Sketches in Song.

A strange fish came from an inland home On a journey down to the sea. He split the ripples, and ript the foam, And danced and dived in glee. “Ho, ho!” cried the fry where the sea grew near, “Hurrah for a fresh-water fool! One gulp of our salt when he comes out here Will send him back to his pool.” The fish was fleet, but the bar was high, And the low tide roil’d and dim; And he groped, as he slowly pass’d the fry, And to and fro would swim. “Ho, ho!” cried they, as they shook their scales, “The muddled one misses his way!” And they fann’d their fins, and slash’d their tails— “Aha, he here will stay!” The fish paused not till the way grew clear; Then launch’d out under the spray; And shower’d his fins in a white-cap near That rivall’d the rays of the day. “Ho, ho, showing off to the sharks!” cried the fry; “And look—a gull on the shoal. Yon surface-shiner would better be shy; The bird will swallow him whole.” The fish pass’d on, till the sea grew deep, Then, plunging down through the blue, A flash came back from a parting leap, As at last he sank from view. “Ho, ho,” cried the fry, “we can all do that, If we only go out with the tide.” But the tide had gone, so, left on the flat, They fried in the sun, and died.

The monument stands, no longer the care Of mallet and chisel and plummet and square. With a flourish of trumpets and rolling of drums The glad hour comes When the statue above it will loom unveil’d. Lo, now the crowds that are under it sway; The bugles are sounding; and look!—away The veil is dropt!—and afar is hail’d, With wild huzzas and hands that fly, The form of the man that stands on high.

How the crowd are cheering! but, ah, their cheer Recalls a day When few were here; And the most of them daintily shrank away, Afraid a foot or a frill to smear In the mire of this place, while deep in the clay The soil was dug for the monument here.

And was there not, when his course began, While clearing the ground for the life he had plann’d, A time this crowd would have shrunk from the man Whose image is now enthroned by the land? Alas, how oft in youth’s chill morn Their tears alone are the dews that adorn The natures that wake To the light of a day beginning to break! And oft how long, ere the light will burst, The mists of the valley surround them first! And oh, how many and many a tomb Of a dead hope, buried and left in gloom, Must mark the path of the man whose need Is taught through failure how to succeed! And oft how long, ere he knows of this, Will hard work doom His heart that in sympathy seeks for bliss To a life as lone as death in a tomb, Where sweetness and light Are all shut out, Nor a flower nor a bird Is heeded or heard, Nor often, if ever, there comes a sight Of a friend who cares what he cares about, Or is willing to soil A finger with even a touch of his toil! For our race are too ready to turn with a sneer From arms that are brawny, and hands that smear While a man is dependent, in need of a friend, The world is a snob, and shuns its own peer. When a man is a master, his need at an end, The world is a sycophant, cringing to cheer. Cheer on, wise world, but, oh! forget not, Whatever encouragement each man got When in gloom and doubt his course began, But little he heard from the lips of man.

But the monument knew a different day, When masons with mortar and mallet wrought here The firm and deep foundation to lay. Still few would turn from the well-trod way To climb the mounds of marble and clay Which hid the work; or, if some drew near, They only came with a stare of surprise, Or a shrug or sigh for its form or size.

That man, too, now on the monument resting,— How long and hard life’s basis to lay, Strove he, while about him was nothing suggesting The meed that the present is proud to pay! When all sailing is over, the shouts of a state That hail a Columbus may name him great. Before it is over, that isle of the west, The goal of his quest, Is merely, for most, the point of a jest. Nor a few, the while he turns to his mission, Will deem him moved by a mean ambition. Ay, often indeed, the nobler the claims Inspiring his aims, The more earth deems They are selfish schemes Of a Joseph it hates for having strange dreams. Alas, where hate Is a normal state, Who serves the world with a love that is great Is rated a foe by those who refuse it, Nor always a friend by those who use it; For he, forsooth, he knew of their need In the day they knew not how to succeed!— And thus this man in the marble wrought on, Life’s fruit fell off, and the fall frost froze, And the winter of life came, weary and wan, Ere words to welcome his worth arose. Wise world, the one who is now your boast Heard few of your cheers, when needing them most: The pride of his youth in his life or its plan, It came not then from the praise of man.

But the monument grew, anon to display Above its foundation, Those fair white sides that rose to their station All cunningly wrought into tablet and column. Then children, and others, as childlike as they, Would delight in its beauty; but, doubtful and solemn, The wise were all wary. “A man cannot rate A work till complete,” said they, “so we must wait.”

And thus the man grew, And thus did a few Find, thoughtfully plann’d for the wants they divined, His work that is now the pride of his kind. Who prized it at first?— Ah, those little verst In the codes that are current turn first from them all To the herald that comes to trump a new call. Those nearest their youth Live nearest the breasts that glow with the truth, And welcome it gratefully warm from the heart. Earth’s elders and sages, Far off from the place where the springs all start, Scarce ever can prize A stream that supplies A draft less far from its font than their age is. No deeds can course from as grand a source As the life of which they in their youth form’d a part. Naught sparkles as bright To them as the light Of an old, cold, frozen, and crystallized art. But, ah, if you ask them what was true When the words or the ways of their art were new, If you ask them what were the traits it would show Ere the form now frozen no longer could flow, Or how it differ’d in nature from those That spring in the present, when first it rose,— All this their critic cares not to know. He is nothing if not the dog of his day, Who barks or who licks As his master, the world, may make him obey By throwing him bones or swinging him kicks. Pray, what can he know till all the world know it! If currents in view Are to crystallize too Like things of the past, the winter will show it. The future must rate The fruit of the present: so shrewd men wait, And but of the dead Are their eulogies read.— Good souls, they never will let one rest Until he is borne to the land of the blest! No heart is aglow With the burning zeal of a holiest mission, But makes them fearful of heat below, And tremble in dread of a fiend’s apparition. For Satan has toils that, no matter whether Come evil or good, trap all men together. Whenever one spies Light coming, he cries, “’Tis naught but a will-o-the-wisp to the wise.” Half trust him, and half, not duped by his lies, Begin to dispute them; and then, at the quarrel, The seer of the light has thorns for his laurel. Ay, rare, indeed, in that day is his fate, If the eye of the prophet—so noble a trait— Escape from censure and gibe and hate. For an eye like his will a goal pursue So far in advance of his time and its view, That only the march of an age, forsooth, Can o’ertake the vision he sees in his youth. But, oh! in that age, when it comes, the earth Will live in his light and know of his worth. And many and many will be the men Who move on then, And about them find The scenes that he in his day divined, Who, sure of his presence, will know he is nigh, And feel he is leading, and never can die. This man of the monument lived like that. Men cheer him now; but of old they sat In judgment against him; while, far away From the place where they had chosen to stay, He push’d for the light; and grew old and hoar Ere one whom he knew had begun to explore, Or seek what he sought. Alone in the van, He had fail’d of aid had he thought it in man.

Yet now are justice and judgment one. That statue glows in the gleam of the sun, Amid drumming and trumpeting, chorus and song, The praise of the speaker, the shout of the throng, Throned white o’er the waving of plumes and of flags That surge to its base as a sea to her crags. Now cheer we the monument, capp’d and clear’d, So cheer we the man for whom it is rear’d.

What? cheer we the man? No doubt, in youth There were times when the joy in his heart overran At a smile from one who knew him in truth; There were times, years later, when merely a tear From a grateful eye Would have seem’d more dear Than all the glitter that gold could buy; But, alas! in age, when character stands As fix’d as yon monument, then it demands, Ere aught can move it, far more, far more Than the cheer or the sigh that had stirr’d it of yore. Not oft, nor till ages of suns and storms Have wrought with the verdure in earthly forms, Are these turn’d into stone, no more to decay. But often on earth The owners of worth That men image in marble grow stony, that way. Ah, man, whom in hardship you might make a friend And turn from—beware, beware in the end, Lest he whom you harden grow hard unto you. O world, when ready your hero to cheer, How heeds he your welcome? say, what does he do? His eye, does it see? his ear, does it hear? His heart, does it throb? his pulse, does it thrill? Or his touch, is it cold? his clasp, is it chill?— O world, you have waited long; what have you done? O man, you have wrought so long; what have you won?—

That monument there, So high, so fair, That throne of light for the man who led, Is only a tomb. They are cheering the dead.

And he himself—did he know it all? Had he look’d, in his youth, Past the shadows of form to the substance of truth? Had he learn’d that all life turns to seasons, and shifts From winter and spring into summer and fall? Or divined that eternity, balancing gifts, Grants honor like heaven, a state after strife, And a glorified name to a sacrificed life? Did he know that sighs, when yearning for love, Best open the soul to breathe in from above The air immortal, and make it worth while That art should chisel in marble clear The lines divine that temper a smile Beyond the sway of a mortal’s cheer?— Did he know it or not, perchance for his good His work was lonely and misunderstood. Perchance it was well, the best for the soul, Its nature, its nurture, that aught to control The aims inspiring his life or its plan Had gain’d but little from earth or man.

The hills rang back our parting jest; The dear, dear day was over; The sun had sunk below the west; We walk’d home through the clover. Our words were gay, but thought astray Our parting kept regretting,— “The old old way!” would seem to say; “The suns are ever setting.” Then, gazing back with longing soon, At once my step grew bolder; For, bright and new, I spied the moon Just over my right shoulder. I turn’d about and bade her look; We were not superstitious; We jok’d about that shining hook, Bright bait, and skies auspicious. We joked, but, oh, I thought with woe, “This bright bait lures me only,— Like more before it, comes to go, And leave life dark and lonely. Past yon horizon, things are strewn With broken moons,” I told her: “Each bore a bright hope, too, each moon, When over my right shoulder. “Alas to trust in each new light, A man were moonstruck, surely,— A lunatic!”—We laugh’d outright, And then look’d back demurely. Lo, dimly shown, the moon’s old zone Made full hope’s crescent new one. I thought, “Would my old love, made known, Prove hope of love a true one?— What would she say?”—I ask’d her soon, And took her hand to hold her. “Ah, love,” she sigh’d, “to-night the moon Is over my right shoulder.”

Be calm, O Wind, and gently blow, Nor rouse the waves’ commotion. Ye Clouds, veil not the bay so low: My love sails o’er the ocean. Out, boatman, out! The wind will rise; The yawl will find it stormy. Ay, thrice thy fee.—Her signal flies.— My love is waiting for me. Blow on, ye Winds, your prey is flown, Who cares for wave or weather? My love, my own! no more alone, We walk the shore together.

So many eyes that dim tears fill, That a glance of love could clear; So many ears, all sad and still, That a sigh of love could cheer; So many hearts that are beating to greet Love that will heed no sign; So many lips that are parting to meet Love that is air, like mine;— Dykes that fashion has bank’d so fast, Burst from our souls apart! Burst! and let the truth flow past, Filling each unfill’d heart.

I Hear fair Fancy call’d a guide Who smiles when one is youthful, But oft in sudden shades will hide, And prove at times untruthful. “When through the skies,” They say, “she flies And leaves behind each earthly care; When round about her in the air No danger seems attending The light we find her wending, Beware! amid the brightest air The storm may burst, the lightning tear, Beware and fear! With earth so near None can be free from care.” I hear fair Fancy call’d a guide Of rarest grace and beauty; But prone to lead the soul aside From irksome paths of duty. “Man is but man: He cannot scan Too high delights, and highly rate The lowly joys of earth’s estate. A soul to fancy turning,” They say, “is fill’d with yearning; And lives in dreams and idle schemes, That with their lure of rival gleams Make dim the light About the sight The working soul esteems.” I hear fair Fancy call’d a guide Oft rendering life distressful, With views that loom too high, too wide, To make a man successful. They say, “We err Who soar with her. Earth only shoos or shoots a bird; To draw its wealth, it yokes the herd.— But few are those not tiring Of natures too aspiring. The common leaders of the day Amid the common people stay, Who but confide In those that guide Along the common way.” And yet my dear and dangerous guide, I prize thy peerless beauty. I chose thee long ago my bride For love and not for booty. How much is wrought By risking naught? When I behold a path of bliss, Tho’ bordering on the worst abyss, My fears of falling under Will not restrain my wonder. And, from what thou hast found for me, Full many a truth my soul can see That earth must know Ere it forego Its need of knowing thee.

I wonder not that artists’ hands, Inspired by themes of joy To picture forms of angel-bands, Paint, first of all, the boy. I know if I were set the task To lure a man’s desire By traits the heavenliest one could ask, When most our souls aspire, I would not take a blushing bride, For she may wed for pelf; Nor him who stands the bride beside, He may but love himself; Nor matron, with her thoughts confined To maxims meant for youth; Nor man mature: too oft his mind Will close to others’ truth. But I would blend the purity Of her whom I adore With manly power for mastery And promise yet in store. So I would take the boy who roams Toward life, half understood, From thresholds of those holy homes That face alone the good;— A boy who has not reach’d the brink Where vice will cross his track, Whose wish that loathes the wish to drink Still keeps the tempter back;— A boy who hardly knows of ill, Or ill can apprehend, With cheeks that blush, with eyes that fill, And faith that fears no end. And oh, I know that those who love The purest part of joy, Would choose with me from all above The heaven that held my boy.

A smile—could it be meant for me?— Yet there she stood before me. But she had charm’d so many eyes And I was neither rich nor wise,— The belle of all the county, she: I seem’d a child, She only smiled Because she knew her mien was mild, While mine confusion bore me. And praise—could it be meant for me?— Ah, how could I suppose it? The rarest minds I knew about Had held her gauge of them in doubt. A prize past all I hoped for, she; But young was I; And this was why She thought my pride to gratify; Yet I could but disclose it. A blush—could it be meant for me?— Yet so she met no other. A face that all with joy would meet, Could it have blush’d my own to greet? A belle whom all had sought for, she; Yet I could see Heave but for me A sigh that strove and would be free. I spoke to free another. She answer’d—All was meant for me Whom rivals off were shoving; And all my love had burst in flame To feel her ardor while it came. “A woman, whosoe’er she be, Is nothing more, O loved of yore, Than just a woman, nothing o’er, And can but love the loving.”

I live to write; and write, good friend. In part, I know, for you; Though, while I do so, in the end Myself it pleases too. “The world,” you think, “may prize my rhymes.” Of old, I hoped it would. But many and many have been the times I only deem’d them good! I “love to write”? You near the truth. I love to talk, as well; And poems breathe a part, forsooth, Of what the soul would tell.— Ay, ay, the soul. For it how meet That those we love should see— Not poems—but the poem sweet That all one’s life would be!

My mountains, how I love your forms that stand So beautiful, so bleak, so grim, so grand. Your gleaming crags above my boyhood’s play, Undimm’d as hope, rose o’er each rising day. When now light hope has yielded place to care, O’er steadfast work I see you steadfast there. And when old age at last shall yearn for rest, By your white peaks will each aspiring glance be blest. How bright and broad with ever fresh surprise, The scenes ye brought allured my youthful eyes! Now, when rude hands those views of old assail, When growing towns have changed the lower vale, When other friends are lost or sadly strange, Ye stand familiar still, ye do not change. And when all else abides as now no more, In you I still may see the forms I loved of yore. Ye mounts deserve long life. Your peaks at dawn Catch light no sooner from the night withdrawn, Than those ye rear see truth, when brave men vow To serve the serf, and bid the despot bow. In vales below, if tyrants make men mild, The weak who scale your sides learn winds are wild, That beasts break loose, and birds awaken’d flee, As if in deepest sleep they dream’d of being free. High homes of manhood, human lips can phrase No tribute fit to echo half your praise. By Piedmont’s church and Ziska’s rock-wall’d see, By Swiss and Scot who left their children free, By our New England, when she named him knave Who, flank’d by bloodhounds, chased his fleeing slave, Stand ye like them, whose memories, ever grand, Tower far above earth’s lords, as ye above its land. Ay, stand like monuments in lasting stone To souls as lofty as the world has known. Ye fitly symbol, when with kindling light The dawn and sunset gild your summits white, The glories of their pure, aspiring worth Who aim’d at stars to feed the hopes of earth; And fitly point where they, in brighter skies, View grander scenes than yours where your heights cannot rise.

Up, thou Warden gray of Honor, Swing thy temple’s rusted door; Hither from the mine of Pittston, Hies, at last, one hero more. ... While he toil’d amid the miners, Came a cry that startled him; “Fire!” he heard, and o’er him quickly, Saw the smoking shaft grow dim. “Now for life!” a comrade shouted, “Mount this car! no more cars go!” “Nay for life,” replied young Martin, “Call the men at work below!” Cried the first: “No time to tarry! Look!—The flames!—We must not stay!” “Time for them to close the smoke out!” Martin cried, and rush’d away. “Fire! fire! fire!” he shouted shrilly, Groping down the passage dim. “Fire!” those heard, and closed the passage, Closed it on the smoke and him. “Stop the smoke!” cried men above him.— Still the ghastly fumes crept on; Caught the boy, and, crawling round him, Choked his corpse they clung upon. “Woe on woe!” cried those above him, “All will die; the fires descend!” By the coal-pit, by the coal-boy, Never light like that was kenn’d. Whence, O whence that blinding brightness? What had touch’d the boy afar?— For the chariot of Elijah Had he spurn’d his comrade’s car? “Stop the fire!” cried all the village,— Ah, but none could now keep down Martin’s love, there marshal’d heavenward, Haloed by a martyr’s crown. Not the flood that men set flowing Faster than the fire could spread, Now could quench the flame eternal Burning in the soul that sped. Not the cloud of smoke that gather’d, Not the dark, sad funeral pall, Now could dim the boy’s devotion, With its glory gilding all. ... Up, thou Warden gray of Honor, Wheels immortal sweep the sky, Swing thy gates!—another hero Love incites to do and die.

What has a child that a man has not, When “of such is the kingdom” on high? At play in the home, at work in the school, Oh, what does he care for the soul, or its rule, Or for aught that hints of the sky? Ay, what does he serve but his own desires, Impell’d by a fancy that toils or tires? His moods flow on like currents in brooks, Or ruffled or smooth, to answer the crooks. All things that are sweet or fair to see He buzzes and bustles about like a bee. He would work his arms at ball and bow, Though he never had known it would make them grow.— What virtue is his?—While a man can doubt The truth within him, nor show it without, The child holds fast, unfetter’d by lies, A faith that he never has dared to despise, Expression that knows no other control Than that of the Maker who moves the soul, A beauty of wisdom that works to obey A holy, because a natural way; And that may he have that a man may not. What has a man that a child has not, When “of such is the kingdom” on high? Oh, he has been train’d by the world and the school To curb his character in by rule Till the rule of his life is a lie. A man like that would spurn to find In God’s designs the quest of his mind. He crams and drams for an appetite That nothing on earth can sate or excite. His words are as dry as the words of a book,— Your sentence is ready, wherever you look. His views—he never saw any thing strange: If he did, some fellow might question his range. And all of profit he tests by pelf, And all of manhood measures by self, Forgets that God rules the world he is at, And stars himself as its autocrat. Alas for reason with such a judge! If ever you whisper or smile or budge— You may study and ponder and prove and pray— But he has a sneering, cynical way; And that may he have that a child has not. What has a man that a child has too, When “of such is the kingdom” on high? He knows that life is better’d by rules, But he knows how split the wise and the fools When judging of rules they apply. He feels that life worth living proceeds From nature that prompts the bent of deeds; And he lets the reins of his being go, Whenever the soul moves upward so. If he look to God through self or His Book, Or leading the way through a bishop’s crook, He welcomes whatever has worth in the new, Though it grew outside of his Timbuctoo. For modest he is, and loves to find Earth blest by minds that differ in kind. In short, to the simple, the frail, and the few He is fill’d with charity through and through; And, waiving your reason its right of control, Trusts God for enough truth left in your soul; And though he may tell you he doubts your way, He has much to love in spite of his “nay”; And that may a man and a child have too.

My love is “fill’d with gloom,” you say; Yet think! when I had spied her, The flowers that made her bower so gay Had lost their light beside her. Ah, could my darling see it so, And gloomy seem? No, no; no, no. My love is weary, wandering; Yet I, who sped to find her With worlds of fancies on the wing, Saw all fall far behind her. Ah, could my darling see it so, And weary seem? No, no; no, no. My love is lone and weeps, I see; Yet here I wait to win her, For what is all the world to me, My arms are clasping in her. Ah, could my darling see it so, And lonely seem? No, no; no, no.

Night bade me rest. I left the street, Its faces fair and banter sweet; And oh, how human seem’d the town Beside which I had laid me down! But, ere I slept, the rising moon, From skies as blue as if ’twere noon, Pour’d forth her light in silvery streams, Eclipsing all my light of dreams. And soon, as if some power would shake My drowsy eyes, and make them wake, The walls were spray’d with showers of light, Whose flickerings left a fountain bright That toss’d the moonbeams in its play, And dash’d and flash’d their gleams away. I just could see the fountain flow Within a marble court[1] below. It seem’d a spirit, clothed in white, But half reveal’d to mortal sight, Whose glancing robes would lift and glide O’er dainty limbs that danced inside, And touched the ground with throbbing sweet As if the tread of fairy feet; While round about the fount-sent shower, That strung with pearls each grateful flower, Rare fragrance rose from bush and bower.

Ere long across the marble court Soft laughter rang and calls of sport, And maidens pass’d the entering gate, Whose voices rose in sweet debate, So clear, so pure, they might have sprung From moonlight, not from mortal tongue. I lay there charm’d, my eyelids closed, My limbs enchain’d; but, ere I dozed, Gave one look more. Alas for me! The moon had moved, and made me see, In dreamlike light where slept the day, Vague forms that join’d those maids at play. They linger’d there, half hid by trees And sprawling cactus; now at ease, Now whirling off in shadowy sets Where urged guitars[2] and castonets.[2] Anon, this music rose and fell, As if, because, all fill’d so well, So laden down with sweets before, The languid air could hold no more. “Ah, how could it or I?” I thought; “This land of lasting spring is fraught With charms that pale by living truth The brightest dreams that lured my youth.” Then, while the music heaved my breast, The thought it cradled sank to rest.

I slept and dreamt. To you it seems No censor, swung to souls in dreams Before the mind’s most holy shrine, Rear’d there to memories most divine, Could incense hold whose fumes could rise And dim what bless’d my closing eyes. You think my soul most surely thought Of Cordova in dreams it brought. You think that once again it calms My mood to watch beneath the palms The ancient river[3] freshly lave Rome’s ruined bridge[3] that naught could save. You think, once more, my wonder wends Across that orange-court[4] and bends In that cathedral-mosk,[5] in which A thousand[5] shafts with sculptures rich Surround the soul like ghosts of trees Beyond the touch of time or breeze, While all the shafts to all bespeak, In jasper, porphyry, verdantique, The skill that train’d their artist’s hand In grand old times that blest this land Before the Moor’s glad suns had set On days that earth can ne’er forget. Nay, nay, I dreamt with joy intense, But did not heed a hint from thence.

You think my spirit rose to flights, Aspiring past all present sights, Invoking from the grave of time The heroes of that city’s prime,— The great Gonsalvo[6] marching on, Or Ferdinand[7] of Aragon?— You think I saw, by camp-fires bright, The turban bow beneath the sight Of chieftains marshall’d, far and near, With drifting plume and flashing spear, Like cloud and lightning sent to sweep Abdillah’s[7] Moors across the deep?— You think I trod these lanes in days When Califs vied to sound their praise, And term’d the town that seem’d so blest “The grander Bagdad of the west”[8]; Or trod them, when it gave the Goth His “Home of holiness and troth”[8]; Or, long ere through its children’s veins Flow’d Roman[9] blood to richen Spain’s, Beheld it named by every mouth, “The matchless gem of all the south”?[8]— Nay, nay, I dreamt with joy intense, But did not heed a hint from thence.

It must have been Spain’s year-long spring That gave my winter’d fancies wing; And brought to life a long-lost love That these had come to brood above. How throbb’d my heart to see once more That face, that form, that friend of yore! Again my arms were round that neck; And cheek to cheek without a check Our souls had met. O Love, long cold, What frame could hope to feel, when old And numb from long bound loads of pain, Such warmth and life thrill every vein! The gone delight was all too dear. With heart aglow, as dawn drew near, To him who slept amid the past, A Spanish sky seem’d overcast.

Bright Sun, I sigh’d, no light can gleam Beside true love and shine supreme! Fair Spain, no realm so fair may be; But love recall’d unsexes thee. Nay, no land shows one sunlit scene That rose-like bursts from earth’s wide green, But brings an image swept away When eyelids close at close of day. ’Tis but the impress mind receives, That, sunn’d or sombre, never leaves. Ah, if the past must always cope With future joys for which we hope, How vain the aims that make their quest A life that merely shall be blest, And slight earth’s meed of lowly sweets For purple heights and golden streets! Faith fails that merely waits below. Dreams after death would bring but woe Without remember’d love that blest The soul before it found its rest.

Keep, Cordova, thy rare renown. The veils of twilight, falling down, Could fold around no fairer town; Yet many a sight, where came the night, To this, my soul, had seem’d as bright. I left thee sad; but bore away, With light to linger night and day, And charms divine as thine to me, The dream that came to rival thee.

“You say you leave forever? Our walks and talks have had their day? You say this flower blooms not to stay, Nor friendship;—we must sever?— Alas, to think my favorite flower, That so delay’d its blooming hour Through all the stormy weather, Through March and April, May and June Has open’d now to shut so soon! Nay, nay; it shall not fail me so. It yet shall feel—though but my blow.” She spoke, and smote with all her might The fragile stem and blossom bright; And both flew off together. “Not so,” he cried; “nay, never. Forgive it! Spare the flower! alas!” And knelt and pick’d it from the grass. “What, did she love thee ever? If so the blow she gave to thee Has made thee doubly dear to me. Ah, Flower, in sunny weather, And not in March, nay, nay, in June Thy leaves in opening brought this boon; Nor so shall close! There waits for thee One mission more, thy best, I see!” He spoke, and placed the fallen flower Against his heart—and so that hour The maid and flower together.

In candor, my friend, you seem too much at home With nymphs of Olympus and gods of old Rome. The world has advanced, and the artist, if sage, Will seek to give form to the thoughts of his age. The curve of a limb and the pose of a head May be all the same in the living as dead; But she that you woo, must have life and be young And speak, ere you love her, and speak your own tongue. Truth only is lasting, and only the face Transfigured by it has a lasting grace. And truth is in nature, nor dealt second-hand Through art, though most artful to fill the demand. So think of the present, its deeds and its dreams, As Raphael thought, but not Raphael’s themes; Nor be a Venetian to picture like Titian A woman to worship or goddess to kiss. You are a new-world’s man: model from this. Ay, let the dead bury their dead, and pursue The aims of a people that push for the new. The proudest ambition, the readiest hand, Might wisely embody ideals less grand; No sweeter Murillo’s divine designs, Whose purity rivals each thought it refines, While the dreamy intent of a life-brooding haze Throngs thick with the beauty of immature praise. Conceptions immaculate still may be In the pure white light that he could see, Inspired to incarnate a soul in each plan, The life of a picture as well as of man. The wants of the present, one never can gauge By the heathenish tastes of a heathenish age. The mummy lived once, and spoke as it ought. We moderns, forgetting its life and its thought, For lost art sighing, too oft re-array What is only a corpse, and ought to decay. E’en if it were living, long centuries fraught With progress in action and feeling and thought Outgrow the old charms, and make the world crave New phases of art that the past never gave. So I fear, when I see men striving to mold The forms of the new after those that are old, While all true life grows better and better, That classical models a modern may fetter. Small virtue has one with no hope in his heart, And little of merit, if none in his art. While only the light of a coming ideal Lures those to the good who imagine it real, No work can ever inspire the earth That embodies no promise of unfulfill’d worth, And naught that the world accounts worthy of fame, In art as in act, but is rank’d by its aim.

What am I “doing,” night and day, Loitering here with the flute?— Doing?—why blowing my plaints away, Off, till I blow them mute. “Foolish” am I?—It may be so. Who, forsooth, are the wise? I to the wind my sorrows blow: Others hoard up their sighs. “Useless” am I?—The while I play, Many another one’s heart Throbs to my melody, till, they say, All of his woes depart. Nothing of sweetness can fill the air, Nothing of beauty bloom, Save as visions of life more fair Over the spirit loom. Listen to this now—mine and thine. How could I show more worth, Than as a reed for a breath divine, Blowing from heaven to earth? “Music-mad” am I?—Have your say, Whether you blame or applaud, I the behest of my soul obey, Just as it came from God.

For one who would himself be here, And for ourselves who hold you dear, We come, fair maid, to welcome you. For sun-bright eyes like yours we grew, For cheeks like yours, with ardor meet, Would flush, aglow their glow to greet; And up to you, our fragrance rare Is breathed from lips that burst in prayer. Our goddess dear, our sister sweet, This meeting leaves our lives complete. Now dew may fail, or frost may sear, We fade, we die; but have been here.

Our struggles with the world, I know, Are blessings in disguise. No honors that elsewhere earth can show Outshine its victor’s prize. Yet, when, with naught their course to guide, My feelings freely well, My thoughts will turn to souls untried, And with the young I dwell. Why ask a feeling the reason why?— One’s lot may have been too hard. Those loved in youth, as years go by, May rouse no more regard. Who knows how many in age may fall Whose feet all deem’d secure? Who knows how many can trip at all And ever again be pure? Perchance through each fair childish face I seem to see, as of yore, A form whose young and tender grace Beside me moves no more; And yet a form that waits for me, Where still, as hope maintains, What has been, is, or is to be, In a state unchanged remains Perchance, I share in heaven’s delight Whose hosts recall the past, And guide, at times, in robes of white, Earth’s young through gloom and blast. But leave the cause yet undivined, When feelings freely well, The young have claims no others find, And with the young I dwell.

O’er Santiago’s happy homes The parting sun delay’d, And brightly o’er its roofs and domes In gleams of sunset play’d; And toward the dome most bright came throngs Of maidens hastening there; And from them words more sweet than songs Went pulsing through the air. They sought that dome because the home Of God where sins were shriven; Now under it with splendor fit Should prayer to Him be given. Within, a thousand banners bright Would wave o’er walls ablaze; And priests, array’d in gold and white, Like seraphs chant their praise. Within, the organ’s ardent strains Would rise with incense rare; Ah, then, how sweet would be their gains Who breathed that sweeter air! Sent upward so their prayers would flow Like fountains heavenward driven, That far away would break in spray, And fall in blessings given. And soon those thousand banners bright Did wave o’er walls ablaze; And priests, array’d in gold and white, Like seraphs chant their praise— When up there flared a flame that glared Athwart the lamp-strung dome; And hot as hell its red lights fell To fright their victims home; And, o’er and o’er, was heard: “The door!” And cries where fright had striven. But oh, no more would swing that door, On throngs against it driven. Red lips of fire flew to and fro, And kiss’d each maiden’s cheek; They blush’d, but oh, too deep the glow! They kneel’d, but oh, too meek! Death wrapt them round in robes of flame, Let loose their streaming hair, And, when their souls were won, became, Ash-white, their couch-mate fair. Anon, the fire was raging higher. But these to rest were given, Long ere the bells had wail’d farewells When out the belfry driven. To Santiago’s mourning homes At morn a stranger stray’d, And found, where once of all those domes The brightest sunn’d the shade, Four hundred carts of corpses charr’d, Two thousand nameless dead, And scores of thousands weeping hard For life so sadly fled. And all around the smoking ground, Whence all hope else was driven, With lifted eye, their dome the sky, Their prayers to God were given.

Farmer lad, in the morning gray, Blest may seem the town, and they, Slumbering late, who, void of blame, Seek at their leisure wealth and fame; But how many there, thy race would run To know thy rest when the day is done! Farmer lad, when the herd’s faint bells Clink far off o’er the sunburnt fells, Better may seem the coin that calls Ringing and bright from the town’s cool halls; But how many there, would give all its gleams For the golden light of thy guileless dreams! Farmer lad, where the herd will drink Waits a maid that bathes by the brink Bare brown feet; and the rill, made sweet, Thrills to touch her who thee would greet. There is more for thee in the blue of her eye Than in all the towns that are under the sky.

About her fair sweet face, all bright, Is a constant halo of calm delight; And her smile attracts To genial acts All those who live in the sunny sight. She moves in a sphere not wholly obscure, With ways that are not wholly mature, But ready to go Where friend or foe May point the way to the wise or pure. Her mien by every grace refined With a welcome bends to all things kind; But something true To duty too Remains unbent in her inner mind. Her soul seeks not the name of wife, To sit by a plume, or the prize of a strife. She longs to share Not the outward glare, But the inward glow of her husband’s life. Ah, like the sky encircling the sea, Embracing his thoughts wherever they be, She rests above His life with a love That binds him fast, yet leaves him free. Toward her his thoughts in fancies rise, Like mists aglow in the sunset skies, And like nights here When the stars appear, His gloom gives way at the glance of her eyes. Through her his hope like a morning dream Attains a day of love supreme, Suffused with a light That makes earth bright, And life what it otherwise could but seem. Would God her heart could ever abide, A heaven for his heart’s heaving tide, Still calm above His restless love, And all the storms that over it glide!

You envy those whom all men greet With favors never ceasing, The men whose ways are so discreet Their friends go on increasing, Whose moods get more than they deserve, Because not oft they blunder; But, even when unkind, have nerve To keep unkindness under. You envy those whose lips imply A smile for every neighbor, Though all his deeds may give the lie To truth for which they labor,— Good, easy souls, who never need To fret in wrath or wonder, To feel how hard is life, indeed, With so much to keep under. You envy those whose calm consent, Amid all earth’s mutations, Can sail the sea of life content With others’ observations; Who entertain no wish for strife Near shores where breakers thunder; But hold a cautious helm to life, And keep ambition under. Hold friend—the good for which men yearn Makes ill to them provoking; And zeal it is, on fire to burn, That fills its air with smoking. If this be so, some day, your soul A worth world-wide may sunder From those who have—their self-control, But nothing to keep under.

We took the train at Florence,[1] we,— The day was warm and pleasant. The town of Pisa would we see. No time was like the present. Anon we climb’d the Leaning Tower,[2] Dropt something down, and sat an hour; And then the grand Baptistry[2] door They swung for us; and, o’er and o’er, We made its domed rotunda roar, To echo back our joking. We set our pockets jingling, we, To make our guide a crony, Saw the cathedral, paid a fee, And ate some macaroni, Then feasted on an outside view Of all three buildings,[2] yet so new; Then bought, in alabaster[3] wrought, Some models of them; then we sought The Campo Santo,[4] where we thought About the dead, while smoking. We took the train at sunset, we, And while we left the station, Extoll’d the land, “How much to see! How grand this Roman nation! Our own, how mean!—no works of art!” We strove to sigh, but check’d a start And cried, “How home-like!” o’er and o’er.— What thrill’d us thus?—alas, it bore No hint from art; we heard once more A frog, near by us, croaking.

I woke and found my dream withdrawn, And, with it, each weird guest, Whose urgency, from eve to dawn, Had robb’d me of my rest. One call’d me ruler of the land; One chief of hosts enroll’d; One brought me wealth; one bade my hand A pen immortal hold; But none spake aught of aims I thought More blest than theirs could be; And, leading on to all I sought, Still claim’d the most from me. “To hold a sceptre in the state, Like Moses o’er the sea, Controlling thus a rival’s fate, Who overwhelm’d will be; To wield a sword in dangerous times, Till foes yield up each aim, While hope with firmer footstep climbs The crumbling ledge of fame,— All this I know were well, but though Each foe should bend the knee, An homage grander still, I trow, Would claim the most from me. “To join the throngs whose efforts prove How dear the wealth they earn; Or those whose thought the world can move To deeds for which they yearn; All this were well; but gold is mined In depths that lure below, And thought more lasting forms can find Than lip and line bestow. When gem and scroll a living soul With all its powers may be, Naught else that might my deeds control Can claim the most from me. “Ah, why through all life’s little day Should drum and trumpet call, And cluster’d smoke from many a fray Hang o’er earth like a pall? How small a space above each fight Its rising thunder jars! The echo sleeps in paths of light Where shine unmoved the stars. To draw toward love like heaven’s above One’s earthly work may be; And nothing less than perfect love Can claim the most from me.” I spoke, and, ere the beams of day Could bar him out, each guest That I had thought had gone for aye, Return’d and term’d me blest. One call’d me ruler of the land; One chief of hosts enroll’d; One brought me wealth; one bade my hand A pen immortal hold; And every voice breath’d forth: “Rejoice; O soul, thy wisdom see:— While love rules all, thy ruling choice Must claim the most from me.”

Ah me, who is ringing those bells? Right merry for funeral knells! If the winds of hell could ring them as well, What woe would the demons lack? My light blew out in the gust of the rout: My boy will never come back. And drums!—How lightly they roll! Coarse drums, can they call the soul? Folks, out of breath, do you shout at death? Can you rend the tomb?—Alack, Vain echoes around, pale under the ground, My boy will never come back. Guns too! O why do they roar? Alas, I thought it was o’er. Though why care I, though a million die, And all of us wear but black? I, too, with the proud have my blood-stain’d shroud: My boy will never come back. Our land!—Who wants it to last! Its future is doom’d by the past. And the tears that rise to its mourners’ eyes Will ever dim all they track. Chill, shivering breast, freeze, freeze into rest: My boy will never come back.

“O poet vain, put by thy pen, Put by this dreamy mood, Move outward through the walks of men; And do the world some good.” These words I heard, and waived my will, And left my rhymes behind, And past the sill and down the hill Went forth my work to find. And first I spied a romping child. “My child,” I stopt and said, “The sun is bright; the air is mild; Your cheeks with health are red. “It does you good to leap and run, And chase your mates about”— But ah, my talk had scarce begun Before the child cried out: “O please, man, please keep back, I say! O but you spoil my sport! O but they all will flee away,— My prisoners, from my fort!” I saw no foe, nor fortress wall, My coming had attack’d. This child, I thought, knows not at all A fancy from a fact. Too young is he; nor yet has learn’d The laws of health, like me; Nor cares to know them; so I turn’d And left his fancy free. A man approach’d with bending frame, His eyes by searching task’d; A chance, I thought, to help one came; So, “What is lost?” I ask’d. “Lost?—every thing!” he said, and frown’d; “Ay, every thing I sought. All day and night, the whole week round, My mind had track’d the thought; “And just had found it, but for you!” I blush’d at this; and he, He craved my pardon, said, he too, Had done a wrong to me. “Nay, I,” said I, “should make amend. Your search was on the ground; And I dreamt not, who saw you bend, That thought could there be found.” He answer’d not; but, passing then, With shadows paved the way; The while I vow’d that not again Would I such help essay. With this I turn’d my footsteps where A man long ill abode, Assured it would do good to share This weary sufferer’s load. “My friend,” I said, “your smile is bright; Your pains are lessening then; Erelong they all will take their flight, Your health be sound again.” “Be sound?” he ask’d; “and can it be That you misjudge me too? Ah, not the thing you deem, set free The smile that welcomed you. “Nay, friend, but wisdom learn from one Who long on earth has wrought; Our ways would leave us wrecks undone, If but of earth we thought. “A double life we all must live,— Of spirit and of flesh; And but the former life can give A joy forever fresh. “Look up; there looms a region nigh, And there the Master is; And if like Him live you and I, Then you and I live His. “When all day long of Him I muse, And all day with Him live, The glory that the spirit views Dims all that earth can give.” I heard his words, and went my way, My lesson learn’d betimes; No more I felt could I obey A voice that rail’d at rhymes. Oh what were life without the worth Of ideality,— Its home, heaven’s halo round the earth; Its language, poetry. The world of deeds whose armor gleams May light the path to right Far less than rays that rise in dreams, And days that dawn at night. God’s brightest light illumes the soul. That light this life denies Till earth’s horizons lift and roll Like lids from opening eyes.

Amid the twilight’s gathering gloom, She knelt beside her babe’s new tomb. “My child,” she sigh’d, “did heaven not know How deep and dread would be my woe? For this did nature give thee birth, For this,—to bury thee?—O God!” She groan’d, then started. Earth to earth, Her lips had kiss’d the common sod. “Amid life’s flowers that fade and fall, What need to pluck a bud so small? With ripen’d harvests full supplied, What need had heaven of thee?” she cried; Then mark’d the flowers that, while she stoop’d, E’en yet made sweet her last-brought wreath: Those full-blown all had dropt or droop’d; The buds alone bloom’d bright beneath. “Why leave, O God,” was then her moan, “My widow’d soul still more alone? Why wrest from life the last thing dear? What harm that love should linger here?” And lo, the neighboring spire above Rang forth its evening call to prayer; And music fill’d from lips of love The House of God whose door was there.

Ah, wraith-lit star, that shone afar, And lured my eager footsteps on! This door I pass, and find, alas, The friend for whom I long’d is gone. O think how drear mere sands appear To travellers worn who pray for springs. More drear this place without the face I sought to cheer my wanderings. Have diamonds rare no gleams to spare The light that their own light would shun? Do roses droop when many a group Of clouds crowd off the autumn sun? The gem and rose less dull repose When all are gone that caused their worth, Than lip and eye when none are nigh With smiles that break in bursts of mirth. Are lovers wild, when maidens mild Their wisest ways of wooing shun? Do mothers weep, when waked from sleep Whose dream restored a long-lost son? Ah, scarce the man’s or mother’s plans Appear so rudely overthrown, As his whose thought in vain here sought A word to echo back his own. But time speeds on, and duties wan, Like ghosts untombed, forbid my stay; But though I go, this note shall show The loss, my friend, you cause to-day. It craves a thought for him who sought A sight of eyes that light it now; For him who waits till kindlier fates His hopes a kindlier fate allow.

I Sought the house Thanksgiving Day, And found its inmates all away, Save her who sat before the fire, And, by her side, her palsied sire. At play, betwixt her fingers white, A needle nimbly glanced the light; But oft her eyes it could not stay, To either side would glance away. And on her right hand, open spread, There lay the Book of God she read; And on her left I just could trace An infant namesake’s pictured face. The Book of God, the housekeeper, The babe that had been named for her, The book and babe and she between,— Through doors ajar I mark’d the scene. And, while she sat before me so, Content to share another’s woe; A captive for her sisters gone, Whom all their joy depended on; Cheer’d now to read of heavenly worth For souls denying self on earth; Moved now to do the deed she should, Lest wrong should lead that child from good;— Another soul, my heart felt sure Could keep, if so surrounded, pure,— If there God lured his thought above, And here one shared his name and love. The scene was homely; yes, I know, But homely scenes may haunt one so!— That still her sweet face with me stays, My days are all Thanksgiving Days.

In loneliness I wander’d; When, lo, above me, ringing Amid the breeze That shook the trees, I heard a bird’s glad singing. I looked, and through the leaves could see The warbler nod and chirp for me. “One friend is left me yet,” thought I, And ventur’d near The song to hear; But when he saw me drawing nigh, Alas, in fright He took to flight! Not, not for me had been his care. He sang to greet the sunny air, And serve his own sweet nature. In loneliness I ponder’d; And lo, sweet laughter woke there The gentlest rills, That broke in trills About the lips that spoke there. Through smiles and blushes burst the glee,— And eyes that fill’d and flash’d for me. “Her soul,” I thought, “has heard my sigh”; And, drawing near, I bade her hear My tale of love—but from her eye The joy had flown. Not I alone, Alas, not I had been her care. She fill’d the world with sweetness there, To serve her own sweet nature.

My child, you come, and ask me why, The reason why I stared at you?— Ah, darling, one can use her eye!— Nay, did I stare?—You saw me too? I stared, then, at these great round eyes; And thought of all that each would see, Of all the cares, and all the cries, Ere you were old, you sprite, like me. And then I saw these tiny ears, And thought of how they both would grow, And thrill and tremble, ere the years Had taught them all they had to know. I saw these dainty limbs here, too, That run and jump and snatch and throw; And thought how little mine can do— Ah me, not always was it so! And what of these things?—Nothing, dear. You ask’d me only, that is all; And old is aunty, old and queer; So kiss me, child, and catch the ball. Alas, the darling!—How could I Tell her the thought?—It touch’d me so To think how—were she but to die Before she learn’d it all, you know.

“Come, Love, be mine,” the boy implored; And from his fresh young heart there pour’d Full streams of life that flush’d his face And thrill’d his breast for Love’s embrace. “Nay, nay; not yet,” his Love replied; “The worth of boyhood must be tried.” So, like the spring’s uncertain sun, Love lured his hope; but was not won. “Come, Love, be mine,” the young man pray’d, As if some angel were the maid; And could with bliss have knelt beside The only power that awed his pride. “Nay, nay; not yet,” his Love replied; “For vintage-time must life provide.” So brightly, like a summer-sun, Love cheer’d his way; but was not won. “Come, Love, be mine,” the strong man urged; “The mounts above in cloud are merged; And, hand in hand with thee, my life Will better brave the looming strife.” “Nay, nay; not yet,” his Love replied, “The harvests wait; the fields are wide.” So, clouded like an autumn-sun, Love veil’d her light, and was not won. “Come, Love, be mine,” the old man said; And meekly bow’d his whiten’d head; Then, while it sank against his breast, “O Love, has life not won its rest?” “I come,” his Love at last replied; And clasp’d him; but he only sigh’d. And, faint and chill, life’s wintry sun In gold had set; his Love was won.

There, where the flowers more fragrant lie, Crushed by the crowds that have pass’d them by, Stands a chapel; and oft from its door Hymns of the lowly worshippers pour, Crush’d like the flowers, I trow. O little Church, but what would I give, What would I give, and how would I live, To know as thy sweet souls know! There, where the trees on the great knoll sway Swept by the wind that they fail to stay, Bend great crowds, while organ and bell Hail God’s Host that is deigning to dwell Shrined in their church below. O great Church, but what would I give, What would I give, and how would I live, To know as thy hush’d throngs know! There on the cliff that chancels the park, Nigh to the cloud where is trilling the lark, Men and maidens dance to the lay Blown by the blasts of the trumpeters gay, Fluttering to and fro. O gay Cliff, but what would I give, What would I give, and how would I live, To know as thy light hearts know! There, where the sun burns all the view, What sounds there in the boundless blue? Faith—is it more than a meek despair? Truth—than one’s own note echoed in air? Hope—than his dawn’s bright dew? O hush’d Heaven, but what would I give, How would I love, and how would I live, To know the soul’s tale to be true!