birds have floated to the south ; My lonely heart is vacant as their nests It shall be empty till my Chief comes home ! " There are no footfalls that can make me glad, There are no warblings of the lover's lute, At eventide, outside the wigwam door. " No tender hands caress me as they used ; Only the lips of moonbeams kiss my breast ; And I am sadder than the Whip-po-will. " When wilt thou come ? and is the trail so long, Three moons must stalk between thee and thy bride ? She waits for thee as eagerly, Lenape, " As Earth for Spring to kiss it into buds ! The Bending Lily yearns for him who will Made her as happy as a humming bird !" 4 And softly with her foot she stirred A clump of water-lilies, and then grew as mute As moulting robins. Like a lark that skims The outer surface of cerulean Clouds, shot a canoe from out the shadow Of the trailing trees ; and, like a blood-hound On its mistress' knee, it placed its long head On the beach. Another and another, And a third ; while from them leaped a score of Painted braves. So softly came they, the Mohegan girl Perceived them not till some dry branches cracked ^ Beneath their feet ; then, springing up, she threw Her arms around the neck of one who stalked Majestically as a king 'twas not Lenape. All rich with blushes she drew back And, at a distance, followed them into The Indian village. 63 The Council fire Leaped high that night ; a scalping party that Had been three moons away, came opulent In deeds and trophies back. And there were Praises and welcomings for the returned, Wailings and wild sorrowing for the dead. The hungry fire w T as fed with brushwood ; high Into the night its flaming arms were stretched Like one in prayer, Without the reaches of Its radiancy stood Tousoulia, With heart as full of tears as a cloud in April time. Each warrior told his Own exploits with a wild eloquence ; then As the calm of stagnant winds before the Lightning, with its fiery finger, pricks The swollen cloud, and deluges the earth With most delicious tears, a silence fell Upon the plumed and dusky throng. Then, like The moanings of a distant ocean, broke Upon a hundred swarthy lips the name Of all natoes that Tousoulia loved. 64 War Eagle rose ; the hair had fallen from His aged head as leaves from the grand oak In autumn winds. With a big heart he spoke : " When the Great Father scalps the forest trees, And we have laid our store of bear-meat in, Our young men must take panther skins and corn To I^mhaw's wigwam, for he hath no son !" The speaker paused, and thro' the stillness trilled A laugh so fearful that the couchant braves Sprang to their feet; the sleepy watch curs howled, And frighted squaws drew nearer to the fire. Tousoulia pressing through the wildered Throng, stood by the crackling fire scornfully. " The great Moheganis not dead !" she cried. " I hear the paddles of his bark canoe Afar, afar !" she paused like one that hears A sound i' the distance. " He will come. I'll wait For him. He pants beneath the weight of scalps ! The great Mohegan is not dead !" 65 Alas ! in the too sudden shock of wo, her brain Had lost its equipoise, and her mind went Wandering, like a bird whose nest has been Destroyed. Through weary length of autumn Days, she sat beside the Juniata Trailing her feet, the live long day, among The globes of water-lilies, and 'twas thus She made her moan unto the listening wood, And to the mouthing wind, and to the stream Whose voice was like the music of her own : "When wilt thou come? and is the trail so long, Three moons must stalk between thee and thy bride, Whose heart is empty as a last year's nest ?" And to this day the spot is pointed out Where sat the maniac girl, and saw three Summers drop in leafy graves, waiting for Him who never, never came to make her " Happy as a humming bird." 66 A MADRIGAL. Nellie's curls I saw a rose to-night, And I was vexed that I was not a rose, A captive chained with ebon chains like those, Silken and soft, and beautifully bright. And then I wished myself the diamond speck That glittered on the berther of her dress, To tremble on the brink of loveliness, To kiss the tempting whiteness of her neck. And when I saw that saucy little foot Peeping from 'neath her skirts with Sylph-like grace, She must have read the wish upon my face, The silly wish that I'd been born a boot ! 67 I MIGHT HAVE BEEN. " I MIGHT have been" 's a weary lay Too often sang, and foolishly. With deeper care on heart and brain, More sorrowful and full of pain You might have been, You might have been Thank God for what you are ! You might have won a poet's crown, And swayed the Janus-faced town, Wringing applauses from all men ; But purer you might not have been, Might not have been ; Truer, you might not have been- Thank God for what you are ! 68 The gentle hand that clasps your own, The lips that sway you with a tone, Death might have chilled. Go not alone, Like the complaining rain, and moan " I might have been, I might have been," Thank God for what you are ! I have a prayer ; 'tis not to crave Exemption from a nameless grave, Nor fame to stamp me with its seal ; 'Tis that I may, when o'er me steal The thoughts of what I might have been, The thoughts of what I might have been, Thank God for what I am. 69 I. As falls a ray of transient golden light Through half-shut blinds upon the darkened floor, And leaving, turns the twilight into night, Making the shadows deeper than before : ii. So through the darkened windows of my heart Stole the warm, transient sunshine of thy love, Then left me darkness. O ! thy cruel art Hath made me colder than a marble Jove. in. Think how cold! when I can meet thy glances Nor feel the blood pulp warmer in my veins ; Time, Iconoclast ! hath broke my fancies ! Memory, still a captive, is in chains. 70 IV. * * * * I know the ever restless thought That reigns within thee ; that thy dark eyes wear A calm that happiness has never brought A Resignation, sister to Despair. v. Not do I view thee as the passing throng ; The surface pleases them : they do not probe ; I see thy woes in wit, and laugh, and song, Like rotting monarchs in their ermine robe. VI. We are not married, and yet not unwed ; Unwed in joy, in sorrow we are one ; Though far apart, together we will tread A path thro' life the twilight falls upon. VII. The twilight's on our faces, and our lives Are but the echoes of one saddened tune. Joy sank ; grief rose, all passions that survives The night outlives its little silver moon. 71 THE TWO CITIES. There are two worlds about as, Two worlds in which we dwell Within us and without us. R. H. Stoddard. 'TWAS dusk, and from my window Upon the street below I saw the people passing, Like shadows, to and fro ; nd faintly, very faintly I heard the ceasing din ; And like the dusk without me There was a dusk within. And thoughts with eager footsteps, Dim thoughts of joy and pain, Filled the streets and by-ways of The city in my brain. 72 A passing light and holy Like that which softly falls Through open gates in cloudlets Upon cathedral walls, Fell upon the.towers of The city in my mind ; My inward sight grew clearer My outward vision blind. Forgotten was the window ; There seemed no street below, I did not see them passing, The shadows, to and fro. I was between Two Cities In which my spirit dwells ; And I could hear the chimings Of two sad sets of bells Without the holy Trinity's ; And deep within my soul, My heart was throbbing like a bell When it has ceased to toll ! 73 THE NIGHT WIND. I FEEL, like weeping when the dismal Wind Talks to the chimney of an Autumn night So strangely talks with meaning undefined Or scolds the forest till it shrinks in, fright, And with its lips of leaves, all terror white, Begs of the breeze to treat it less unkind. To-night, before the supper lamps were lit, The poor wind whistled such a doleful tune My eyelids swelled like rain-fed clouds in June ; I drew my arm-chair near the hearth, to sit And form the embers into figures quaint ; I fancied Vikings, bridges, castles drear; But ah ! that Wind, now growing loud, now faint, Hung like a guilty conscience on my ear. IMORE. A LEGEND OF THE MINSTREL TIMES. ONE day while sitting in the dim old woods, Charmed with the braided notes of brooks and birds, Sleep stole upon him like a pleasant thought. His head was pillowed upon violets, And lilies stood on tip-toe to his lips. As thus he slept, an angel dropped among The flowerets, the Lady Volant and The Earl went by and saw him slumbering ; And ever after in the maiden's dream, Was Imore sleeping by the rivulet. Ah, he beheld her on that summer day Through the sly openings of his roguish eyes ; 75 And she was queenly as a budded moon ! Peerless as she whose nectared kisses cost Mark Antony a kingdom ! And he turned From gay to sad, and haunted the old wood ; His cheeks grew pale as lilies in a rill ; He sang no longer like a morning lark, But hummed around the lindens like a bee. Once Lady Volant loved to sit and watch From Odenwald's high tower, the red sun Folding his purple pinions for the eve, And the clear stars that cluster thick upon The arch of night, like watery diamonds On a ring of jet. But now she strayed far In the leafy glens, and plucking roses, Warm with the parting kiss that sunset gives, Came melancholy with the twilight home. One eve as she was roving thro' the glade, She found the minstrel sleeping as before Upon a couch of violets as once Diana found Endymion asleep, Loving him ever after and from out His parted lips his breath came like the breath Of hyacinths. Then whispered Volant Softly to herself, " Methinks I could such 76 Honied sweetness from those full lips draw, as Does a bee from the sweet honeysuckle. Now by the blood that circles in these veins And prompts me in this most delicious freak ! I'll taste them, and if he awakes I'll swear That 'twas some spirit kissed him in his dream, Not I ; that I'm the daughter of an earl And would not stoop to press a common lip : Then I'll sweep by, majestic as the Night." Then, like a rain-bow, she bent over him, With all the hues of autumn on her cheeks. Raising the fringed curtains of his eyes, He threw both arms around her snowy neck And punished her with kisses ! She drew back With angered orbs ; then blushed, then thro' the wood Leaped the silvery echoes of her laugh. And then she called him " cruel, cruel boy," And asked him if th'e blue-bells did not close Their eyes with envy, when he looked at them ; And then she laid her hand among his curls. The evening melted, and night found them there Cupid and Psyche wooing in a wood ! 77 " There is a clime," he said, " a far off land Of orange-bowers and magnolia trees, With streams of gold fish gurgling 'mong the hills ; Where winter never throws a pall upon The sweet-lipped flowerets, and May and June Go, hand in hand, throughout the live-long year!" Softly at night she left the castle gate * To wander with the minstrel to that land Of never dying summer and blue skies. They wandered off, and never more were seen By any swine-herd of those dewy dells, Nor by the Dryads, nor the Fauns, nor Fays, Nor any of the sylvan train that dwell By the cool fountains of that haunted wood. 78 FOREVER AND FOREVER. AN IMITATION. SWEET Nea held her hand in mine, Beside us rolled the river ; " Wilt love me Nea ?" and she said " Forever and forever." And when the roses blushed again I stood beside that river, But Nea, darling ! she was gone Forever and forever. She went with blossoms in the spring, And shall I see her never ? Ah, yes ! for those who love, love on Forever and forever. 79 " There is another better world," Where pain and death are never ; There she and I shall live and love Forever and forever. 80 A NEST OF SONNETS. i. THE LITTLE WITCHES AT THE CROSSINGS. THESE imps of Want ! these sprites of Poverty ! That flock the cross ways of the muddy town With brooms at ev'ry rain, whence come they, pray ? Spring they from earth, or do they tumble down, Like animalculae, in drops of rain ? How phantom-like tfrey move about the street ! Are they dwarf Gnomes fresh from some cav ern's brain, Like those in Arab legends ? Can hearts beat In such odd creatures? Are they more than breath ? 81 Look at those skinny out-stretched hands ! Why they Are spectral as the Witches in Macbeth ! Drop them a coin, pedestrian, thus may You win their good will, which were best to own, Since heaven can tell what elfs these are alone. 82 n. PHCEBUS. DEW-DAPPLED Phoebus, with half-shaded eye, Stalks through the portals of the eastern skies ; The stars that drop above the world on high, Beneath his gaze close their cloud-lidded eyes ; He taps the dreaming city till it wakes And hums and murmurs like an o'er turned hive ; With twit 'ring birds the forest is alive, And bends to see its shadow in the lakes ! In toying wavelets the soft zephyr breaks, Bearing the perfume from the gummy pines ; Flowers, the drinking-cups of the god-sun, Are brimmed with dew. His touch incarnadines The dank hill tops, and all it falls upon The reeling grain-fields and the streams that run. 83 in. THE NIGHT RAIN. PITEOUS Rain ! how it sobs without ! Driven from Heaven like a sinning child, Thrust from the Gates by scolding winds and wild, It wanders weary, drearily about. At me it peerfch through the window panes, And almost asks if I would let it in I'm not proclivous, weeping child of sin. Then off it speeds and curses and complains ; Its footfalls sound with quick and nervous beat On dismal miles of dimly-lighted street. It pauses oft, as if its tim'rous ear Had caught a sound 'twas only sighing leaves Then rushes onward with a trembling fear, And seeks to hide beneath protruding eaves. 84 IV. " THANATOPSIS." WHEN one can die with the proud consciousness That he will 'bide forever with the world, And that when monarchs and their broods are hurled Contemptuous down Oblivion's abyss, He will span time like heaven's*bow ; God ! this Must set his blood to boiling, and with bliss Fill his king-heart up to the very brim ! Yet I do know of a sublimer joy Possessing which I would not envy him O faith ! the alchemist that turns th' alloy Of death to golden calm. 'Tis when the soul, Uncaged, goes singing lark-like thro' the spheres Confidingly to God, devoid of fears, Having on earth paid Paradise its toll ! v. NOON. HE'S chosen the broad zenith for his seat ; His brow is sweaty, and his sultry breath Fills the sick town, and in the crowded street Men and o'er-ladened horses sink in death ; In rocky, dewless pastures, close beneath The arms of trees ihe drowsy cattle meet ; The grain grows dry within its heated sheath ; Wild lilac^ droop upon the sunny steep, And winds in knolls have st :A'n away to sleep. A sense of something heavy spheres the air As if the earth lay in a horrid trance, While through the still blue heaven with a stare The Noon-king looketh, scorching with his glance, Proud as a lion glaring from his lair. VI. TO ON HIS BEING UNJUSTLY CRITICISED. 'Tis ever so, my friend,' when one would climb The rounds of his ambition up to fame, And write, in blotless characters, his name Upon the unrolled manuscript of Time, There are some men who, as he 'tempts to rise, Will envy him the wreath their fate denies, And seek to wound him with their shafts of scorn. There 're many such that mark thee on thy way. Teach them this lesson, friend : He that is born For greatness will be great ! and enmity Cannot unmake a Poet. Did the thorn That cut the brow of Jesus make him less ? 87 ELEGIAC. HE never wed with thoughts of death Worm-eaten hearts and nighty pall, Nor mystery, like the writings of The fire-light's finger on the wall : 'Twas but to sink in fibered earth ; To go where buds and blossoms go In winter time, to rest ; then bloom Through summers of eternal flow. He wrestled nobly with his fate, And strove to mask his soul's distress ; He passed, a spectre, through the gate Of death alone and shadowless. 88 He was to me most like a stream Which, in some darkened vein of earth Flows thro' its rocky bowels, but To daylight never bubbles forth. 89 BERTHABELL. WHERE an ivy vine is creeping, And tears of dew-drops weeping, They tell me thou art sleeping, Berthabell ! I have often sat alone And read on the dark gray stone, With green mosses over-grown, " Berthabell." I know we laid thee there, With thy forehead cold and fair ! But now thou art otherwhere, Berthabell ! 90 Thy soul stole J'orth in flowers, That fainted 'neath the showers On thy grave, in April hours, Berthabell ! ! I nevermore will come And be weeping at this tomb ; It is all too full of gloom, Berthabell ! I will rather seek the glade Where the willows throw their shade, Where our shattered vows were made, Berthabell ! I will watch the willow swing, I will hear the streamlet sing, And kind memory will bring Berthabell! 91 ABOUT A TINY GIRL. IDA, look me in the eyes ! Place your tiny lips on mine, Rest one arm upon my brow, Round my neck the other twine. Did you leave your house of blocks And the toy that pleases thee ? Did you see me sad and wan That you clomb upon my knee, Kissing me so tenderly ? Did your finer sense perceive Something of unhappiness ? Did your inner vision see What the others did not guess, That you clomb upon my knee, Kissing with such tenderness ? " Ida loves you very much," Don't I know it, dainty one ? There is not a single curl, Tiny curls, like beams of sun ! Keeling from that busy head, Floating as a golden charm, That I would not give my hand, Or my life to save from harm. Ida, look me in the eyes ! Place your tiny lips on mine, Rest one arm upon my brow, Round my neck the other twine. 93 THE GENTLE HAND. WHERE trips the blue Piscataqua along in maiden glee, And throws herself upon the breast of her old lover Sea, I stood one August sunset with a gentle hand in mine, The sunbeams pouring in the deep like streams of yellow wine. Upon our right the old Fort stood, forbidding as a frown, And half within its shadow lay the little dingy town ; And here and there along the shore the fishing- smacks were hauled, While boats, like lazy turtles, up and down the river crawled ! 94 The Lighthouse with its eye of fire looked o'er the breakers swell, Standing all calm and solemn, like some watch ful sentinel ; And o'er the undulating lands our stretching eyes would mark Old Portsmouth's spires tapering up half-way to meet the dark. Low at our feet the ocean broke in long and frothy rolls, And like a gem upon its breast we saw the Isle of Shoals! ! dear to me the Fort, the town, the dimpled ocean's moan, But dearer was the gentle hand I held within my own ! Like a lion that is wounded, but in scorn dis dains to groan, Creeps to some secretest cavern there to bleed and die alone, The sun in sullen majesty was creeping to his His jagged sides a-panting and his red eye-balls a-glare. flo The lovely moon, like Cypris, rose from out the jeweled sea, And laid her lily hand upon the Light-house on the lee ; And touched the rocky bastion and the ram parts of the Fort, And ran along the sleepy guns that gaped from ev'ry port. It was a moon that might have lured the Mer maids from their caves, From out the glaucous grottoes of their realms beneath the waves, To sit upon the sloping strand and comb from out their hair The sea-weed, and to have a chat with loving Mermen there. O ! dear to me the Fort and town asleep in light divine ; But dearer than the landscape was the hand I held in mine ! In brilliant, starry necklaces and bridal sheen arrayed, The Moon stood out in heaven like a pale un willing maid ; 96 She loved the dewy Mgrning with his yellow curls of light ; She's doomed to wed another and to be the bride of Night. I whispered this to Lillie as she turned her eyes above ; "'Tis sad," she said, "'tis very sad to wed not where we love." The hand I pressed too ardently was drawn away from mine, And eyes were turned toward me all bewitch ing ly divine ; I dared to take that hand again and soothe it in my own ; I dared to steal my arm around a half reluctant zone ; I told her how the waters kissed the islands in their sport, And we neither saw the Lighthouse, the islands, nor the Fort! 97 THE THREE CONCEITS. (PRELUDE AFTER TENNYSON.) IT happened on a summer day that Hall And Walter Everland, a young poet, And Arthur Thornburn and my humble self, Were in a church-yard near th' Academy, Reading odd epitaphs. And tired out, We stretched ourselves beneath the wedded boughs, Of some tall lindens 4sy the river side, Cheating the laggard moments of their prey Of weariness in drawing similes From clouds, and trees, and rocks. Each one in turn, Putting some question to the other three. Thus when to me the lot of querist fell : 9 119 in. 'Neath the glimpses of the moon, Flowers pale, and droop, and swoon, Truant streams steal out of glens, Over violet-scented fens, Through the tall grass of the meadow, Throwing back D ana's shadow. TV. The phantom fingers of the Breeze Play upon the slumberous trees Their wondrous, untaught minstrelsy ! Making every leaf a key ! Every twig a flat or sharp ! Every sycamore a harp ! v. The music voice of distant rills Humming in the hearts of hills Steals upon me like a stream Of music thro' a saddened dream, Or, as with a murmuring breath Thoughtful memory whispereth. 120 VI. And, more charming than the chimes Floating through a poet's rhymes, From the hill-brows and the dells Comes a tinkling tongue that tells Of grazing herd, while from the hill Pipes the plaintive Whip-po-will ! VII. The Evening comes as softly down Upon my heart as on the town ; Bends above its tumult wild As above her restless child Bends the mother, singing lowly Some refrain of melancholy. 121 THE GOLDEN ISLAND. i. I KNOW an Island sitting in the sea, As stately as a God ! With great blue waves forever at its feet Cringing like worshipers ! And when the crowned sun Urges his hot steeds thro' the gates of day, A golden shower falls on it the while. Queen Cleopatra never bore A brighter jewel on her bosom's swell Than seems this Island sitting in the sea. ii. And when the coy young Moon Becomes enamored of her beauty in the wave, 122 As did Narcissos in the minstrel's rhyme That sea-kist isle is flushed with silver light, And Beauty like a spirit haunteth it. O ! it was grand of April nights to hear That strange old ocean talking to himself! Though Autumn blasts have filled them since, My ears still hold the silver strains Of those wind-ditties that all summer haunt That Golden Island sitting in the sea. in. I've but to close my eyes, and I behold Those curving wavelets in the cold moonlight, Tumbling above each other on the shore, Showing the stars their red phosphoric veins ! O sprite of Thought ! thy dainty fingers wipe The city's dust from out my blinded eyes. Like Him that called dead Lazarus from the tomb, Thou call'st " Come forth !" and lo ! The buried Past lifts up its coffin lid, And stalketh forth with dust upon his brow ! Twelve of the eighteen Summers of my life, Like Twelve white Maidens tending on a Queen, Stand, flower-decked, round Memory ! 0, thou fine sprite ! what treasures thou hast piled In the mind's store-house ! Memory unlocks The tomb of the departed Years, arid shows Them in their royalty stretched out like Kings ! O ! sweet the pictures that she brings to me Dim w r oods with pulses of a scented wind, And twilight shadows hanging on the trees Like birdlings half asleep ! And forms and faces that in soul-land move ; But dearer than the first of these, That Golden Island setting in the sea. IV. is a king there, And his rough-tuned lips Voice sea-born melodies for Neptune's ear ! And Echo's hoyden daughters sit Upon the rocks, and mimic ocean, Who moans all the w r hile, like an old man Whose years have led him to the gate of Death; The sea-gulls screech around it, And the lark above Hangs a sweet drop of music in the air ! O ! 'tis a spot fit for a Deity, Grand as the isles of the Hesperides, That Golden Island sitting in the sea. THE BAED. QuAENT-thoughted Rumor whispered of a Name, And said that Fame had set another star Within the glorious galaxy that brows Old England's forehead ! and that she had paused, And had been listening to a Titan bard Attentively as Summer to the Wren ! It spake of one, a child of Penury, In whose veins ran red blood as beautiful As pulses of the purple wine ; his song As the full gushes of a ripening soul Rare music drops wrung out by anguish from A heart sphered with humanity, a-flush With inward Spring, and drunk with love of this Dear World. One that made Fate a menial, And with a holy purpose in his soul, Rose from obscurity above his peers Like a, full rnoon that leaves a dismal swamp And sits in heaven 'mong the stars and night! 125 Not long I waited for the winds to waft This freighted soul o'er the Atlantic wave ; For soon the Western Hemisphere bursts forth In murmurs, like a Memnon touched at morn. And well I knew that proud Columbia hailed Another son of song, and stretched her hands To laurel him. His Book came ; and I felt The Passion that ran through it like a vein, Was born of Genius, and that the skill Which flung his fevered being into song, Would write his name upon the hearts of men In characters Time's finger cannot blot. I read and read until my heart was flushed With a new pleasure ; a diviner Light Came on me, and its golden fingers touched My being into tears, as the lightning Breaks a cloud and ravishes its wealth of Rain. I read and read, and tho' my eyes grew Dim with weariness, my soul still thirsted For those draughts of thought inspiring as Wine ! And all one summer day I bent above His book, like a pale lily o'er a stream, And saw my own heart-fancies mirrored on His page with wilder beauty. . . . 126 I read arid read until the day and dusk In married colors flooded through the blinds, And darkness laid his black hand on the page. And with the taper burning at my side, The Midnight came upon me ere I'd done With stars like drops of fire upon her breast I I turned to look at them and wondered why Such God-like beauty doomed the sinful world. I thought of those great souls that, dying, leave Behind the shadow of their godliness ; Who wrestled all their lives with some great Wrong, As Jacob did with the mysterious Angel one long still night at Penuel. Dear God ! when will Contention come and sleep In the soft lap of Peace ? And when shall Eight Throw off its galling chains, as in the spring The brooks leap from their icy manacles With an exuberance of joy ? Dear God ! When /this is so, shall not the Sun go down Upon the world with a great flushing light, And rise amid a chorus of the stars In Paradise ? 127 HOPE. AN EXCERPT FROM AX AXCIEXTE RIME. WHEN from darke chaos was create ye earthe, When firste ye sun glowed from its heighte, When Nature gave ye pond'rou* mountains birthe, And peerless Daye succeeded lovelie Nighte, When planates glowed tho' brighte in day, ye colde Dotted ye mantle stretched from pole to pole. 'Twas then that Hope with calm cerulean eye, Ne decked in statelie robes of Pride, Descended from her throne on highe And sought alike ye rich and poor man's side, To soothe his woe and bluntkeen miserie's barbe, And clothe ye Future in a brighter garbe. 128 She woke ye slumbering Genius, bade him rise ; From Sorrow's eye she wiped ye falling tear, Smiled sweetlie on Ambition's soaring eyes, And hovered even o'er Death's gloomy bier. Who ceased to smile she bade them smile agayne And in anticipation, banished present payne ! 129 LILLYAN. O, dreamy-eyed maiden ! With Peri beauty laden, Lillyan ! did thy southern skies Blend those sea-shell dyes On thy soft cheeks, Lillyan ? Lillyan sits through April noons In the shadow of the eaves Twining flowerets in her hair : I would be the crumpled leaves On the breast of Lillyan ! Dainty Lady Lillyan. Her sweet face haunts me where I rove, Her sunny glances bless me, Her gentler smiles caress me, And, ! my soul's a-flush with love Of that sad gipsy, Lillyan. 130 Lillyan in a place of flowers Slept one summer day ; Lillyan did not hear my footsteps As I passed that way ; And, I wis, I planted a long nectared kiss Upon the lips of Lillyan, ' The rare-ripe lips of Lillyan ! And she oped her frighted eyes With a glance of scorn, For the proudest little Lady That was ever born Is this self-same Lillyan, This dainty darling Lillyan. Like a shattered April rainbow Up the skies, I saw the blood go Through the cheeks of Lillyan ; And then kneeling at her feet, " Did the kiss I gave thee, Sweet, Fall on those red lips with such pain ?" She said " Yes ! take it back again." O ! that roguish Lillyan. iv. SCENE or BLANCHETTE. 133 BLANCHETTE. SCENE IV. A road by the church-yard of ELD ; the town and the Castles of CRAIGE and EDENWOLD seen in the distance. BLANCHETTE and IVAN sitting near the gate. BLANCHETTE. Wilt thou not Finish, Ivan, the sad tale that thou wert Telling me last eve ? I feel my path Has been a bridge of flowers, when I think Of thy captivity. IVAN. Where left I off? 134 BLANCHE TTE. 'Twas where they dragged thee in a noisome cave After the battle, faint with heavy chains, And streaked with thine own blood. IVAN. 0, let the Past Sleep in a shroud ! Why should we ever strew The thorns of olden sorrows on our way The memory of wilted hopes when joys Of present blossoming, like roses, wait For plucking ? BLANCHE TTE. It is these sombre phases Of our lives that make the bright seem brighter. In the soft blending of the light and shade All of the limner's cunning lies. We find No joy till we have had a twilight on The heart. We cannot see the sun, 'less It is partly dimmed with clouds, for it would Dazzle us. And if bliss should, like rivers, Ever through our beings leap, we would grow Surfeited and sick, like pet canaries Fed on lucious sweets. Is it not so ? 135 IVAN. O, thou canst see God's hand in sunshine and In shade ! To thee, whose spirit wears on earth A pure touch of heaven's divinity, Those things are plain, that unto coarser souls Seem swathed in darkness. O my better heart ! My soul-philosopher ! teach me thy faith, Thy subtle faith, that sees in every wo An Angel masking or a Joy disguised ! BLAXCHETTE. Wilt thou not tell the tale ? 'Tis such a one As should be told at sunset, when the clouds Turn their flushed faces on departing day, And then grow sad and sadder by degrees, As the great orb hides underneath the earth ! Tell me it quickly ! or the dusk will set Its signet on the zenith, and the night Will cap it with a moon. IVAN. 'Twas a great cave Where sunbeams never were, and night and day Were one ; full of dark precipices, Yawning and moaning ever, and deep streams 136 Writhing and squirming, like black serpents, 'mong Stalagmites centuries old. Echo roamed Through all the caverns like a demon king, With lips brimful of startling cadences. In the unearthly light of burning brands, Forms, more horrible than those of Comus And his crew, dug in the rocky- veined ribs And in the bowels of their prison house, Bringing forth precious jewels. Men were there Who never saw the sun, nor felt the breath Of evening on their cheeks. Born in that realm Of Cerberus, at tales of planates poised In viewless air ; earth's ragged cloak of snow ; The Sister Months, and crystal tides, and ships They'd ope their eyes with wonderment ; and birds With hearts of melody were myths to them. Here did I dwell the long and lonely years ; The hours went by as slow and sombrely As funeral trains each bore a dead hope With it. Even now, in this rich moment Of serenest bliss, the thoughts of that drear Cave, fall on my heart like clouds, darkening it. I'll not let these cold and clammy mem'ries Finger the gilt from off this golden hour ! No more ! no more ! I'm all too weary, love, Of this dark episode in my heart's Life ! BLANCHE TTE. What ! leave it all unfinished like a strain Of music broken by the wind ? Oh, no ! Tell what kind angel took thee by the hand And through those palaces, stalactite hung, Led thee to rosy daylight and to me. IVAN. An angel ! Ah, thou sayest rightly, for It was. If ever God sent angel to This earth, Madeue was one. A miner's child, Born in the rocky navel of that cave, She grew up with strange thoughts, wild joys, and tears Ran thro' her being like rare music thro' A dream. Her soul lay in her hazel eyes Like a white lily in a brook. There was An atmosphere of purity around Her, and of love, a tenderness, a grace That loving nature robed her with, not art. She was a star in that dark spot, a light Gilding the darkness. BLANCHETTE. And you loved her? 138 IVAN. Very much. She nursed me in my sickness With the gentlest care, and sang low songs And soothed me like a child. 'Tis not 'mid thrones And palaces we find the noblest hearts. Costlier diamonds are hid in the earth Than ever yet have decked a coronal. In the lone paths and by-ways of this world, Souls, rich in their own wealth, spring up arid die Like flowerets unnoticed. She was one That shall make heaven beautiful, and earth Is lovelier while she lives. Through weary, Weary nights and days o' pain she tended me. When strength returned, my grateful lips were filled With language ; but how beggared 'twas to clothe The promptings of my soul. I spoke to her Of "home" " dear home" framed like a pic ture in My thought ; of one that waited for me, with Heart-trembles and most anxious eyes ; and she Would drink my words in with a thirsty ear. When thro' the toil of day, I'd sit me down Upon the margent of some inky stream, 139 Hearing it echo through the dull deaf caves, She'd find me ever, and sit at my feet. Once, as I told her of thee, Blanch, starting From out a seeming reverie, she cried, " Tell me no more of this dark-tressed one ! I love thee, stranger of the outer world ! Have loved since first our glances met ; my mouth Has burned upon thy forehead in thy sleep ; Mine eyes have fed on thee while wrapped in dreams !" " 0, say not so," I whispered, " say not so ! Thou art much dearer to me than my life ; 'Twere thine could it but serve thee ; but my love I beg thee do not ask it." Her hand fell Coldly on my own. " 'Twas a wild, wild dream," She said, "but over now. We will no more Of it. From this time forward I have one Great aim in life thy liberty ; for she Thou lovest must be worthy thee." I could Have worshiped her, so full of holiness She seemed, so full of paradise. Blanchette, I do believe this world is linked to that Next better world by souls like her's. 1)0 BLANCHETTE. And I. She must have fallen through the fingers of The angels, (never meant for earth) into That cave ; and they, mayhap, have ever since Been searching for her. I am listening. IVAN. 'Twas two years after this she came one night And drew me from a labyrinth of dreams. " Come," she spoke wildly, " I have seen a light, Not like the torches that we use, but soft And clear and lovely as an eye." We went. It was a star she saw glimmering through A rupture in the rock, half hidden by A fallen tree, and creeping vines, and leaves Of many summer times. My heart was full. I felt .ZEolus' lips upon my brow, And I could hear, among the trees without, The wind's wild symphonies. I turned to bless Her she was gone. Men hurried to and fro In the rotunda of the cave with lights. My absence was discovered ; at a bound I gained the opening, and thrust back the leaves, And stood out in the night glorious night ! 141 Peopled with planate worlds ! The river crossed, I hid me in the woods, and cooled my .lips With mangos, sweetest fruit Pomona hangs Upon the trees. I slept in shady glens By day, and traveled under covert of The night. The war had broken out afresh. I joined my comrades on a battle eve ; Once more I led them in victorious Charge. The fame, the wealth, the rank I won, I lay them at thy feet ! * * * * (An hour later, sunset ; a mist seen on the mountains.) BLANCHETTE. The birds are mute, and all the winding streams, With pebbly eyes, flow on subdued. The woods Are spotted o'er with carmine, ribbed with gold, And the great sun goes rippling down the West ! IVAN. And Twilight, like some dark Egyptian Queen, Stalks down the mountain side ! 142 BLANCHETTE. Soon Night will come, Cloud-capped and starry-eyed, with Saturn Mars And Venus in her train ! IVAN. How like a dream It is ! The town below us slumbering In the dusk, and the faint throbbing of its Many hearts ; the mournful curfew stealing On the night, and the sweet bulbul singing To the rose ; and thou, my love, thou seemest The most unreal of all. BLANCHETTE. There is a sad, Dim beauty in the scene that touches me. Morn walking o'er the coral-grottoed deep, Is not so 'witching as the dreamy haze That cloaks this landscape ; and I would not match One scintillation of mild Hesperus 'Gainst all his amber beams. The village lamps Are lighted ; darkness screens the chimney-tops, 143 The carven gables ; nought is visible Save twinkling lamps, except when some gude- wife The window curtain lifts, and watches for Her husband ; then a gleam of light runs out, Spanning the darkness like a fairy bridge ! IVAN. And Castle Craige, looms 'mid the shadows up, With window eyes of fire ; but Eden wo Id Is bleak and gloomy as a blasted tree. Come, love, let's leave these quiet, quiet grave* A church-yard is a dismal place at night, And we should not be sad. Ere Evening sweeps In purple robes again across the sky. The sweet-lipped bell that silent, drowsy hangs In yon old belfry of the ivied church, Shall tune its tongue and chime our marriage morn. To-morrow, love ! to-morrow ! 144 NIGHT SCENE. ONE cloud was gabled like a country house With latticed windows, vine hid, through which looked The melting eyes of stars. From out one side Was hung the moon like a great lantern in The crowded porch of some quaint village inn ! * * * * The far dim woods Were tipped with amethyst ; beneath me stretched The town of Eld bespangled with its lights ; Above me, drooped the linings of the clouds ! And I could hear, like one in trance, the feet Of cascades tripping musically down Emerald hills, while ever and anon The Nightingale sent trembles thro' the night.