The Complete Poetical Works Of James Russell Lowell

[Transcriber’s Note: The text contains non-English words using diacritical marks not contained in the standard ASCII character set. Characters accented by those marks, and the corresponding text representations are as follows (where x represents the character being accented). All diacritical marks in this text are above the character being accented: breve (u-shaped symbol): [)x] macron (straight line): [=x]] THE COMPLETE POETICALWORKS OFJAMES RUSSELLLOWELL Cabinet Edition BOSTON AND NEW YORKHOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANYTHE RIVERSIDE PRESS, CAMBRIDGE M DCCCC II PUBLISHERS’ NOTE Mr. Lowell, the year before he died, edited a definitive edition of his works, known as the Riverside edition. Subsequently, his literary executor, Mr. C.B. Norton, issued a final posthumous collection, and the Cambridge edition followed, including all the poems in the Riverside edition, and the poems edited by Mr. Norton. The present Cabinet edition contains all the poems in the Cambridge edition. It is made from new plates, and for the convenience of the student the longer poems have their lines numbered, and indexes of titles and first lines are added. Autumn, 1899. TABLE OF CONTENTS EARLIER POEMS. THRENODIATHE SIRENSIRENESERENADEWITH A PRESSED FLOWERTHE BEGGARMY LOVESUMMER STORMLOVETO PERDITA, SINGINGTHE MOONREMEMBERED MUSICSONG. TO M.L.ALLEGRATHE FOUNTAINODETHE FATHERLANDTHE FORLORNMIDNIGHTA PRAYERTHE HERITAGETHE ROSE: A BALLADSONG, ‘VIOLET! SWEET VIOLET!’ROSALINEA REQUIEMA PARABLESONG, ‘O MOONLIGHT DEEP AND TENDER’ SONNETS. I. TO A.C.L. II. ‘WHAT WERE I, LOVE, IF I WERE STRIPPED OF THEE?’ III. ‘I WOULD NOT HAVE THIS PERFECT LOVE OF OURS’ IV. ‘FOR THIS TRUE NOBLENESS I SEEK IN VAIN’ V. TO THE SPIRIT OF KEATS VI. ‘GREAT TRUTHS ARE PORTIONS OF THE SOUL OF MAN’ VII. ‘I ASK NOT FOR THOSE THOUGHTS, THAT SUDDEN LEAP’ VIII. TO M.W., ON HER BIRTHDAY IX. ‘MY LOVE, I HAVE NO FEAR THAT THOU SHOULDST DIE’ X. ‘I CANNOT THINK THAT THOU SHOULDST PASS AWAY’ XI. ‘THERE NEVER YET WAS FLOWER FAIR IN VAIN’ XII. SUB PONDERE CRESCIT XIII. ‘BELOVED, IN THE NOISY CITY HERE’ XIV. ON READING WORDSWORTH’S SONNETS IN DEFENCE OF CAPITAL PUNISHMENT XV. THE SAME CONTINUED. XVI. THE SAME CONTINUED. XVII. THE SAME CONTINUED. XVIII. THE SAME CONTINUED. XIX. THE SAME CONCLUDED. XX. TO M.O.S. XXI. ‘OUR LOVE IS NOT A FADING, EARTHLY FLOWER’ XXII. IN ABSENCE XXIII. WENDELL PHILLIPS XXIV. THE STREET XXV. ‘I GRIEVE NOT THAT RIPE KNOWLEDGE TAKES AWAY’ XXVI. TO J.R. GIDDINGS XXVII. ‘I THOUGHT OUR LOVE AT FULL, BUT I DID ERR’ L’ENVOI MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. A LEGEND OF BRITTANY PROMETHEUS THE SHEPHERD OF KING ADMETUS THE TOKEN AN INCIDENT IN A RAILROAD CAR RHOECUS THE FALCON TRIAL A GLANCE BEHIMD THE CURTAIN A CHIPPEWA LEGEND STANZAS ON FREEDOM COLUMBUS AN INCIDENT OF THE FIRE AT HAMBURG THE SOWER HUNGER AND COLD THE LANDLORD TO A PINE-TREE SI DESCENDERO IN INFERNUM, ADES TO THE PAST TO THE FUTURE HEBE THE SEARCH THE PRESENT CRISIS AN INDIAN-SUMMER REVERIE THE GROWTH OF THE LEGEND A CONTRAST EXTREME UNCTION THE OAK AMBROSE ABOVE AND BELOW THE CAPTIVE THE BIRCH-TREE AN INTERVIEW WITH MILES STANDISH ON THE CAPTURE OF FUGITIVE SLAVES NEAR WASHINGTON TO THE DANDELION THE GHOST-SEER STUDIES FOR TWO HEADS ON A PORTRAIT OF DANTE BY GIOTTO ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND’S CHILD EURYDICE SHE CAME AND WENT THE CHANGELING THE PIONEER LONGING ODE TO FRANCE. February, 1848 ANTI-APIS A PARABLE ODE WRITTEN FOR THE CELEBRATION OF THE INTRODUCTION OF THE COCHITUATE WATER INTO THE CITY OF BOSTON LINES SUGGESTED BY THE GRAVES OF TWO ENGLISH SOLDIERS ON CONCORD BATTLE-GROUND TO—- FREEDOM BIBLIOLATRES BEAVER BROOK MEMORIAL VERSES. KOSSUTH TO LAMARTINE. 1848 TO JOHN GORHAM PALFREY TO W.L. GARRISON ON THE DEATH OF CHARLES TURNER TORREY ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF DR. CHANNING TO THE MEMORY OF HOOD THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFALLETTER FROM BOSTON. December, 1846A FABLE FOR CRITICSTHE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTTFRAGMENTS OF AN UNFINISHED POEMAN ORIENTAL APOLOGUETHE BIGLOW PAPERS. FIRST SERIES. NOTICES OF AN INDEPENDENT PRESS NOTE TO TITLE-PAGE INTRODUCTION NO. I. A LETTER FROM MR. EZEKIEL BIGLOW OF JAALAM TO THE HON. JOSEPH T. BUCKINGHAM NO. II. A LETTER FROM MR. HOSEA BIGLOW TO THE HON. J.T. BUCKINGHAM NO. III. WHAT MR. ROBINSON THINKS NO. IV. REMARKS OF INCREASE D. O’PHACE, ESQ. NO. V. THE DEBATE IN THE SENNIT NO. VI. THE PIOUS EDITOR’S CREED NO. VII. A LETTER FROM A CANDIDATE IN THE PRESIDENCY IN ANSWER TO SUTTIN QUESTIONS PROPOSED BY Mr. HOSEA BIGLOW NO. VIII. A SECOND LETTER FROM B. SAWIN, ESQ. NO. IX. A THIRD LETTER FROM B. SAWIN, ESQ. SECOND SERIES. THE COURTIN’ NO. I. BIRDOFREDUM SAWIN ESQ., TO MR. HOSEA BIGLOW NO. II. MASON AND SLIDELL: A YANKEE IDYLL JONATHAN TO JOHN NO. III. BIRDOFREDUM SAWIN, ESQ., TO MR. HOSEA BIGLOW NO. IV. A MESSAGE OF JEFF DAVIS IN SECRET SESSION NO. V. SPEECH OF HONOURABLE PRESERVED DOE IN SECRET CAUCUS NO. VI. SUNTHIN’ IN THE PASTORAL LINE NO. VII. LATEST VIEWS OF MR. BIGLOW NO. VIII. KETTELOPOTOMACHIA NO. IX. SOME MEMORIALS OF THE LATE REVEREND H. WILBUR NO. X. MR. HOSEA BIGLOW TO THE EDITOR OF THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY NO. XI. MR. HOSEA BIGLOW’S SPEECH IN MARCH MEETING UNDER THE WILLOWS AND OTHER POEMS. TO CHARLES ELIOT NORTON UNDER THE WILLOWS DARA THE FIRST SNOW-FALL THE SINGING LEAVES SEAWEED THE FINDING OF THE LYRE NEW-YEAR’S EVE, 1850 FOR AN AUTOGRAPH AL FRESCO MASACCIO WITHOUT AND WITHIN GODMINSTER CHIMES THE PARTING OF THE WAYS ALADDIN AN INVITATION. TO JOHN FRANCIS HEATH THE NOMADES SELF-STUDY PICTURES FROM APPLEDORE THE WIND-HARP AUF WIEDERSEHEN PALINODE AFTER THE BURIAL THE DEAD HOUSE A MOOD THE VOYAGE TO VINLAND MAHMOOD THE IMAGE-BREAKER INVITA MINERVA THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH YUSSOUF THE DARKENED MIND WHAT RABBI JEHOSHA SAID ALL-SAINTS A WINTER-EVENING HYMN TO MY FIRE FANCY’S CASUISTRY TO MR. JOHN BARTLETT ODE TO HAPPINESS VILLA FRANCA. 1859 THE MINER GOLD EGG: A DREAM-FANTASY A FAMILIAR EPISTLE TO A FRIEND AN EMBER PICTURE TO H.W.L. THE NIGHTINGALE IN THE STUDY IN THE TWILIGHT THE FOOT-PATH POEMS OF THE WAR. THE WASHERS OF THE SHROUD TWO SCENES FROM THE LIFE OF BLONDEL MEMORIAE POSITUM ON BOARD THE ’76 ODE RECITED AT THE HARVARD COMMEMORATION L’ENVOI: TO THE MUSE THE CATHEDRAL THREE MEMORIAL POEMS. ONE READ AT THE ONE HUNDREDTH ANNIVERSARY OF THE FIGHT AT CONCORD BRIDGE UNDER THE OLD ELM AN ODE FOR THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1876 HEARTSEASE AND RUE. I. FRIENDSHIP. AGASSIZ TO HOLMES, ON HIS SEVENTY-FIFTH BIRTHDAY IN A COPY OF OMAR KHAYYAM ON RECEIVING A COPY OF MR. AUSTIN DOBSON’S ‘OLD WORLD IDYLLS’ TO C.F. BRADFORD BANKSIDE JOSEPH WINLOCK SONNET, TO FANNY ALEXANDER JEFFRIES WYMAN TO A FRIEND WITH AN ARMCHAIR E.G. DE R. BON VOYAGE TO WHITTIER, ON HIS SEVENTY-FIFTH BIRTHDAY ON AN AUTUMN SKETCH OF H.G. WILD TO MISS D.T. WITH A COPY OF AUCASSIN AND NICOLETTE ON PLANTING A TREE AT INVERARAY AN EPISTLE TO GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS II. SENTIMENT. ENDYMION THE BLACK PREACHER ARCADIA REDIVIVA THE NEST A YOUTHFUL EXPERIMENT IN ENGLISH HEXAMETERS BIRTHDAY VERSES ESTRANGEMENT PHOEBE DAS EWIG-WEIBLICHE THE RECALL ABSENCE MONNA LISA THE OPTIMIST ON BURNING SOME OLD LETTERS THE PROTEST THE PETITION FACT OR FANCY? AGRO-DOLCE THE BROKEN TRYST CASA SIN ALMA A CHRISTMAS CAROL MY PORTRAIT GALLERY PAOLO TO FRANCESCA SONNET, SCOTTISH BORDER SONNET, ON BEING ASKED FOR AN AUTOGRAPH IN VENICE THE DANCING BEAR THE MAPLE NIGHTWATCHES DEATH OF QUEEN MERCEDES PRISON OF CERVANTES TO A LADY PLAYING ON THE CITHERN THE EYE’S TREASURY PESSIMOPTIMISM THE BRAKES A FOREBODING III. FANCY UNDER THE OCTOBER MAPLES LOVE’S CLOCK ELEANOR MAKES MACAROONS TELEPATHY SCHERZO ‘FRANCISCUS DE VERULAMIO SIC COGITAVIT’ AUSPEX THE PREGNANT COMMENT THE LESSON SCIENCE AND POETRY A NEW YEAR’S GREETING THE DISCOVERY WITH A SEASHELL THE SECRET IV. HUMOR AND SATIRE. FITZ ADAM’S STORY THE ORIGIN OF DIDACTIC POETRY THE FLYING DUTCHMAN CREDIDIMUS JOVEM REGNARE TEMPORA MUTANTUR IN THE HALF-WAY HOUSE AT THE BURNS CENTENNIAL IN AN ALBUM AT THE COMMENCEMENT DINNER, 1866 A PARABLE V. EPIGRAMS. SAYINGS INSCRIPTIONS A MISCONCEPTION THE BOSS SUN-WORSHIP CHANGED PERSPECTIVE WITH A PAIR OF GLOVES LOST IN A WAGER SIXTY-EIGHTH BIRTHDAY INTERNATIONAL COPYRIGHT LAST POEMS. HOW I CONSULTED THE ORACLE OF THE GOLDFISHES TURNER’S OLD TEMERAIRE ST. MICHAEL THE WEIGHER A VALENTINE AN APRIL BIRTHDAY–AT SEA LOVE AND THOUGHT THE NOBLER LOVER ON HEARING A SONATA OF BEETHOVEN’S PLAYED IN THE NEXT ROOM VERSES, INTENDED TO GO WITH A POSSET DISH ON A BUST OF GENERAL GRANT APPENDIX. I. INTRODUCTION TO THE SECOND SERIES OF BIGLOW PAPERS II. GLOSSARY TO THE BIGLOW PAPERS III. INDEX TO BIGLOW PAPERS INDEX OF FIRST LINES INDEX OF TITLES EARLIER POEMS THRENODIA Gone, gone from us! and shall we see Those sibyl-leaves of destiny,Those calm eyes, nevermore?Those deep, dark eyes so warm and bright, Wherein the fortunes of the manLay slumbering in prophetic light,In characters a child might scan?So bright, and gone forth utterly!Oh stern word–Nevermore! The stars of those two gentle eyes 10 Will shine no more on earth;Quenched are the hopes that had their birth, As we watched them slowly rise,Stars of a mother’s fate;And she would read them o’er and o’er, Pondering, as she sate,Over their dear astrology,Which she had conned and conned before, Deeming she needs must read aright 19What was writ so passing bright.And yet, alas! she knew not why.Her voice would falter in its song, And tears would slide from out her eye,Silent, as they were doing wrong.Oh stern word–Nevermore! The tongue that scarce had learned to claim An entrance to a mother’s heartBy that dear talisman, a mother’s name, Sleeps all forgetful of its art!I loved to see the infant soul 30 (How mighty in the weaknessOf its untutored meekness!)Peep timidly from out its nest,His lips, the while,Fluttering with half-fledged words, Or hushing to a smileThat more than words expressed,When his glad mother on him stoleAnd snatched him to her breast!Oh, thoughts were brooding in those eyes, 40 That would have soared like strong-winged birds Far, far into the skies,Gladding the earth with song,And gushing harmonies,Had he but tarried with us long!Oh stern word–Nevermore! How peacefully they rest,Crossfolded thereUpon his little breast,Those small, white hands that ne’er were still before, 50 But ever sported with his mother’s hair, Or the plain cross that on her breast she wore! Her heart no more will beatTo feel the touch of that soft palm, That ever seemed a new surpriseSending glad thoughts up to her eyes To bless him with their holy calm,–Sweet thoughts! they made her eyes as sweet. How quiet are the handsThat wove those pleasant bands!But that they do not rise and sink 61 With his calm breathing, I should thinkThat he were dropped asleep.Alas! too deep, too deepIs this his slumber!Time scarce can numberThe years ere he shall wake again.Oh, may we see his eyelids open then! Oh stern word–Nevermore! As the airy gossamere, 70Floating in the sunlight clear,Where’er it toucheth clingeth tightly, Bound glossy leal or stump unsightly,So from his spirit wandered outTendrils spreading all about,Knitting all things to its thrallWith a perfect love of all:Oh stern word–Nevermore! He did but float a little wayAdown the stream of time, 80With dreamy eyes watching the ripples play, Or hearkening their fairy chime;His slender sailNe’er felt the gale;He did but float a little way,And, putting to the shoreWhile yet ‘t was early day,Went calmly on his way,To dwell with us no more!No jarring did he feel, 90No grating on his shallop’s keel;A strip of silver sandMingled the waters with the landWhere he was seen no more:Oh stern word–Nevermore! Full short his journey was; no dustOf earth unto his sandals clave;The weary weight that old men must, He bore not to the grave.He seemed a cherub who had lost his way 100 And wandered hither, so his stayWith us was short, and ‘t was most meet That he should be no delver in earth’s clod, Nor need to pause and cleanse his feetTo stand before his God:Oh blest word–Evermore! THE SIRENS The sea is lonely, the sea is dreary, The sea is restless and uneasy;Thou seekest quiet, thou art weary, Wandering thou knowest not whither;–Our little isle is green and breezy, Come and rest thee! Oh come hither,Come to this peaceful home of ours, Where evermoreThe low west-wind creeps panting up the shore 9 To be at rest among the flowers;Full of rest, the green moss lifts, As the dark waves of the seaDraw in and out of rocky rifts, Calling solemnly to theeWith voices deep and hollow,– ‘To the shore Follow! Oh, follow! To be at rest forevermore! Forevermore!’ Look how the gray old Ocean 20From the depth of his heart rejoices, Heaving with a gentle motion,When he hears our restful voices;List how he sings in an undertone,Chiming with our melody;And all sweet sounds of earth and air Melt into one low voice alone,That murmurs over the weary sea,And seems to sing from everywhere,– ‘Here mayst thou harbor peacefully, 30 Here mayst thou rest from the aching oar; Turn thy curved prow ashore,And in our green isle rest forevermore! Forevermore!’And Echo half wakes in the wooded hill, And, to her heart so calm and deep, Murmurs over in her sleep,Doubtfully pausing and murmuring still, ‘Evermore!’ Thus, on Life’s weary sea, 40 Heareth the marinere Voices sweet, from far and near, Ever singing low and clear, Ever singing longingly. Is it not better here to be,Than to be toiling late and soon?In the dreary night to seeNothing but the blood-red moonGo up and down into the sea;Or, in the loneliness of day, 50 To see the still seals onlySolemnly lift their faces gray, Making it yet more lonely?Is it not better than to hearOnly the sliding of the waveBeneath the plank, and feel so near A cold and lonely grave,A restless grave, where thou shalt lie Even in death unquietly?Look down beneath thy wave-worn bark, 60 Lean over the side and seeThe leaden eye of the sidelong shark Upturned patiently, Ever waiting there for thee:Look down and see those shapeless forms, Which ever keep their dreamless sleep Far down within the gloomy deep,And only stir themselves in storms, Rising like islands from beneath,And snorting through the angry spray, 70 As the frail vessel perishethIn the whirls of their unwieldy play; Look down! Look down!Upon the seaweed, slimy and dark,That waves its arms so lank and brown, Beckoning for thee!Look down beneath thy wave-worn bark Into the cold depth of the sea! Look down! Look down! Thus, on Life’s lonely sea, 80 Heareth the marinere Voices sad, from far and near, Ever singing full of fear, Ever singing drearfully. Here all is pleasant as a dream;The wind scarce shaketh down the dew, The green grass floweth like a stream Into the ocean’s blue; Listen! Oh, listen!Here is a gush of many streams, A song of many birds, 91And every wish and longing seemsLulled to a numbered flow of words,– Listen! Oh, listen!Here ever hum the golden beesUnderneath full-blossomed trees,At once with glowing fruit and flowers crowned;– So smooth the sand, the yellow sand,That thy keel will not grate as it touches the land; All around with a slumberous sound, 100 The singing waves slide up the strand,And there, where the smooth, wet pebbles be, The waters gurgle longingly,As If they fain would seek the shore, To be at rest from the ceaseless roar,To be at rest forevermore,– Forevermore. Thus, on Life’s gloomy sea, Heareth the marinere Voices sweet, from far and near, 110 Ever singing in his ear, ‘Here is rest and peace for thee!’ IRENE Hers is a spirit deep, and crystal-clear; Calmly beneath her earnest face it lies, Free without boldness, meek without a fear, Quicker to look than speak its sympathies; Far down into her large and patient eyes I gaze, deep-drinking of the infinite,As, in the mid-watch of a clear, still night, I look into the fathomless blue skies. So circled lives she with Love’s holy light, That from the shade of self she walketh free; 10 The garden of her soul still keepeth she An Eden where the snake did never enter; She hath a natural, wise sincerity,A simple truthfulness, and these have lent her A dignity as moveless as the centre;So that no influence of our earth can stir Her steadfast courage, nor can take away The holy peacefulness, which night and day, Unto her queenly soul doth minister. Most gentle is she; her large charity 20 (An all unwitting, childlike gift in her) Not freer is to give than meek to bear;And, though herself not unacquaint with care, Hath in her heart wide room for all that be,– Her heart that hath no secrets of its own, But open is as eglantine full blown.Cloudless forever is her brow serene, Speaking calm hope and trust within her, whence Welleth a noiseless spring of patience,That keepeth all her life so fresh, so green 30 And full of holiness, that every look,The greatness of her woman’s soul revealing, Unto me bringeth blessing, and a feeling As when I read in God’s own holy book. A graciousness in giving that doth make The small’st gift greatest, and a sense most meek Of worthiness, that doth not fear to take From others, but which always fears to speak Its thanks in utterance, for the giver’s sake;– The deep religion of a thankful heart, 40 Which rests instinctively in Heaven’s clear law With a full peace, that never can depart From its own steadfastness;–a holy aweFor holy things,–not those which men call holy, But such as are revealed to the eyesOf a true woman’s soul bent down and lowly Before the face of daily mysteries;–A love that blossoms soon, but ripens slowly To the full goldenness of fruitful prime, Enduring with a firmness that defies 50 All shallow tricks of circumstance and time, By a sure insight knowing where to cling, And where it clingeth never withering;– These are Irene’s dowry, which no fateCan shake from their serene, deep-builded state. In-seeing sympathy is hers, which chasteneth No less than loveth, scorning to be bound With fear of blame, and yet which ever hasteneth To pour the balm of kind looks on the wound, If they be wounds which such sweet teaching makes, 60 Giving itself a pang for others’ sakes;No want of faith, that chills with sidelong eye, Hath she; no jealousy, no Levite prideThat passeth by upon the other side; For in her soul there never dwelt a lie. Right from the hand of God her spirit came Unstained, and she hath ne’er forgotten whence It came, nor wandered far from thence,But laboreth to keep her still the same, Near to her place of birth, that she may not 70 Soil her white raiment with an earthly spot. Yet sets she not her soul so steadily Above, that she forgets her ties to earth, But her whole thought would almost seem to be How to make glad one lowly human hearth; For with a gentle courage she doth strive In thought and word and feeling so to live As to make earth next heaven; and her heart Herein doth show its most exceeding worth, That, bearing in our frailty her just part, 80 She hath not shrunk from evils of this life, But hath gone calmly forth into the strife, And all its sins and sorrows hath withstood With lofty strength of patient womanhood: For this I love her great soul more than all, That, being bound, like us, with earthly thrall, She walks so bright and heaven-like therein,– Too wise, too meek, too womanly, to sin. Like a lone star through riven storm-clouds seen By sailors, tempest-tost upon the sea, 90 Telling of rest and peaceful heavens nigh, Unto my soul her star-like soul hath been, Her sight as full of hope and calm to me;– For she unto herself hath builded highA home serene, wherein to lay her head, Earth’s noblest thing, a Woman perfected. SERENADE From the close-shut windows gleams no spark, The night is chilly, the night is dark,The poplars shiver, the pine-trees moan, My hair by the autumn breeze is blown,Under thy window I sing alone,Alone, alone, ah woe! alone! The darkness is pressing coldly around, The windows shake with a lonely sound,The stars are hid and the night is drear, The heart of silence throbs in thine ear, In thy chamber thou sittest alone,Alone, alone, ah woe! alone! The world is happy, the world is wide. Kind hearts are beating on every side;Ah, why should we lie so coldly curled Alone in the shell of this great world?Why should we any more be alone?Alone, alone, ah woe! alone! Oh, ’tis a bitter and dreary word,The saddest by man’s ear ever heard! We each are young, we each have a heart, Why stand we ever coldly apart?Must we forever, then, be alone?Alone, alone, ah woe! alone! WITH A PRESSED FLOWER This little blossom from afarHath come from other lands to thine; For, once, its white and drooping starCould see its shadow in the Rhine. Perchance some fair-haired German maid Hath plucked one from the selfsame stalk, And numbered over, half afraid,Its petals in her evening walk. ‘He loves me, loves me not,’ she cries; ‘He loves me more than earth or heaven!’ And then glad tears have filled her eyes To find the number was uneven. And thou must count its petals well,Because it is a gift from me;And the last one of all shall tellSomething I’ve often told to thee. But here at home, where we were born, Thou wilt find blossoms just as true,Down-bending every summer morn,With freshness of New England dew. For Nature, ever kind to love,Hath granted them the same sweet tongue, Whether with German skies above,Or here our granite rocks among. THE BEGGAR A beggar through the world am I,From place to place I wander by.Fill up my pilgrim’s scrip for me,For Christ’s sweet sake and charity! A little of thy steadfastness,Bounded with leafy gracefulness,Old oak, give me,That the world’s blasts may round me blow, And I yield gently to and fro,While my stout-hearted trunk belowAnd firm-set roots unshaken be. Some of thy stern, unyielding might,Enduring still through day and night Rude tempest-shock and withering blight, That I may keep at bayThe changeful April sky of chanceAnd the strong tide of circumstance,– Give me, old granite gray. Some of thy pensiveness serene,Some of thy never-dying green,Put in this scrip of mine,That griefs may fall like snowflakes light, And deck me in a robe of white,Ready to be an angel bright,O sweetly mournful pine. A little of thy merriment,Of thy sparkling, light content,Give me, my cheerful brook,That I may still be full of gleeAnd gladsomeness, where’er I be,Though fickle fate hath prisoned me In some neglected nook. Ye have been very kind and goodTo me, since I’ve been in the wood; Ye have gone nigh to fill my heart;But good-by, kind friends, every one, I’ve far to go ere set of sun;Of all good things I would have part, The day was high ere I could start,And so my journey’s scarce begun. Heaven help me! how could I forgetTo beg of thee, dear violet!Some of thy modesty,That blossoms here as well, unseen, As if before the world thou’dst been,Oh, give, to strengthen me. MY LOVE Not as all other women areIs she that to my soul is dear;Her glorious fancies come from far, Beneath the silver evening-star,And yet her heart is ever near. Great feelings hath she of her own,Which lesser souls may never know;God giveth them to her alone,And sweet they are as any toneWherewith the wind may choose to blow. Yet in herself she dwelleth not.Although no home were half so fair; No simplest duty is forgot,Life hath no dim and lowly spotThat doth not in her sunshine share. She doeth little kindnesses,Which most leave undone, or despise: For naught that sets one heart at ease,And giveth happiness or peace,Is low-esteemed in her eyes. She hath no scorn of common things,And, though she seem of other birth, Round us her heart intwines and clings,And patiently she folds her wingsTo tread the humble paths of earth. Blessing she is: God made her so,And deeds of week-day holinessFall from her noiseless as the snow, Nor hath she ever chanced to knowThat aught were easier than to bless. She is most fair, and thereuntoHer life doth rightly harmonize;Feeling or thought that was not true Ne’er made less beautiful the blueUnclouded heaven of her eyes. She is a woman: one in whomThe spring-time of her childish years Hath never lost its fresh perfume,Though knowing well that life hath room For many blights and many tears. I love her with a love as stillAs a broad river’s peaceful might,Which, by high tower and lowly mill, Seems following its own wayward will,And yet doth ever flow aright. And, on its full, deep breast serene, Like quiet isles my duties lie;It flows around them and between,And makes them fresh and fair and green, Sweet homes wherein to live and die. SUMMER STORM Untremulous in the river clear,Toward the sky’s image, hangs the imaged bridge; So still the air that I can hearThe slender clarion of the unseen midge; Out of the stillness, with a gathering creep, Like rising wind in leaves, which now decreases, Now lulls, now swells, and all the while increases, The huddling trample of a drove of sheep Tilts the loose planks, and then as gradually ceases In dust on the other side; life’s emblem deep, 10 A confused noise between two silences,Finding at last in dust precarious peace. On the wide marsh the purple-blossomed grasses Soak up the sunshine; sleeps the brimming tide, Save when the wedge-shaped wake in silence passes Of some slow water-rat, whose sinuous glide Wavers the sedge’s emerald shade from side to side; But up the west, like a rock-shivered surge, Climbs a great cloud edged with sun-whitened spray; Huge whirls of foam boil toppling o’er its verge, 20 And falling still it seems, and yet it climbs alway. Suddenly all the sky is hid As with the shutting of a lid,One by one great drops are falling Doubtful and slow,Down the pane they are crookedly crawling, And the wind breathes low;Slowly the circles widen on the river, Widen and mingle, one and all;Here and there the slenderer flowers shiver, 30 Struck by an icy rain-drop’s fall. Now on the hills I hear the thunder mutter, The wind is gathering in the west;The upturned leaves first whiten and flutter, Then droop to a fitful rest;Up from the stream with sluggish flap Struggles the gull and floats away;Nearer and nearer rolls the thunder-clap,– We shall not see the sun go down to-day: Now leaps the wind on the sleepy marsh, 40 And tramples the grass with terrified feet, The startled river turns leaden and harsh, You can hear the quick heart of the tempest beat. Look! look! that livid flash!And instantly follows the rattling thunder, As if some cloud-crag, split asunder, Fell, splintering with a ruinous crash, On the Earth, which crouches in silence under; And now a solid gray wall of rainShuts off the landscape, mile by mile; 50 For a breath’s space I see the blue wood again, And ere the next heart-beat, the wind-hurled pile, That seemed but now a league aloof, Bursts crackling o’er the sun-parched roof; Against the windows the storm comes dashing, Through tattered foliage the hail tears crashing, The blue lightning flashes, The rapid hail clashes, The white waves are tumbling, And, in one baffled roar, 60 Like the toothless sea mumbling A rock-bristled shore, The thunder is rumbling And crashing and crumbling,–Will silence return nevermore? Hush! Still as death, The tempest holds his breath As from a sudden will;The rain stops short, but from the eaves You see it drop, and hear it from the leaves, 70 All is so bodingly still; Again, now, now, againPlashes the rain in heavy gouts, The crinkled lightning Seems ever brightening, And loud and long Again the thunder shouts His battle-song,– One quivering flash, One wildering crash, 80 Followed by silence dead and dull, As if the cloud, let go, Leapt bodily belowTo whelm the earth in one mad overthrow. And then a total lull. Gone, gone, so soon! No more my half-dazed fancy there, Can shape a giant In the air, No more I see his streaming hair, The writhing portent of his form;– 90 The pale and quiet moon Makes her calm forehead bare, And the last fragments of the storm, Like shattered rigging from a fight at sea, Silent and few, are drifting over me. LOVE True Love is but a humble, low-born thing, And hath its food served up in earthen ware; It is a thing to walk with, hand in hand, Through the everydayness of this workday world, Baring its tender feet to every flint,Yet letting not one heart-beat go astray From Beauty’s law of plainness and content; A simple, fireside thing, whose quiet smile Can warm earth’s poorest hovel to a home; Which, when our autumn cometh, as it must, And life in the chill wind shivers bare and leafless, Shall still be blest with Indian-summer youth In bleak November, and, with thankful heart, Smile on its ample stores of garnered fruit, As full of sunshine to our aged eyesAs when it nursed the blossoms of our spring. Such is true Love, which steals into the heart With feet as silent as the lightsome dawn That kisses smooth the rough brows of the dark, And hath its will through blissful gentleness, Not like a rocket, which, with passionate glare, Whirs suddenly up, then bursts, and leaves the night Painfully quivering on the dazed eyes;A love that gives and takes, that seeth faults, Not with flaw-seeking eyes like needle points, But loving-kindly ever looks them downWith the o’ercoming faith that still forgives; A love that shall be new and fresh each hour, As is the sunset’s golden mystery,Or the sweet coming of the evening-star, Alike, and yet most unlike, every day,And seeming ever best and fairest now; A love that doth not kneel for what it seeks, But faces Truth and Beauty as their peer, Showing its worthiness of noble thoughts By a clear sense of inward nobleness;A love that in its object findeth not All grace and beauty, and enough to sate Its thirst of blessing, but, in all of good Found there, sees but the Heaven-implanted types Of good and beauty in the soul of man,And traces, in the simplest heart that beats, A family-likeness to its chosen one,That claims of it the rights of brotherhood. For love is blind but with the fleshly eye, That so its inner sight may be more clear; And outward shows of beauty only soAre needful at the first, as is a hand To guide and to uphold an infant’s steps: Fine natures need them not: their earnest look Pierces the body’s mask of thin disguise, And beauty ever is to them revealed,Behind the unshapeliest, meanest lump of clay, With arms outstretched and eager face ablaze, Yearning to be but understood and loved. TO PERDITA, SINGING Thy voice is like a fountain, Leaping up in clear moonshine;Silver, silver, ever mounting, Ever sinking, Without thinking, To that brimful heart of thine.Every sad and happy feeling,Thou hast had in bygone years,Through thy lips comes stealing, stealing, Clear and low; 10All thy smiles and all thy tears In thy voice awaken, And sweetness, wove of joy and woe, From their teaching it hath taken:Feeling and music move together,Like a swan and shadow everFloating on a sky-blue riverIn a day of cloudless weather. It hath caught a touch of sadness, Yet it is not sad; 20It hath tones of clearest gladness, Yet it is not glad;A dim, sweet twilight voice it is Where to-day’s accustomed blueIs over-grayed with memories, With starry feelings quivered through. Thy voice is like a fountainLeaping up in sunshine bright, And I never weary countingIts clear droppings, lone and single, 30 Or when in one full gush they mingle, Shooting in melodious light. Thine is music such as yields Feelings of old brooks and fields, And, around this pent-up room, Sheds a woodland, free perfume; Oh, thus forever sing to me! Oh, thus forever!The green, bright grass of childhood bring to me, 39 Flowing like an emerald river, And the bright blue skies above! Oh, sing them back, as fresh as ever, Into the bosom of my love,– The sunshine and the merriment, The unsought, evergreen content, Of that never cold time, The joy, that, like a clear breeze, went Through and through the old time! Peace sits within thine eyes, With white hands crossed in joyful rest, 50 While, through thy lips and face, ariseThe melodies from out thy breast; She sits and sings, With folded wings And white arms crost, ‘Weep not for bygone things, They are not lost:The beauty which the summer timeO’er thine opening spirit shed,The forest oracles sublime 60 That filled thy soul with joyous dread,The scent of every smallest flowerThat made thy heart sweet for an hour, Yea, every holy influence,Flowing to thee, thou knewest not whence, In thine eyes to-day is seen,Fresh as it hath ever been;Promptings of Nature, beckonings sweet, Whatever led thy childish feet,Still will linger unawares 70 The guiders of thy silver hairs;Every look and every wordWhich thou givest forth to-day,Tell of the singing of the birdWhose music stilled thy boyish play.’ Thy voice is like a fountain,Twinkling up in sharp starlight,When the moon behind the mountainDims the low East with faintest white, Ever darkling, 80 Ever sparkling, We know not if ’tis dark or bright; But, when the great moon hath rolled round, And, sudden-slow, its solemn powerGrows from behind its black, clear-edged bound, No spot of dark the fountain keepeth, But, swift as opening eyelids, leapeth Into a waving silver flower. THE MOON My soul was like the sea. Before the moon was made,Moaning in vague immensity, Of its own strength afraid, Unresful and unstaid.Through every rift it foamed in vain, About its earthly prison,Seeking some unknown thing in pain, And sinking restless back again, For yet no moon had risen:Its only voice a vast dumb moan, Of utterless anguish speaking,It lay unhopefully alone, And lived but in an aimless seeking. So was my soul; but when ’twas full Of unrest to o’erloading,A voice of something beautiful Whispered a dim foreboding,And yet so soft, so sweet, so low,It had not more of joy than woe; And, as the sea doth oft lie still, Making its waters meet,As if by an unconscious will, For the moon’s silver feet,So lay my soul within mine eyesWhen thou, its guardian moon, didst rise. And now, howe’er its waves above May toss and seem uneaseful,One strong, eternal law of Love, With guidance sure and peaceful,As calm and natural as breath,Moves its great deeps through life and death. REMEMBERED MUSIC A FRAGMENT Thick-rushing, like an ocean vast Of bisons the far prairie shaking, The notes crowd heavily and fastAs surfs, one plunging while the last Draws seaward from its foamy breaking. Or in low murmurs they began, Rising and rising momently,As o’er a harp AEolianA fitful breeze, until they ran Up to a sudden ecstasy. And then, like minute-drops of rain Ringing in water silvery,They lingering dropped and dropped again, Till it was almost like a pain To listen when the next would be. SONG TO M.L. A lily thou wast when I saw thee first, A lily-bud not opened quite, That hourly grew more pure and white, By morning, and noontide, and evening nursed: In all of nature thou hadst thy share; Thou wast waited on By the wind and sun; The rain and the dew for thee took care; It seemed thou never couldst be more fair. A lily thou wast when I saw thee first, A lily-bud; but oh, how strange, How full of wonder was the change, When, ripe with all sweetness, thy full bloom burst! How did the tears to my glad eyes start, When the woman-flower Reached its blossoming hour,And I saw the warm deeps of thy golden heart! Glad death may pluck thee, but never before The gold dust of thy bloom divine Hath dropped from thy heart into mine, To quicken its faint germs of heavenly lore; For no breeze comes nigh thee but carries away Some impulses bright Of fragrance and light,Which fall upon souls that are lone and astray, To plant fruitful hopes of the flower of day. ALLEGRA I would more natures were like thine, That never casts a glance before,Thou Hebe, who thy heart’s bright wine So lavishly to all dost pour,That we who drink forget to pine, And can but dream of bliss in store. Thou canst not see a shade in life; With sunward instinct thou dost rise, And, leaving clouds below at strife, Gazest undazzled at the skies,With all their blazing splendors rife, A songful lark with eagle’s eyes. Thou wast some foundling whom the Hours Nursed, laughing, with the milk of Mirth; Some influence more gay than ours Hath ruled thy nature from its birth, As if thy natal stars were flowers That shook their seeds round thee on earth. And thou, to lull thine infant rest, Wast cradled like an Indian child; All pleasant winds from south and west With lullabies thine ears beguiled, Rocking thee in thine oriole’s nest, Till Nature looked at thee and smiled. Thine every fancy seems to borrow A sunlight from thy childish years, Making a golden cloud of sorrow, A hope-lit rainbow out of tears,– Thy heart is certain of to-morrow, Though ‘yond to-day it never peers. I would more natures were like thine, So innocently wild and free,Whose sad thoughts, even, leap and shine, Like sunny wavelets in the sea,Making us mindless of the brine, In gazing on the brilliancy. THE FOUNTAIN Into the sunshine, Full of the light,Leaping and flashing From morn till night; Into the moonlight, Whiter than snow,Waving so flower-like When the winds blow; Into the starlight Rushing in spray,Happy at midnight, Happy by day; Ever in motion, Blithesome and cheery,Still climbing heavenward, Never aweary; Glad of all weathers, Still seeming best,Upward or downward. Motion thy rest; Full of a nature Nothing can tame,Changed every moment, Ever the same; Ceaseless aspiring, Ceaseless content,Darkness or sunshine Thy element; Glorious fountain. Let my heart beFresh, changeful, constant, Upward, like thee! ODE I In the old days of awe and keen-eyed wonder, The Poet’s song with blood-warm truth was rife; He saw the mysteries which circle under The outward shell and skin of daily life. Nothing to him were fleeting time and fashion, His soul was led by the eternal law;There was in him no hope of fame, no passion, But with calm, godlike eyes he only saw. He did not sigh o’er heroes dead and buried, Chief-mourner at the Golden Age’s hearse, 10 Nor deem that souls whom Charon grim had ferried Alone were fitting themes of epic verse: He could believe the promise of to-morrow, And feel the wondrous meaning of to-day; He had a deeper faith in holy sorrow Than the world’s seeming loss could take away. To know the heart of all things was his duty, All things did sing to him to make him wise, And, with a sorrowful and conquering beauty, The soul of all looked grandly from his eyes. 20 He gazed on all within him and without him, He watched the flowing of Time’s steady tide, And shapes of glory floated all about him And whispered to him, and he prophesied. Than all men he more fearless was and freer, And all his brethren cried with one accord,– ‘Behold the holy man! Behold the Seer! Him who hath spoken with the unseen Lord!’ He to his heart with large embrace had taken The universal sorrow of mankind, 30 And, from that root, a shelter never shaken, The tree of wisdom grew with sturdy rind. He could interpret well the wondrous voices Which to the calm and silent spirit come; He knew that the One Soul no more rejoices In the star’s anthem than the insect’s hum. He in his heart was ever meek and humble. And yet with kingly pomp his numbers ran, As he foresaw how all things false should crumble Before the free, uplifted soul of man; 40 And, when he was made full to overflowing With all the loveliness of heaven and earth, Out rushed his song, like molten iron glowing, To show God sitting by the humblest hearth. With calmest courage he was ever ready To teach that action was the truth of thought, And, with strong arm and purpose firm and steady, An anchor for the drifting world he wrought. So did he make the meanest man partaker Of all his brother-gods unto him gave; 50 All souls did reverence him and name him Maker, And when he died heaped temples on his grave. And still his deathless words of light are swimming Serene throughout the great deep infinite Of human soul, unwaning and undimming, To cheer and guide the mariner at night. II But now the Poet is an empty rhymer Who lies with idle elbow on the grass, And fits his singing, like a cunning timer, To all men’s prides and fancies as they pass. 60 Not his the song, which, in its metre holy, Chimes with the music of the eternal stars, Humbling the tyrant, lifting up the lowly, And sending sun through the soul’s prison-bars. Maker no more,–oh no! unmaker rather, For he unmakes who doth not all put forth The power given freely by our loving Father To show the body’s dross, the spirit’s worth. Awake! great spirit of the ages olden! Shiver the mists that hide thy starry lyre, 70 And let man’s soul be yet again beholden To thee for wings to soar to her desire. Oh, prophesy no more to-morrow’s splendor, Be no more shamefaced to speak out for Truth, Lay on her altar all the gushings tender, The hope, the fire, the loving faith of youth! Oh, prophesy no more the Maker’s coming, Say not his onward footsteps thou canst hear In the dim void, like to the awful humming Of the great wings of some new-lighted sphere! 80 Oh, prophesy no more, but be the Poet! This longing was but granted unto thee That, when all beauty thou couldst feel and know it, That beauty in its highest thou shouldst be. O thou who moanest tost with sealike longings, Who dimly hearest voices call on thee,Whose soul is overfilled with mighty throngings Of love, and fear, and glorious agony.Thou of the toil-strung hands and iron sinews And soul by Mother Earth with freedom fed, 90 In whom the hero-spirit yet continues, The old free nature is not chained or dead, Arouse! let thy soul break in music-thunder, Let loose the ocean that is in thee pent, Pour forth thy hope, thy fear, thy love, thy wonder, And tell the age what all its signs have meant. Where’er thy wildered crowd of brethren jostles, Where’er there lingers but a shadow of wrong, There still is need of martyrs and apostles, There still are texts for never-dying song: 100 From age to age man’s still aspiring spirit Finds wider scope and sees with clearer eyes, And thou in larger measure dost inherit What made thy great forerunners free and wise. Sit thou enthroned where the Poet’s mountain Above the thunder lifts its silent peak, And roll thy songs down like a gathering fountain, They all may drink and find the rest they seek. Sing! there shall silence grow in earth and heaven, A silence of deep awe and wondering; 110 For, listening gladly, bend the angels, even, To hear a mortal like an angel sing. III Among the toil-worn poor my soul is seeking For who shall bring the Maker’s name to light, To be the voice of that almighty speaking Which every age demands to do it right. Proprieties our silken bards environ; He who would be the tongue of this wide land Must string his harp with chords of sturdy iron And strike it with a toil-imbrowned hand; 120 One who hath dwelt with Nature well attended, Who hath learnt wisdom from her mystic books, Whose soul with all her countless lives hath blended, So that all beauty awes us in his looks: Who not with body’s waste his soul hath pampered, Who as the clear northwestern wind is free, Who walks with Form’s observances unhampered, And follows the One Will obediently;Whose eyes, like windows on a breezy summit, Control a lovely prospect every way; 130 Who doth not sound God’s sea with earthly plummet, And find a bottom still of worthless clay; Who heeds not how the lower gusts are working, Knowing that one sure wind blows on above, And sees, beneath the foulest faces lurking, One God-built shrine of reverence and love; Who sees all stars that wheel their shining marches Around the centre fixed of Destiny,Where the encircling soul serene o’erarches The moving globe of being like a sky; 140 Who feels that God and Heaven’s great deeps are nearer Him to whose heart his fellow-man is nigh, Who doth not hold his soul’s own freedom dearer Than that of all his brethren, low or high; Who to the Right can feel himself the truer For being gently patient with the wrong, Who sees a brother in the evildoer, And finds in Love the heart’s-blood of his song;– This, this is he for whom the world is waiting To sing the beatings of its mighty heart, 150 Too long hath it been patient with the grating Of scrannel-pipes, and heard it misnamed Art. To him the smiling soul of man shall listen, Laying awhile its crown of thorns aside, And once again in every eye shall glisten The glory of a nature satisfied.His verse shall have a great commanding motion, Heaving and swelling with a melodyLearnt of the sky, the river, and the ocean, And all the pure, majestic things that be. 160 Awake, then, thou! we pine for thy great presence To make us feel the soul once more sublime, We are of far too infinite an essence To rest contented with the lies of Time. Speak out! and lo! a hush of deepest wonder Shall sink o’er all this many-voiced scene, As when a sudden burst of rattling thunder Shatters the blueness of a sky serene. THE FATHERLAND Where is the true man’s fatherland? Is it where he by chance is born? Doth not the yearning spirit scorn In such scant borders to be spanned?Oh yes! his fatherland must beAs the blue heaven wide and free! Is it alone where freedom is, Where God is God and man is man? Doth he not claim a broader spanFor the soul’s love of home than this? Oh yes! his fatherland must beAs the blue heaven wide and free! Where’er a human heart doth wear Joy’s myrtle-wreath or sorrow’s gyves, Where’er a human spirit strivesAfter a life more true and fair,There is the true man’s birthplace grand, His is a world-wide fatherland! Where’er a single slave doth pine, Where’er one man may help another,– Thank God for such a birthright, brother,– That spot of earth is thine and mine!There is the true man’s birthplace grand, His is a world-wide fatherland! THE FORLORN The night is dark, the stinging sleet, Swept by the bitter gusts of air,Drives whistling down the lonely street, And glazes on the pavement bare. The street-lamps flare and struggle dim Through the gray sleet-clouds as they pass, Or, governed by a boisterous whim, Drop down and rustle on the glass. One poor, heart-broken, outcast girl Faces the east-wind’s searching flaws, And, as about her heart they whirl, Her tattered cloak more tightly draws. The flat brick walls look cold and bleak, Her bare feet to the sidewalk freeze;Yet dares she not a shelter seek, Though faint with hunger and disease. The sharp storm cuts her forehead bare, And, piercing through her garments thin, Beats on her shrunken breast, and there Makes colder the cold heart within. She lingers where a ruddy glow Streams outward through an open shutter, Adding more bitterness to woe, More loneliness to desertion utter. One half the cold she had not felt Until she saw this gush of lightSpread warmly forth, and seem to melt Its slow way through the deadening night. She hears a woman’s voice within, Singing sweet words her childhood knew, And years of misery and sin Furl off, and leave her heaven blue. Her freezing heart, like one who sinks Outwearied in the drifting snow.Drowses to deadly sleep and thinks No longer of its hopeless woe; Old fields, and clear blue summer days, Old meadows, green with grass, and trees That shimmer through the trembling haze And whiten in the western breeze. Old faces, all the friendly past Rises within her heart again,And sunshine from her childhood cast Makes summer of the icy rain. Enhaloed by a mild, warm glow, From man’s humanity apart,She hears old footsteps wandering slow Through the lone chambers of the heart. Outside the porch before the door, Her cheek upon the cold, hard stone, She lies, no longer foul and poor, No longer dreary and alone. Next morning something heavily Against the opening door did weigh, And there, from sin and sorrow free, A woman on the threshold lay. A smile upon the wan lips told That she had found a calm release, And that, from out the want and cold, The song had borne her soul in peace. For, whom the heart of man shuts out, Sometimes the heart of God takes in,And fences them all round about With silence mid the world’s loud din; And one of his great charities Is Music, and it doth not scornTo close the lids upon the eyes Of the polluted and forlorn; Far was she from her childhood’s home, Farther in guilt had wandered thence,Yet thither it had bid her come To die in maiden innocence. MIDNIGHT The moon shines white and silent On the mist, which, like a tideOf some enchanted ocean, O’er the wide marsh doth glide,Spreading its ghost-like billows Silently far and wide. A vague and starry magic Makes all things mysteries,And lures the earth’s dumb spirit Up to the longing skies:I seem to hear dim whispers, And tremulous replies. The fireflies o’er the meadow In pulses come and go;The elm-trees’ heavy shadow Weighs on the grass below;And faintly from the distance The dreaming cock doth crow. All things look strange and mystic, The very bushes swellAnd take wild shapes and motions, As if beneath a spell;They seem not the same lilacs From childhood known so well. The snow of deepest silence O’er everything doth fall,So beautiful and quiet, And yet so like a pall;As if all life were ended, And rest were come to all. O wild and wondrous midnight, There is a might in theeTo make the charmed body Almost like spirit be,And give it some faint glimpses Of immortality! A PRAYER God! do not let my loved one die, But rather wait until the timeThat I am grown in purity Enough to enter thy pure clime,Then take me, I will gladly go,So that my love remain below! Oh, let her stay! She is by birth What I through death must learn to be; We need her more on our poor earth Than thou canst need in heaven with thee: She hath her wings already, IMust burst this earth-shell ere I fly. Then, God, take me! We shall be near, More near than ever, each to each:Her angel ears will find more clear My heavenly than my earthly speech;And still, as I draw nigh to thee,Her soul and mine shall closer be. THE HERITAGE The rich man’s son inherits lands, And piles of brick and stone, and gold, And he inherits soft white hands, And tender flesh that fears the cold, Nor dares to wear a garment old;A heritage, it seems to me,One scarce would wish to hold in fee. The rich man’s son inherits cares; The bank may break, the factory burn, A breath may burst his bubble shares, And soft white hands could hardly earn A living that would serve his turn;A heritage, it seems to me,One scarce would wish to hold in fee. The rich man’s son inherits wants, His stomach craves for dainty fare; With sated heart, he hears the pants Of toiling hinds with brown arms bare, And wearies in his easy-chair;A heritage, it seems to me,One scarce would wish to hold in fee. What doth the poor man’s son inherit? Stout muscles and a sinewy heart,A hardy frame, a hardier spirit; King of two hands, he does his part In every useful toil and art;A heritage, it seems to me,A king might wish to hold in fee. What doth the poor man’s son inherit? Wishes o’erjoyed with humble things,A rank adjudged by toil-won merit, Content that from employment springs, A heart that in his labor sings;A heritage, it seems to me,A king might wish to hold in fee. What doth the poor man’s son inherit? A patience learned of being poor,Courage, if sorrow come, to bear it, A fellow-feeling that is sure To make the outcast bless his door; A heritage, it seems to me,A king might wish to hold in fee. O rich man’s son! there is a toil That with all others level stands: Large charity doth never soil, But only whiten, soft white hands: This is the best crop from thy lands,A heritage, it seems to me,Worth being rich to hold in fee. O poor man’s son! scorn not thy state; There is worse weariness than thine,In merely being rich and great; Toil only gives the soul to shine, And make rest fragrant and benign;A heritage, it seems to me,Worth being poor to hold in fee. Both, heirs to some six feet of sod, Are equal in the earth at last;Both, children of the same dear God, Prove title to your heirship vast By record of a well-filled past;A heritage, it seems to me,Well worth a life to hold in fee. THE ROSE: A BALLAD I In his tower sat the poet Gazing on the roaring sea,‘Take this rose,’ he sighed, ‘and throw it Where there’s none that loveth me.On the rock the billow bursteth And sinks back into the seas,But in vain my spirit thirsteth So to burst and be at ease.Take, O sea! the tender blossom That hath lain against my breast;On thy black and angry bosom It will find a surer rest.Life is vain, and love is hollow, Ugly death stands there behind,Hate and scorn and hunger follow Him that toileth for his kind.’Forth into the night he hurled it, And with bitter smile did markHow the surly tempest whirled it Swift into the hungry dark.Foam and spray drive back to leeward, And the gale, with dreary moan,Drifts the helpless blossom seaward, Through the breakers all alone. II Stands a maiden, on the morrow, Musing by the wave-beat strand,Half in hope and half in sorrow, Tracing words upon the sand:‘Shall I ever then behold him Who hath been my life so long,Ever to this sick heart told him, Be the spirit of his song?Touch not, sea, the blessed letters I have traced upon thy shore,Spare his name whose spirit fetters Mine with love forevermore!’Swells the tide and overflows it, But, with omen pure and meet,Brings a little rose, and throws it Humbly at the maiden’s feet.Full of bliss she takes the token, And, upon her snowy breast,Soothes the ruffled petals broken With the ocean’s fierce unrest.‘Love is thine, O heart! and surely Peace shall also be thine own,For the heart that trusteth purely Never long can pine alone.’ III In his tower sits the poet, Blisses new and strange to himFill his heart and overflow it With a wonder sweet and dim.Up the beach the ocean slideth With a whisper of delight,And the moon in silence glideth Through the peaceful blue of night. Rippling o’er the poet’s shoulder Flows a maiden’s golden hair,Maiden lips, with love grown bolder, Kiss his moon-lit forehead bare.‘Life is joy, and love is power, Death all fetters doth unbind,Strength and wisdom only flower When we toil for all our kind.Hope is truth,–the future giveth More than present takes away,And the soul forever liveth Nearer God from day to day.’Not a word the maiden uttered, Fullest hearts are slow to speak,But a withered rose-leaf fluttered Down upon the poet’s cheek. SONG Violet! sweet violet! Thine eyes are full of tears; Are they wet Even yetWith the thought of other years?Or with gladness are they full,For the night so beautiful,And longing for those far-off spheres? Loved one of my youth thou wast, Of my merry youth, And I see, Tearfully,All the fair and sunny past,All its openness and truth,Ever fresh and green in theeAs the moss is in the sea. Thy little heart, that hath with love Grown colored like the sky above, On which thou lookest ever,– Can it know All the woeOf hope for what returneth never,All the sorrow and the longingTo these hearts of ours belonging? Out on it! no foolish pining For the sky Dims thine eye,Or for the stars so calmly shining; Like thee let this soul of mineTake hue from that wherefor I long, Self-stayed and high, serene and strong, Not satisfied with hoping–but divine. Violet! dear violet! Thy blue eyes are only wetWith joy and love of Him who sent thee, And for the fulfilling senseOf that glad obedienceWhich made thee all that Nature meant thee!