JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL (continued 2)

SOMETHING NATURAL. I. When first I saw thy soul-deep eyes, My heart yearned to thee instantly, Strange longing in my soul did rise; I cannot tell the reason why, But I must love thee till I die. II. The sight of thee hath well-nigh grown As needful to me as the light; I am unrestful when alone, And my heart doth not beat aright Except it dwell within thy sight. III. And yet—and yet—O selfish love! I am not happy even with thee; I see thee in thy brightness move, And cannot well contented be, Save thou should'st shine alone for me. IV. We should love beauty even as flowers— For all, 'tis said, they bud and blow, They are the world's as well as ours— But thou—alas! God made thee grow So fair, I cannot love thee so!

A FEELING. The flowers and the grass to me Are eloquent reproachfully; For would they wave so pleasantly Or look so fresh and fair, If a man, cunning, hollow, mean, Or one in anywise unclean, Were looking on them there? No; he hath grown so foolish-wise He cannot see with childhood's eyes; He hath forgot that purity And lowliness which are the key Of Nature's mysteries; No; he hath wandered off so long From his own place of birth, That he hath lost his mother-tongue, And, like one come from far-off lands, Forgetting and forgot, he stands Beside his mother's hearth.

THE LOST CHILD. I. I wandered down the sunny glade And ever mused, my love, of thee; My thoughts, like little children, played, As gayly and as guilelessly. II. If any chanced to go astray, Moaning in fear of coming harms, Hope brought the wanderer back alway, Safe nestled in her snowy arms. III. From that soft nest the happy one Looked up at me and calmly smiled; Its hair shone golden in the sun, And made it seem a heavenly child. IV. Dear Hope's blue eyes smiled mildly down, And blest it with a love so deep, That, like a nursling of her own, It clasped her neck and fell asleep.

THE CHURCH. I. I love the rites of England's church; I love to hear and see The priest and people reading slow The solemn Litany; I love to hear the glorious swell Of chanted psalm and prayer, And the deep organ's bursting heart, Throb through the shivering air. II. Chants, that a thousand years have heard, I love to hear again, For visions of the olden time Are wakened by the strain; With gorgeous hues the window-glass Seems suddenly to glow, And rich and red the streams of light Down through the chancel flow. III. And then I murmur, "Surely God Delighteth here to dwell; This is the temple of his Son Whom he doth love so well;" But, when I hear the creed which saith, This church alone is His, I feel within my soul that He Hath purer shrines than this. IV. For his is not the builded church, Nor organ-shaken dome; In every thing that lovely is He loves and hath his home; And most in soul that loveth well All things which he hath made, Knowing no creed but simple faith That may not be gainsaid. V. His church is universal Love, And whoso dwells therein Shall need no customed sacrifice To wash away his sin; And music in its aisles shall swell, Of lives upright and true, Sweet as dreamed sounds of angel-harps Down-quivering through the blue. VI. They shall not ask a litany, The souls that worship there, But every look shall be a hymn, And every word a prayer; Their service shall be written bright In calm and holy eyes, And every day from fragrant hearts Fit incense shall arise.

THE UNLOVELY. The pretty things that others wear Look strange and out of place on me, I never seem dressed tastefully, Because I am not fair; And, when I would most pleasing seem, And deck myself with joyful care, I find it is an idle dream, Because I am not fair. If I put roses in my hair, They bloom as if in mockery; Nature denies her sympathy, Because I am not fair; Alas! I have a warm, true heart, But when I show it people stare; I must forever dwell apart, Because I am not fair. I am least happy being where The hearts of others are most light, And strive to keep me out of sight, Because I am not fair; The glad ones often give a glance, As I am sitting lonely there, That asks me why I do not dance— Because I am not fair. And if to smile on them I dare, For that my heart with love runs o'er, They say: "What is she laughing for?"— Because I am not fair; Love scorned or misinterpreted— It is the hardest thing to bear; I often wish that I were dead, Because I am not fair. In joy or grief I must not share, For neither smiles nor tears on me Will ever look becomingly, Because I am not fair; Whole days I sit alone and cry, And in my grave I wish I were— Yet none will weep me if I die, Because I am not fair. My grave will be so lone and bare, I fear to think of those dark hours, For none will plant it o'er with flowers, Because I am not fair; They will not in the summer come And speak kind words above me there; To me the grave will be no home, Because I am not fair.

LOVE-SONG. Nearer to thy mother-heart, Simple Nature, press me, Let me know thee as thou art, Fill my soul and bless me! I have loved thee long and well, I have loved thee heartily; Shall I never with thee dwell, Never be at one with thee? Inward, inward to thy heart, Kindly Nature, take me, Lovely even as thou art, Full of loving make me! Thou knowest naught of dead-cold forms, Knowest naught of littleness, Lifeful Truth thy being warms, Majesty and earnestness. Homeward, homeward to thy heart, Dearest Nature, call me; Let no halfness, no mean part, Any longer thrall me! I will be thy lover true, I will be a faithful soul, Then circle me, then look me through, Fill me with the mighty Whole.

SONG. All things are sad:— I go and ask of Memory, That she tell sweet tales to me To make me glad; And she takes me by the hand, Leadeth to old places, Showeth the old faces In her hazy mirage-land; O, her voice is sweet and low, And her eyes are fresh to mine As the dew Gleaming through The half-unfolded Eglantine, Long ago, long ago! But I feel that I am only Yet more sad, and yet more lonely! Then I turn to blue-eyed Hope, And beg of her that she will ope Her golden gates for me; She is fair and full of grace, But she hath the form and face Of her mother Memory; Clear as air her glad voice ringeth, Joyous are the songs she singeth, Yet I hear them mournfully;— They are songs her mother taught her, Crooning to her infant daughter, As she lay upon her knee. Many little ones she bore me, Woe is me! in by-gone hours, Who danced along and sang before me, Scattering my way with flowers; One by one They are gone, And their silent graves are seen, Shining fresh with mosses green, Where the rising sunbeams slope O'er the dewy land of Hope. But, when sweet Memory faileth, And Hope looks strange and cold; When youth no more availeth, And Grief grows over bold;— When softest winds are dreary, And summer sunlight weary, And sweetest things uncheery We know not why:— When the crown of our desires Weighs upon the brow and tires, And we would die, Die for, ah! we know not what, Something we seem to have forgot, Something we had, and now have not;— When the present is a weight And the future seems our foe, And with shrinking eyes we wait, As one who dreads a sudden blow In the dark, he knows not whence;— When Love at last his bright eye closes, And the bloom upon his face, That lends him such a living grace, Is a shadow from the roses Wherewith we have decked his bier, Because he once was passing dear;— When we feel a leaden sense Of nothingness and impotence, Till we grow mad— Then the body saith, "There's but one true faith; All things are sad!"

A LOVE-DREAM. Pleasant thoughts come wandering, When thou art far, from thee to me; On their silver wings they bring A very peaceful ecstasy, A feeling of eternal spring; So that Winter half forgets Everything but that thou art, And, in his bewildered heart, Dreameth of the violets, Or those bluer flowers that ope, Flowers of steadfast love and hope, Watered by the living wells, Of memories dear, and dearer prophecies, When young spring forever dwells In the sunshine of thine eyes. I have most holy dreams of thee, All night I have such dreams; And, when I awake, reality No whit the darker seems; Through the twin gates of Hope and Memory They pour in crystal streams From out an angel's calmèd eyes, Who, from twilight till sunrise, Far away in the upper deep, Poised upon his shining wings, Over us his watch doth keep, And, as he watcheth, ever sings. Through the still night I hear him sing, Down-looking on our sleep; I hear his clear, clear harp-strings ring, And, as the golden notes take wing, Gently downward hovering, For very joy I weep; He singeth songs of holy Love, That quiver through the depths afar, Where the blessèd spirits are, And lingeringly from above Shower till the morning star His silver shield hath buckled on And sentinels the dawn alone, Quivering his gleamy spear Through the dusky atmosphere. Almost, my love, I fear the morn, When that blessèd voice shall cease, Lest it should leave me quite forlorn, Stript of my snowy robe of peace; And yet the bright reality Is fairer than all dreams can be, For, through my spirit, all day long, Ring echoes of that angel-song In melodious thoughts of thee; And well I know it cannot die Till eternal morn shall break, For, through life's slumber, thou and I Will keep it for each other's sake, And it shall not be silent when we wake.

FOURTH OF JULY ODE. I. Our fathers fought for Liberty, They struggled long and well, History of their deeds can tell— But did they leave us free? II. Are we free from vanity, Free from pride, and free from self, Free from love of power and pelf, From everything that's beggarly? III. Are we free from stubborn will, From low hate and malice small, From opinion's tyrant thrall? Are none of us our own slaves still? IV. Are we free to speak our thought, To be happy, and be poor, Free to enter Heaven's door, To live and labor as we ought? V. Are we then made free at last From the fear of what men say, Free to reverence To-day, Free from the slavery of the Past? VI. Our fathers fought for liberty, They struggled long and well, History of their deeds can tell— But ourselves must set us free.

SPHINX. I. Why mourn we for the golden prime When our young souls were kingly, strong, and true? The soul is greater than all time, It changes not, but yet is ever new. II. But that the soul is noble, we Could never know what nobleness had been; Be what ye dream! and earth shall see A greater greatness than she e'er hath seen. III. The flower pines not to be fair, It never asketh to be sweet and dear, But gives itself to sun and air, And so is fresh and full from year to year. IV. Nothing in Nature weeps its lot, Nothing, save man, abides in memory, Forgetful that the Past is what Ourselves may choose the coming time to be. V. All things are circular; the Past Was given us to make the Future great; And the void Future shall at last Be the strong rudder of an after fate. VI. We sit beside the Sphinx of Life, We gaze into its void, unanswering eyes, And spend ourselves in idle strife To read the riddle of their mysteries. VII. Arise! be earnest and be strong! The Sphinx's eyes shall suddenly grow clear, And speak as plain to thee ere long, As the dear maiden's who holds thee most dear. VIII. The meaning of all things in us— Yea, in the lives we give our souls—doth lie; Make, then, their meaning glorious By such a life as need not fear to die! IX. There is no heart-beat in the day, Which bears a record of the smallest deed, But holds within its faith alway That which in doubt we vainly strive to read. X. One seed contains another seed, And that a third, and so for evermore; And promise of as great a deed Lies folded in the deed that went before. XI. So ask not fitting space or time, Yet could not dream of things which could not be; Each day shall make the next sublime, And Time be swallowed in Eternity. XII. God bless the Present! it is all; It has been Future, and it shall be Past; Awake and live! thy strength recall, And in one trinity unite them fast. XIII. Action and Life—lo! here the key Of all on earth that seemeth dark and wrong; Win this—and, with it, freely ye May enter that bright realm for which ye long. XIV. Then all these bitter questionings Shall with a full and blessèd answer meet; Past worlds, whereof the Poet sings, Shall be the earth beneath his snow-white fleet.

"GOE, LITTLE BOOKE!" Go little book! the world is wide, There's room and verge enough for thee; For thou hast learned that only pride Lacketh fit opportunity, Which comes unbid to modesty. Go! win thy way with gentleness: I send thee forth, my first-born child, Quite, quite alone, to face the stress Of fickle skies and pathways wild, Where few can keep them undefiled. Thou earnest from a poet's heart, A warm, still home, and full of rest; Far from the pleasant eyes thou art Of those who know and love thee best, And by whose hearthstones thou wert blest. Go! knock thou softly at the door Where any gentle spirits bin, Tell them thy tender feet are sore, Wandering so far from all thy kin, And ask if thou may enter in. Beg thou a cup-full from the spring Of Charity, in Christ's dear name; Few will deny so small a thing, Nor ask unkindly if thou came Of one whose life might do thee shame. We all are prone to go astray, Our hopes are bright, our lives are dim; But thou art pure, and if they say, "We know thy father, and our whim He pleases not,"—plead thou for him. For many are by whom all truth, That speaks not in their mother-tongue, Is stoned to death with hands unruth, Or hath its patient spirit wrung Cold words and colder looks among. Yet fear not! for skies are fair To all whose souls are fair within; Thou wilt find shelter everywhere With those to whom a different skin Is not a damning proof of sin. But, if all others are unkind, There's one heart whither thou canst fly For shelter from the biting wind; And, in that home of purity, It were no bitter thing to die.

I. DISAPPOINTMENT. I pray thee call not this society; I asked for bread, thou givest me a stone; I am an hungered, and I find not one To give me meat, to joy or grieve with me; I find not here what I went out to see— Souls of true men, of women who can move The deeper, better part of us to love, Souls that can hold with mine communion free. Alas! must then these hopes, these longings high, This yearning of the soul for brotherhood, And all that makes us pure, and wise, and good, Come broken-hearted, home again to die? No, Hope is left, and prays with bended head, "Give us this day, O God, our daily bread!"

II. Great human nature, whither art thou fled? Are these things creeping forth and back agen, These hollow formalists and echoes, men? Art thou entombèd with the mighty dead? In God's name, no! not yet hath all been said, Or done, or longed for, that is truly great; These pitiful dried crusts will never sate Natures for which pure Truth is daily bread; We were not meant to plod along the earth, Strange to ourselves and to our fellows strange; We were not meant to struggle from our birth To skulk and creep, and in mean pathways range; Act! with stern truth, large faith, and loving will! Up and be doing! God is with us still.

III. TO A FRIEND. One strip of bark may feed the broken tree, Giving to some few limbs a sickly green; And one light shower on the hills, I ween, May keep the spring from drying utterly. Thus seemeth it with these our hearts to be; Hope is the strip of bark, the shower of rain, And so they are not wholly crushed with pain. But live and linger on, far sadder sight to see; Much do they err, who tell us that the heart May not be broken; what, then, can we call A broken heart, if this may not be so, This death in life, when, shrouded in its pall, Shunning and shunned, it dwelleth all apart, Its power, its love, its sympathy laid low?

IV. So may it be, but let it not be so, O, let it not be so with thee, my friend; Be of good courage, bear up to the end, And on thine after way rejoicing go! We all must suffer, if we aught would know; Life is a teacher stern, and wisdom's crown Is oft a crown of thorns, whence, trickling down, Blood, mixed with tears, blinding her eyes doth flow But Time, a gentle nurse, shall wipe away This bloody sweat, and thou shalt find on earth, That woman is not all in all to Love, But, living by a new and second birth, Thy soul shall see all things below, above, Grow bright and brighter to the perfect day.

V. O child of Nature! O most meek and free, Most gentle spirit of true nobleness! Thou doest not a worthy deed the less Because the world may not its greatness see; What were a thousand triumphings to thee, Who, in thyself, art as a perfect sphere Wrapt in a bright and natural atmosphere Of mighty-souledness and majesty? Thy soul is not too high for lowly things, Feels not its strength seeing its brother weak, Not for itself unto itself is dear, But for that it may guide the wanderings Of fellow-men, and to their spirits speak The lofty faith of heart that knows no fear.

VI. TO —— Deem it no Sodom-fruit of vanity, Or fickle fantasy of unripe youth Which ever takes the fairest shows for truth, That I should wish my verse beloved of thee; 'Tis love's deep thirst which may not quenchèd be. There is a gulf of longing and unrest, A wild love-craving not to be represt, Whereto, in all our hearts, as to the sea, The streams of feeling do forever flow. Therefore it is that thy well-meted praise Falleth so shower-like and fresh on me, Filling those springs which else had sunk full low, Lost in the dreary desert-sands of woe, Or parched by passion's fierce and withering blaze.

VII. Might I but be beloved, and, O most fair And perfect-ordered soul, beloved of thee, How should I feel a cloud of earthly care, If thy blue eyes were ever clear to me? O woman's love! O flower most bright and rare! That blossom'st brightest in extremest need, Woe, woe is me! that thy so precious seed Is ever sown by Fancy's changeful air, And grows sometimes in poor and barren hearts, Who can be little even in the light Of thy meek holiness—while souls more great Are left to wander in a starless night, Praying unheard—and yet the hardest parts Befit those best who best can cope with Fate.

VIII. Why should we ever weary of this life? Our souls should widen ever, not contract, Grow stronger, and not harder, in the strife, Filling each moment with a noble act; If we live thus, of vigor all compact, Doing our duty to our fellow-men, And striving rather to exalt our race Than our poor selves, with earnest hand or pen We shall erect our names a dwelling-place Which not all ages shall cast down agen; Offspring of Time shall then be born each hour, Which, as of old, earth lovingly shall guard, To live forever in youth's perfect flower, And guide her future children Heavenward.

IX. GREEN MOUNTAINS. Ye mountains, that far off lift up your heads, Seen dimly through their canopies of blue, The shade of my unrestful spirit sheds Distance-created beauty over you; I am not well content with this far view; How may I know what foot of loved-one treads Your rocks moss-grown and sun-dried torrent beds? We should love all things better, if we knew What claims the meanest have upon our hearts: Perchance even now some eye, that would be bright To meet my own, looks on your mist-robed forms; Perchance your grandeur a deep joy imparts To souls that have encircled mine with light— O brother-heart, with thee my spirit warms!

X. My friend, adown Life's valley, hand in hand, With grateful change of grave and merry speech Or song, our hearts unlocking each to each, We'll journey onward to the silent land; And when stern Death shall loose that loving band, Taking in his cold hand a hand of ours, The one shall strew the other's grave with flowers, Nor shall his heart a moment be unmanned. My friend and brother! if thou goest first, Wilt thou no more re-visit me below? Yea, when my heart seems happy, causelessly And swells, not dreaming why, as it would burst With joy unspeakable—my soul shall know That thou, unseen, art bending over me.

XI. Verse cannot say how beautiful thou art, How glorious the calmness of thine eyes, Full of unconquerable energies, Telling that thou hast acted well thy part. No doubt or fear thy steady faith can start, No thought of evil dare come nigh to thee, Who hast the courage meek of purity, The self-stayed greatness of a loving heart, Strong with serene, enduring fortitude; Where'er thou art, that seems thy fitting place, For not of forms, but Nature, art thou child; And lowest things put on a noble grace When touched by ye, O patient, Ruth-like, mild And spotless hands of earnest womanhood.

XII. The soul would fain its loving kindness tell, But custom hangs like lead upon the tongue; The heart is brimful, hollow crowds among, When it finds one whose life and thought are well; Up to the eyes its gushing love doth swell, The angel cometh and the waters move, Yet it is fearful still to say "I love," And words come grating as a jangled bell. O might we only speak but what we feel, Might the tongue pay but what the heart doth owe, Not Heaven's great thunder, when, deep peal on peal, It shakes the earth, could rouse our spirits so, Or to the soul such majesty reveal, As two short words half-spoken faint and low!

XIII. I saw a gate: a harsh voice spake and said, "This is the gate of Life;" above was writ, "Leave hope behind, all ye who enter it;" Then shrank my heart within itself for dread; But, softer than the summer rain is shed, Words dropt upon my soul, and they did say, "Fear nothing, Faith shall save thee, watch and pray!" So, without fear I lifted up my head, And lo! that writing was not, one fair word Was carven in its stead, and it was "Love." Then rained once more those sweet tones from above With healing on their wings: I humbly heard, "I am the Life, ask and it shall be given! I am the way, by me ye enter Heaven!"

XIV. To the dark, narrow house where loved ones go, Whence no steps outward turn, whose silent door None but the sexton knocks at any more, Are they not sometimes with us yet below? The longings of the soul would tell us so; Although, so pure and fine their being's essence, Our bodily eyes are witless of their presence, Yet not within the tomb their spirits glow, Like wizard lamps pent up, but whensoever With great thoughts worthy of their high behests Our souls are filled, those bright ones with us be, As, in the patriarch's tent, his angel guests;— O let us live so worthily, that never We may be far from that blest company.

XV. I fain would give to thee the loveliest things, For lovely things belong to thee of right, And thou hast been as peaceful to my sight, As the still thoughts that summer twilight brings; Beneath the shadow of thine angel wings O let me live! O let me rest in thee, Growing to thee more and more utterly, Upbearing and upborn, till outward things Are only as they share in thee a part! Look kindly on me, let thy holy eyes Bless me from the deep fulness of thy heart; So shall my soul in its right strength arise, And nevermore shall pine and shrink and start, Safe-sheltered in thy full souled sympathies.

XVI. Much I had mused of Love, and in my soul There was one chamber where I dared not look, So much its dark and dreary voidness shook My spirit, feeling that I was not whole: All my deep longings flowed toward one goal For long, long years, but were not answerèd, Till Hope was drooping, Faith well-nigh stone-dead, And I was still a blind, earth-delving mole; Yet did I know that God was wise and good, And would fulfil my being late or soon; Nor was such thought in vain, for, seeing thee, Great Love rose up, as, o'er a black pine wood, Round, bright, and clear, upstarteth the full moon, Filling my soul with glory utterly.

XVII. Sayest thou, most beautiful, that thou wilt wear Flowers and leafy crowns when thou art old, And that thy heart shall never grow so cold But they shall love to wreath thy silvered hair And into age's snows the hope of spring-tide bear? O, in thy child-like wisdom's moveless hold Dwell ever! still the blessings manifold Of purity, of peace, and untaught care For other's hearts, around thy pathway shed, And thou shalt have a crown of deathless flowers To glorify and guard thy blessèd head And give their freshness to thy life's last hours; And, when the Bridegroom calleth, they shall be A wedding-garment white as snow for thee.

XVIII. Poet! who sittest in thy pleasant room, Warming thy heart with idle thoughts of love, And of a holy life that leads above, Striving to keep life's spring-flowers still in bloom, And lingering to snuff their fresh perfume— O, there were other duties meant for thee, Than to sit down in peacefulness and Be! O, there are brother-hearts that dwell in gloom, Souls loathsome, foul, and black with daily sin, So crusted o'er with baseness, that no ray Of heaven's blessed light may enter in! Come down, then, to the hot and dusty way, And lead them back to hope and peace again— For, save in Act, thy Love is all in vain.

XIX. "NO MORE BUT SO?" No more but so? Only with uncold looks, And with a hand not laggard to clasp mine, Think'st thou to pay what debt of love is thine? No more but so? Like gushing water-brooks, Freshening and making green the dimmest nooks Of thy friend's soul thy kindliness should flow; But, if 'tis bounded by not saying "no," I can find more of friendship in my books, All lifeless though they be, and more, far more In every simplest moss, or flower, or tree; Open to me thy heart of hearts' deep core, Or never say that I am dear to thee; Call me not Friend, if thou keep close the door That leads into thine inmost sympathy.

XX. TO A VOICE HEARD IN MOUNT AUBURN. Like the low warblings of a leaf-hid bird, Thy voice came to me through the screening trees, Singing the simplest, long-known melodies; I had no glimpse of thee, and yet I heard And blest thee for each clearly-carolled word; I longed to thank thee, and my heart would frame Mary or Ruth, some sisterly, sweet name For thee, yet could I not my lips have stirred; I knew that thou wert lovely, that thine eyes Were blue and downcast, and methought large tears, Unknown to thee, up to their lids must rise With half-sad memories of other years, As to thyself alone thou sangest o'er Words that to childhood seemed to say "No More!"

XXI. ON READING SPENSER AGAIN. Dear, gentle Spenser! thou my soul dost lead, A little child again, through Fairy land, By many a bower and stream of golden sand, And many a sunny plain whose light doth breed A sunshine in my happy heart, and feed My fancy with sweet visions; I become A knight, and with my charmèd arms would roam To seek for fame in many a wondrous deed Of high emprize—for I have seen the light Of Una's angel's face, the golden hair And backward eyes of startled Florimel; And, for their holy sake, I would outdare A host of cruel Paynims in the fight, Or Archimage and all the powers of Hell.

XXII. Light of mine eyes! with thy so trusting look, And thy sweet smile of charity and love, That from a treasure well uplaid above, And from a hope in Christ its blessing took; Light of my heart! which, when it could not brook The coldness of another's sympathy, Finds ever a deep peace and stay in thee, Warm as the sunshine of a mossy nook; Light of my soul! who, by thy saintliness And faith that acts itself in daily life, Canst raise me above weakness, and canst bless The hardest thraldom of my earthly strife— I dare not say how much thou art to me Even to myself—and O, far less to thee!

XXIII. Silent as one who treads on new-fallen snow, Love came upon me ere I was aware; Not light of heart, for there was troublous care Upon his eyelids, drooping them full low, As with sad memory of a healèd woe; The cold rain shivered in his golden hair, As if an outcast lot had been his share, And he seemed doubtful whither he should go: Then he fell on my neck, and, in my breast Hiding his face, awhile sobbed bitterly, As half in grief to be so long distrest, And half in joy at his security— At last, uplooking from his place of rest, His eyes shone blessedness and hope on me.

XXIV. A gentleness that grows of steady faith; A joy that sheds its sunshine everywhere; A humble strength and readiness to bear Those burthens which strict duty ever lay'th Upon our souls;—which unto sorrow saith, "Here is no soil for thee to strike thy roots, Here only grow those sweet and precious fruits; Which ripen for the soul that well obey'th; A patience which the world can neither give Nor take away; a courage strong and high, That dares in simple usefulness to live, And without one sad look behind to die When that day comes;—these tell me that our love Is building for itself a home above."

XXV. When the glad soul is full to overflow, Unto the tongue all power it denies, And only trusts its secret to the eyes; For, by an inborn wisdom, it doth know There is no other eloquence but so; And, when the tongue's weak utterance doth suffice, Prisoned within the body's cell it lies, Remembering in tears its exiled woe: That word which all mankind so long to hear, Which bears the spirit back to whence it came, Maketh this sullen clay as crystal clear, And will not be enclouded in a name; It is a truth which we can feel and see, But is as boundless as Eternity.

XXVI. TO THE EVENING-STAR. When we have once said lowly "Evening-Star!" Words give no more—for, in thy silver pride, Thou shinest as naught else can shine beside: The thick smoke, coiling round the sooty bar Forever, and the customed lamp-light mar The stillness of my thought—seeing things glide So samely:—then I ope my windows wide, And gaze in peace to where thou shin'st afar. The wind that comes across the faint-white snow So freshly, and the river dimly seen, Seem like new things that never had been so Before; and thou art bright as thou hast been Since thy white rays put sweetness in the eyes Of the first souls that loved in Paradise.

XXVII. READING. As one who on some well-known landscape looks, Be it alone, or with some dear friend nigh, Each day beholdeth fresh variety, New harmonies of hills, and trees, and brooks— So is it with the worthiest choice of books, And oftenest read: if thou no meaning spy, Deem there is meaning wanting in thine eyes; We are so lured from judgment by the crooks And winding ways of covert fantasy, Or turned unwittingly down beaten tracks Of our foregone conclusions, that we see, In our own want, the writer's misdeemed lacks: It is with true books as with Nature, each New day of living doth new insight teach.

XXVIII. TO ——, AFTER A SNOW-STORM. Blue as thine eyes the river gently flows Between his banks, which, far as eye can see, Are whiter than aught else on earth may be, Save inmost thoughts that in thy soul repose; The trees all crystalled by the melted snows, Sparkle with gems and silver, such as we In childhood saw 'mong groves of Faërie, And the dear skies are sunny-blue as those; Still as thy heart, when next mine own it lies In love's full safety, is the bracing air; The earth is all enwrapt with draperies Snow-white as that pure love might choose to wear— O for one moment's look into thine eyes, To share the joy such scene would kindle there!

SONNETS ON NAMES. EDITH. A Lily with its frail cup filled with dew, Down-bending modestly, snow-white and pale, Shedding faint fragrance round its native vale, Minds me of thee, Sweet Edith, mild and true, And of thy eyes so innocent and blue, Thy heart is fearful as a startled hare, Yet hath in it a fortitude to bear For Love's sake, and a gentle faith which grew Of Love: need of a stay whereon to lean, Felt in thyself, hath taught thee to uphold And comfort others, and to give, unseen, The kindness thy still love cannot withhold: Maiden, I would my sister thou hadst been, That round thee I my guarding arms might fold.

ROSE. My ever-lightsome, ever-laughing Rose, Who always speakest first and thinkest last, Thy full voice is as clear as bugle-blast; Right from the ear down to the heart it goes And says, "I'm beautiful! as who but knows?" Thy name reminds me of old romping days, Of kisses stolen in dark passage-ways, Or in the parlor, if the mother-nose Gave sign of drowsy watch. I wonder where Are gone thy tokens, given with a glance So full of everlasting love till morrow, Or a day's endless grieving for the dance Last night denied, backed with a lock of hair, That spake of broken hearts and deadly sorrow.

MARY. Dark hair, dark eyes—not too dark to be deep And full of feeling, yet enough to glow With fire when angered; feelings never slow, But which seem rather watching to forthleap From her full breast; a gently-flowing sweep Of words in common talk, a torrent-rush, Whenever through her soul swift feelings gush, A heart less ready to be gay than weep, Yet cheerful ever; a calm matron-smile, That bids God bless you; a chaste simpleness, With somewhat, too, of "proper pride," in dress;— This portrait to my mind's eye came, the while I thought of thee, the well-grown woman Mary, Whilome a gold-haired, laughing little fairy.

CAROLINE. A staidness sobers o'er her pretty face, Which something but ill-hidden in her eyes, And a quaint look about her lips denies; A lingering love of girlhood you can trace In her checked laugh and half-restrainèd pace; And, when she bears herself most womanly, It seems as if a watchful mother's eye Kept down with sobering glance her childish grace: Yet oftentimes her nature gushes free As water long held back by little hands, Within a pump, and let forth suddenly, Until, her task remembering, she stands A moment silent, smiling doubtfully, Then laughs aloud and scorns her hated bands.

ANNE. There is a pensiveness in quiet Anne, A mournful drooping of the full gray eye, As if she had shook hands with misery, And known some care since her short life began; Her cheek is seriously pale, nigh wan, And, though of cheerfulness there is no lack, You feel as if she must be dressed in black; Yet is she not of those who, all they can, Strive to be gay, and striving, seem most sad— Hers is not grief, but silent soberness; You would be startled if you saw her glad, And startled if you saw her weep, no less; She walks through life, as, on the Sabbath day, She decorously glides to church to pray.

THRENODIA. Gone, gone from us! and shall we see These sibyl-leaves of destiny, Those calm eyes, nevermore? Those deep, dark eyes so warm and bright, Wherein the fortunes of the man Lay slumbering in prophetic light, In characters a child might scan? So bright, and gone forth utterly! O stern word—Nevermore! The stars of those two gentle eyes 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 What 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. O stern word—Nevermore! The tongue that scarce had learned to claim An entrance to a mother's heart By that dear talisman, a mother's name, Sleeps all forgetful of its art! I loved to see the infant soul (How mighty in the weakness Of its untutored meekness!) Peep timidly from out its nest, His lips, the while, Fluttering with half-fledged words, Or hushing to a smile That more than words expressed, When his glad mother on him stole And snatched him to her breast! O, thoughts were brooding in those eyes, 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! O stern word—Nevermore! How peacefully they rest, Crossfolded there Upon his little breast, Those small, white hands that ne'er were still before, But ever sported with his mother's hair, Or the plain cross that on her breast she wore! Her heart no more will beat To feel the touch of that soft palm, That ever seemed a new surprise Sending 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 hands That wove those pleasant bands! But that they do not rise and sink With his calm breathing, I should think That he were dropped asleep. Alas! too deep, too deep Is this his slumber! Time scarce can number The years ere he will wake again. O, may we see his eyelids open then! O stern word—Nevermore! As the airy gossamere, Floating in the sunlight clear, Where'er it toucheth clingeth tightly, Round glossy leaf or stump unsightly, So from his spirit wandered out Tendrils spreading all about, Knitting all things to its thrall With a perfect love of all: O stern word—Nevermore! He did but float a little way Adown the stream of time, With dreamy eyes watching the ripples play, Or listening their fairy chime; His slender sail Ne'er felt the gale; He did but float a little way, And, putting to the shore While yet 'twas early day, Went calmly on his way, To dwell with us no more! No jarring did he feel, No grating on his vessel's keel, A strip of silver sand Mingled the waters with the land Where he was seen no more: O stern word—Nevermore! Full short his journey was; no dust Of 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 And wandered hither, so his stay With us was short, and 'twas most meet That he should be no delver in earth's clod Nor need to pause and cleanse his feet To stand before his God: O blest word—Evermore! 1839.

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! O come hither; Come to this peaceful home of ours, Where evermore The low west-wind creeps panting up the shore To be at rest among the flowers; Full of rest, the green moss lifts, As the dark waves of the sea Draw in and out of rocky rifts, Calling solemnly to thee With voices deep and hollow,— "To the shore Follow! O, follow! To be at rest forevermore! Forevermore!" Look how the gray old Ocean From the depth of his heart rejoices, Heaving with a gentle motion, When he hears our restful voices; List how he sings in an under-tone, 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, Here mayst thou rest from the aching oar; Turn thy curvèd prow ashore, And in our green isle rest for evermore! 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, 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 see Nothing but the blood-red moon Go up and down into the sea; Or, in the loneliness of day, To see the still seals only Solemnly lift their faces gray, Making it yet more lonely? Is it not better, than to hear Only the sliding of the wave Beneath 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, Lean over the side and see The leaden eye of the sidelong shark Upturnèd 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, As the frail vessel perisheth In 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, 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! O, listen! Here is a gush of many streams, A song of many birds, And every wish and longing seems Lulled to a numbered flow of words,— Listen! O, listen! Here ever hum the golden bees Underneath full-blossomed trees, At once with glowing fruit and flowers crowned;— The sand is so smooth, the yellow sand, That thy keel will not grate as it touches the land All around with a slumberous sound, 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, Ever singing in his ear, "Here is rest and peace for thee." Nantasket, July, 1840.

IRENÉ. 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; 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 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 (An all unwitting, child-like 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 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, Which rests instinctively in Heaven's law With a full peace, that never can depart From its own steadfastness;—a holy awe For holy things,—not those which men call holy, But such as are revealèd to the eyes Of 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 All shallow tricks of circumstance and time, By a sure insight knowing where to cling, And where it clingeth never withering;— These are Irené's dowry, which no fate Can 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, Giving itself a pang for others' sakes; No want of faith, that chills with sidelong eye, Hath she; no jealousy, no Levite pride That 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 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, 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-toss'd upon the sea, 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 high A home serene, wherein to lay her head, Earth's noblest thing, a Woman perfected. 1840.

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! O, '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! 1840.

WITH A PRESSED FLOWER. This little flower from afar Hath come from other lands to thine; For, once, its white and drooping star Could see its shadow in the Rhine. Perchance some fair-haired German maid Hath plucked one from the self-same 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 tell Something I've often told to thee. But here at home, where we were born, Thou wilt find flowers 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. 1840.

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, Rounded 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 below And 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 bay The changeful April sky of chance And 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 snow-flakes 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 glee And gladsomeness, where'er I be, Though fickle fate hath prisoned me In some neglected nook. Ye have been very kind and good To me, since I've been in the wood; Ye have gone nigh to fill my heart; But good-bye, 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 forget To beg of thee, dear violet! Some of thy modesty, That blossoms here as well, unseen, As if before the world thou'dst been, O, give, to strengthen me. 1839.

MY LOVE. I. Not as all other women are Is 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. II. 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 tone Wherewith the wind may choose to blow. III. Yet in herself she dwelleth not, Although no home were half so fair; No simplest duty is forgot, Life hath no dim and lowly spot That doth not in her sunshine share. IV. 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-esteemèd in her eyes. V. She hath no scorn of common things, And, though she seem of other birth, Round us her heart entwines and clings, And patiently she folds her wings To tread the humble paths of earth. VI. Blessing she is: God made her so, And deeds of weekday holiness Fall from her noiseless as the snow, Nor hath she ever chanced to know That aught were easier than to bless. VII. She is most fair, and thereunto Her life doth rightly harmonize; Feeling or thought that was not true Ne'er made less beautiful the blue Unclouded heaven of her eyes. VIII. She is a woman: one in whom The 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. IX. I love her with a love as still As a broad river's peaceful might, Which, by high tower and lowly mill, Goes wandering at its own will, And yet doth ever flow aright. X. 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. 1840.

SUMMER STORM. Untremulous in the river clear, Toward the sky's image, hangs the imaged bridge So still the air that I can hear The 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, 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 long green sedge's 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, 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, 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, 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 rain Shuts off the landscape, mile by mile; 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, Like the toothless sea mumbling A rock-bristled shore, The thunder is rumbling And crashing and crumbling,— Will silence return never more? 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, All is so bodingly still; Again, now, now, again Plashes 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, Followed by silence dead and dull, As if the cloud, let go, Leapt bodily below To whelm the earth in one mad overthrow, And then a total lull. Gone, gone, so soon! No more my half-crazed fancy there Can shape a giant in the air, No more I see his streaming hair, The writhing portent of his form;— 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. 1839.

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 work-day world, Baring its tender feet to every roughness, 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 eyes As 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 savage glare, Whirrs suddenly up, then bursts, and leaves the night Painfully quivering on the dazèd eyes; A love that gives and takes, that seeth faults, Not with flaw-seeking eyes like needle points, But loving-kindly ever looks them down With the o'ercoming faith of meek forgiveness; A love that shall be new and fresh each hour, As is the golden mystery of sunset, 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, it sees but Heaven-granted 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 so Are needful at the first, as is a hand To guide and to uphold an infant's steps: Great spirits 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. 1840.

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 come stealing, stealing, Clear and low; All 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 ever Heaving on a sky-blue river In a day of cloudless weather. It hath caught a touch of sadness, Yet it is not sad; It hath tones of clearest gladness, Yet it is not glad; A dim, sweet, twilight voice it is Where to-day's accustomed blue Is over-grayed with memories, With starry feelings quivered through. Thy voice is like a fountain Leaping up in sunshine bright, And I never weary counting Its clear droppings, lone and single, 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; O, thus forever sing to me! O, thus forever! The green, bright grass of childhood bring to me, Flowing like an emerald river, And the bright blue skies above! O, 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, While, through thy lips and face, arise The melodies from out thy breast; She sits and sings, With folded wings And white arms crost, "Weep not for passed things, They are not lost: The beauty which the summer time O'er thine opening spirit shed, The forest oracles sublime That filled thy soul with joyous dread, The scent of every smallest flower That 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 The guiders of thy silver hairs; Every look and every word Which thou givest forth to-day, Tell of the singing of the bird Whose music stilled thy boyish play." Thy voice is like a fountain, Twinkling up in sharp starlight, When the moon behind the mountain Dims the low East with faintest white, Ever darkling, Ever sparkling, We know not if 'tis dark or bright; But, when the great moon hath rolled round, And, sudden-slow, its solemn power Grows 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. 1841.

THE MOON. My soul was like the sea, Before the moon was made, Moaning in vague immensity, Of its own strength afraid, Unrestful 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 eyes When 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 fast As 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 Æolian A 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. 1840.

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 O, 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 be Fresh, 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, god-like eyes, he only saw. He did not sigh o'er heroes dead and buried, Chief-mourner at the Golden Age's hearse, 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. 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, 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: 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; 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. 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,—O, no! unmaker rather, For he unmakes who doth not all put forth The power given 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, And let man's soul be yet again beholden To thee for wings to soar to her desire. O, prophesy no more to-morrow's splendor, Be no more shame-faced to speak out for Truth, Lay on her altar all the gushings tender, The hope, the fire, the loving faith of youth! O, 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. O, 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 couldst be. O, thou who moanest tost with sea-like 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, 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 shade of wrong, There still is need of martyrs and apostles, There still are texts for never-dying song: 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, That 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; 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 one to 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-embrownèd hand; 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; 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; 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 evil-doer, 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, 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 melody Learnt of the sky, the river, and the ocean, And all the pure, majestic things that be. 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-voicèd scene, As when a sudden burst of rattling thunder Shatters the blueness of a sky serene. 1841.

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? O, yes! his fatherland must be As 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 span For the soul's love of home than this? O, yes! his fatherland must be As 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 strives After 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 stiffens on the pavement bare. The street-lamps flare and struggle dim Through the white sleet-clouds as they pass, Or, governed by a boisterous whim, Drop down and rattle 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 loneness to desertion utter. One half the cold she had not felt, Until she saw this gush of light Spread 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 all humanity apart, She hears old footsteps wandering slow Through the lone chambers of her 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 scorn To 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. 1842.

MIDNIGHT. The moon shines white and silent On the mist, which, like a tide Of 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 swell And 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 thee To make the charmèd body Almost like spirit be, And give it some faint glimpses Of immortality! 1842.

A PRAYER. God! do not let my loved one die, But rather wait until the time That I am grown in purity Enough to enter thy pure clime Then take me, I will gladly go, So that my love remain below! O, 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, I Must 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. 1841.

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 be, 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 makes 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 mark How 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 fold 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 him Fill his heart and overflow it With a wonder sweet and dim. Up the beach the ocean slideth With a whisper of delight, And the noon 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. 1842.

A LEGEND OF BRITTANY. PART FIRST. I. Fair as a summer dream was Margaret,— Such dream as in a poet's soul might start, Musing of old loves while the moon doth set: Her hair was not more sunny than her heart, Though like a natural golden coronet It circled her dear head with careless art, Mocking the sunshine, that would fain have lent To its frank grace a richer ornament. II. His loved one's eyes could poet ever speak, So kind, so dewy, and so deep were hers,— But, while he strives, the choicest phrase, too weak Their glad reflection in his spirit blurs; As one may see a dream dissolve and break Out of his grasp when he to tell it stirs, Like that sad Dryad doomed no more to bless The mortal who revealed her loveliness. III. She dwelt forever in a region bright, Peopled with living fancies of her own, Where naught could come but visions of delight, Far, far aloof from earth's eternal moan: A summer cloud thrilled through with rosy light, Floating beneath the blue sky all alone, Her spirit wandered by itself, and won A golden edge from some unsetting sun. IV. The heart grows richer that its lot is poor,— God blesses want with larger sympathies,— Love enters gladliest at the humble door, And makes the cot a palace with his eyes; So Margaret's heart a softer beauty wore, And grew in gentleness and patience wise, For she was but a simple herdsman's child, A lily chance-sown in the rugged wild. V. There was no beauty of the wood or field But she its fragrant bosom-secret knew, Nor any but to her would freely yield Some grace that in her soul took root and grew: Nature to her glowed ever new-revealed, All rosy fresh with innocent morning dew, And looked into her heart with dim, sweet eyes That left it full of sylvan memories. VI. O, what a face was hers to brighten light, And give back sunshine with an added glow, To wile each moment with a fresh delight, And part of memory's best contentment grow! O, how her voice, as with an inmate's right, Into the strangest heart would welcome go, And make it sweet, and ready to become Of white and gracious thoughts the chosen home! VII. None looked upon her but he straightway thought Of all the greenest depths of country cheer, And into each one's heart was freshly brought What was to him the sweetest time of year, So was her every look and motion fraught With out-of-door delights and forest lere: Not the first violet on a woodland lea Seemed a more visible gift of Spring than she. VIII. Is love learned only out of poets' books? Is there not somewhat in the dropping flood, And in the nunneries of silent nooks, And in the murmured longing of the wood, That could make Margaret dream of lovelorn looks, And stir a thrilling mystery in her blood More trembly secret than Aurora's tear Shed in the bosom of an eglatere? IX. Full many a sweet forewarning hath the mind, Full many a whispering of vague desire, Ere comes the nature destined to unbind Its virgin zone, and all its deeps inspire,— Low stirrings in the leaves, before the wind Wakes all the green strings of the forest lyre, Faint heatings in the calyx, ere the rose Its warm voluptuous breast doth all unclose. X. Long in its dim recesses pines the spirit, Wildered and dark, despairingly alone; Though many a shape of beauty wander near it, And many a wild and half-remembered tone Tremble from the divine abyss to cheer it, Yet still it knows that there is only one Before whom it can kneel and tribute bring, At once a happy vassal and a king. XI. To feel a want, yet scarce know what it is, To seek one nature that is always new, Whose glance is warmer than another's kiss, Whom we can bare our inmost beauty to, Nor feel deserted afterwards,—for this But with our destined co-mate we can do,— Such longing instinct fills the mighty scope Of the young soul with one mysterious hope. XII. So Margaret's heart grew brimming with the lore Of love's enticing secrets; and although She had found none to cast it down before, Yet oft to Fancy's chapel she would go To pay her vows, and count the rosary o'er Of her love's promised graces:—haply so Miranda's hope had pictured Ferdinand Long ere the gaunt wave tossed him on the strand. XIII. A new-made star that swims the lonely gloom, Unwedded yet and longing for the sun, Whose beams, the bride-gifts of the lavish groom Blithely to crown the virgin planet run, Her being was, watching to see the bloom Of love's fresh sunrise roofing one by one Its clouds with gold, a triumph-arch to be For him who came to hold her heart in fee. XIV. Not far from Margaret's cottage dwelt a knight Of the proud Templars, a sworn celibate, Whose heart in secret fed upon the light And dew of her ripe beauty, through the grate Of his close vow catching what gleams he might Of the free heaven, and cursing—all too late— The cruel faith whose black walls hemmed him in, And turned life's crowning bliss to deadly sin. XV. For he had met her in the wood by chance, And, having drunk her beauty's wildering spell, His heart shook like the pennon of a lance That quivers in a breeze's sudden swell, And thenceforth, in a close-enfolded trance, From mistily golden deep to deep he fell; Till earth did waver and fade far away Beneath the hope in whose warm arms he lay. XVI. A dark, proud man he was, whose half-blown youth Had shed its blossoms even in opening, Leaving a few that with more winning ruth Trembling around grave manhood's stem might cling, More sad than cheery, making, in good sooth, Like the fringed gentian, a late autumn spring:— A twilight nature, braided light and gloom, A youth half-smiling by an open tomb. XVII. Fair as an angel, who yet inly wore A wrinkled heart foreboding his near fall; Who saw him always wished to know him more, As if he were some fate's defiant thrall And nursed a dreaded secret at its core; Little he loved, but power most of all, And that he seemed to scorn, as one who knew By what foul paths men choose to crawl thereto. XVIII. He had been noble, but some great deceit Had turned his better instinct to a vice: He strove to think the world was all a cheat, That power and fame were cheap at any price, That the sure way of being shortly great Was even to play life's game with loaded dice, Since he had tried the honest play and found That vice and virtue differed but in sound. XIX. Yet Margaret's sight redeemed him for a space From his own thraldom; man could never be A hypocrite when first such maiden grace Smiled in upon his heart; the agony Of wearing all day long a lying face Fell lightly from him, and, a moment free, Erect with wakened faith his spirit stood And scorned the weakness of its demon-mood. XX. Like a sweet wind-harp to him was her thought, Which would not let the common air come near, Till from its dim enchantment it had caught A musical tenderness that brimmed his ear With sweetness more ethereal than aught Save silver-dropping snatches that whilere Rained down from some sad angel's faithful harp To cool her fallen lover's anguish sharp. XXI. Deep in the forest was a little dell High overarchèd with the leafy sweep Of a broad oak, through whose gnarled roots there fell A slender rill that sung itself asleep, Where its continuous toil had scooped a well To please the fairy folk; breathlessly deep The stillness was, save when the dreaming brook From its small urn a drizzly murmur shook. XXII. The wooded hills sloped upward all around With gradual rise, and made an even rim, So that it seemed a mighty casque unbound From some huge Titan's brow to lighten him, Ages ago, and left upon the ground, Where the slow soil had mossed it to the brim, Till after countless centuries it grew Into this dell, the haunt of noontide dew. XXIII. Dim vistas, sprinkled o'er with sun-flecked green, Wound through the thickset trunks on every side, And, toward the west, in fancy might be seen A gothic window in its blazing pride, When the low sun, two arching elms between, Lit up the leaves beyond, which, autumn-dyed With lavish hues, would into splendor start, Shaming the labored panes of richest art. XXIV. Here, leaning once against the old oak's trunk, Mordred, for such was the young Templar's name, Saw Margaret come; unseen, the falcon shrunk From the meek dove; sharp thrills of tingling flame Made him forget that he was vowed a monk, And all the outworks of his pride o'ercame: Flooded he seemed with bright delicious pain, As if a star had burst within his brain. XXV. Such power hath beauty and frank innocence: A flower bloomed forth, that sunshine glad to bless, Even from his love's long leafless stem; the sense Of exile from Hope's happy realm grew less, And thoughts of childish peace, he knew not whence, Thronged round his heart with many an old caress, Melting the frost there into pearly dew That mirrored back his nature's morning-blue. XXVI. She turned and saw him, but she felt no dread, Her purity, like adamantine mail, Did so encircle her; and yet her head She drooped, and made her golden hair her veil, Through which a glow of rosiest lustre spread, Then faded, and anon she stood all pale, As snow o'er which a blush of northern-light Suddenly reddens, and as soon grows white. XXVII. She thought of Tristrem and of Lancilot, Of all her dreams, and of kind fairies' might, And how that dell was deemed a haunted spot, Until there grew a mist before her sight, And where the present was she half forgot, Borne backward through the realms of old delight,— Then, starting up awake, she would have gone, Yet almost wished it might not be alone. XXVIII. How they went home together through the wood, And how all life seemed focussed into one Thought-dazzling spot that set ablaze the blood, What need to tell? Fit language there is none For the heart's deepest things. Who ever wooed As in his boyish hope he would have done? For, when the soul is fullest, the hushed tongue Voicelessly trembles like a lute unstrung. XXIX. But all things carry the heart's messages And know it not, nor doth the heart well know, But nature hath her will; even as the bees, Blithe go-betweens, fly singing to and fro With the fruit-quickening pollen;—hard if these Found not some all unthought-of way to show Their secret each to each; and so they did, And one heart's flower-dust into the other slid. XXX. Young hearts are free; the selfish world it is That turns them miserly and cold as stone, And makes them clutch their fingers on the bliss Which but in giving truly is their own;— She had no dreams of barter, asked not his, But gave hers freely as she would have thrown A rose to him, or as that rose gives forth Its generous fragrance, thoughtless of its worth. XXXI. Her summer nature felt a need to bless, And a like longing to be blest again; So, from her sky-like spirit, gentleness Dropt ever like a sunlit fall of rain, And his beneath drank in the bright caress As thirstily as would a parchèd plain, That long hath watched the showers of sloping gray Forever, ever, falling far away. XXXII. How should she dream of ill? the heart filled quite With sunshine, like the shepherd's-clock at noon, Closes its leaves around its warm delight; Whate'er in life is harsh or out of tune Is all shut out, no boding shade of light Can pierce the opiate ether of its swoon: Love is but blind as thoughtful justice is, But naught can be so wanton-blind as bliss. XXXIII. All beauty and all life he was to her; She questioned not his love, she only knew That she loved him, and not a pulse could stir In her whole frame but quivered through and through With this glad thought, and was a minister To do him fealty and service true, Like golden ripples hasting to the land To wreck their freight of sunshine on the strand. XXXIV. O dewy dawn of love! O hopes that are Hung high, like the cliff-swallow's perilous nest, Most like to fall when fullest, and that jar With every heavier billow! O unrest Than balmiest deeps of quiet sweeter far! How did ye triumph now in Margaret's breast, Making it readier to shrink and start Than quivering gold of the pond-lily's heart. XXXV. Here let us pause: O, would the soul might ever Achieve its immortality in youth, When nothing yet hath damped its high endeavor After the starry energy of truth! Here let us pause, and for a moment sever This gleam of sunshine from the days unruth That sometime come to all, for it is good To lengthen to the last a sunny mood. PART SECOND. I. As one who, from the sunshine and the green, Enters the solid darkness of a cave, Nor knows what precipice or pit unseen May yawn before him with its sudden grave, And, with hushed breath, doth often forward lean, Dreaming he hears the plashing of a wave Dimly below, or feels a damper air From out some dreary chasm, he knows not where;— II. So, from the sunshine and the green of love, We enter on our story's darker part; And, though the horror of it well may move An impulse of repugnance in the heart, Yet let us think, that, as there's naught above The all-embracing atmosphere of Art, So also there is naught that falls below Her generous reach, though grimed with guilt and woe. III. Her fittest triumph is to show that good Lurks in the heart of evil evermore, That love, though scorned, and outcast, and withstood, Can without end forgive, and yet have store; God's love and man's are of the self-same blood, And He can see that always at the door Of foulest hearts the angel-nature yet Knocks to return and cancel all its debt. IV. It ever is weak falsehood's destiny That her thick mask turns crystal to let through The unsuspicious eyes of honesty; But Margaret's heart was too sincere and true Aught but plain truth and faithfulness to see, And Mordred's for a time a little grew To be like hers, won by the mild reproof Of those kind eyes that kept all doubt aloof. V. Full oft they met, as dawn and twilight meet In northern climes; she full of growing day As he of darkness, which before her feet Shrank gradual, and faded quite away, Soon to return; for power had made love sweet To him, and, when his will had gained full sway, The taste began to pall; for never power Can sate the hungry soul beyond an hour. VI. He fell as doth the tempter ever fall, Even in the gaining of his loathsome end; God doth not work as man works, but makes all The crooked paths of ill to goodness tend; Let him judge Margaret! If to be the thrall Of love, and faith too generous to defend Its very life from him she loved, be sin, What hope of grace may the seducer win? VII. Grim-hearted world, that look'st with Levite eyes On those poor fallen by too much faith in man. She that upon thy freezing threshold lies, Starved to more sinning by thy savage ban,— Seeking that refuge because foulest vice More god-like than thy virtue is, whose span Shuts out the wretched only,—is more free To enter Heaven than thou wilt ever be! VIII. Thou wilt not let her wash thy dainty feet With such salt things as tears, or with rude hair Dry them, soft Pharisee, that sit'st at meat With him who made her such, and speak'st him fair, Leaving God's wandering lamb the while to bleat Unheeded, shivering in the pitiless air: Thou hast made prisoned virtue show more wan And haggard than a vice to look upon. IX. Now many months flew by, and weary grew To Margaret the sight of happy things; Blight fell on all her flowers, instead of dew; Shut round her heart were now the joyous wings Wherewith it wont to soar; yet not untrue, Though tempted much, her woman's nature clings To its first pure belief, and with sad eyes Looks backward o'er the gate of Paradise. X. And so, though altered Mordred came less oft, And winter frowned where spring had laughed before, In his strange eyes, yet half her sadness doffed, And in her silent patience loved him more: Sorrow had made her soft heart yet more soft, And a new life within her own she bore Which made her tenderer, as she felt it move Beneath her breast, a refuge for her love. XI. This babe, she thought, would surely bring him back, And be a bond forever them between; Before its eyes the sullen tempest-rack Would fade, and leave the face of heaven serene; And love's return doth more than fill the lack, Which in his absence withered the heart's green; And yet a dim foreboding still would flit Between her and her hope to darken it. XII. She could not figure forth a happy fate, Even for this life from heaven so newly come; The earth must needs be doubly desolate To him scarce parted from a fairer home: Such boding heavier on her bosom sate One night, as, standing in the twilight gloam, She strained her eyes beyond that dizzy verge At whose foot faintly breaks the future's surge. XIII. Poor little spirit! naught but shame and woe Nurse the sick heart whose lifeblood nurses thine: Yet not those only; love hath triumphed so, As for thy sake makes sorrow more divine: And yet, though thou be pure, the world is foe To purity, if born in such a shrine; And, having trampled it for struggling thence, Smiles to itself, and calls it Providence. XIV. As thus she mused, a shadow seemed to rise From out her thought, and turn to dreariness All blissful hopes and sunny memories, And the quick blood doth curdle up and press About her heart, which seemed to shut its eyes And hush itself, as who with shuddering guess Harks through the gloom and dreads e'en now to feel Through his hot breast the icy slide of steel. XV. But, at the heart-beat, while in dread she was, In the low wind the honeysuckles gleam, A dewy thrill flits through the heavy grass, And, looking forth, she saw, as in a dream, Within the wood the moonlight's shadowy mass: Night's starry heart yearning to hers doth seem, And the deep sky, full-hearted with the moon, Folds round her all the happiness of June. XVI. What fear could face a heaven and earth like this? What silveriest cloud could hang 'neath such a sky? A tide of wondrous and unwonted bliss Rolls back through all her pulses suddenly, As if some seraph, who had learned to kiss From the fair daughters of the world gone by, Had wedded so his fallen light with hers, Such sweet, strange joy through soul and body stirs. XVII. Now seek we Mordred: He who did not fear The crime, yet fears the latent consequence: If it should reach a brother Templar's ear, It haply might be made a good pretence To cheat him of the hope he held most dear; For he had spared no thought's or deed's expense, That, by-and-by might help his wish to clip Its darling bride,—the high grand mastership. XVIII. The apathy, ere a crime resolved is done, Is scarce less dreadful than remorse for crime; By no allurement can the soul be won From brooding o'er the weary creep of time: Mordred stole forth into the happy sun, Striving to hum a scrap of Breton rhyme, But the sky struck him speechless, and he tried In vain to summon up his callous pride. XIX. In the court-yard a fountain leaped alway, A Triton blowing jewels through his shell Into the sunshine; Mordred turned away, Weary because the stone face did not tell Of weariness, nor could he bear to-day, Heartsick, to hear the patient sink and swell Of winds among the leaves, or golden bees Drowsily humming in the orange-trees. XX. All happy sights and sounds now came to him Like a reproach: he wandered far and wide, Following the lead of his unquiet whim, But still there went a something at his side That made the cool breeze hot, the sunshine dim; It would not flee, it could not be defied, He could not see it, but he felt it there, By the damp chill that crept among his hair. XXI. Day wore at last; the evening star arose, And throbbing in the sky grew red and set; Then with a guilty, wavering step he goes To the hid nook where they so oft had met In happier season, for his heart well knows That he is sure to find poor Margaret Watching and waiting there with lovelorn breast Around her young dream's rudely scattered nest. XXII. Why follow here that grim old chronicle Which counts the dagger-strokes and drops of blood? Enough that Margaret by his mad steel fell, Unmoved by murder from her trusting mood, Smiling on him as Heaven smiles on Hell, With a sad love, remembering when he stood Not fallen yet, the unsealer of her heart, Of all her holy dreams the holiest part. XXIII. His crime complete, scarce knowing what he did, (So goes the tale,) beneath the altar there In the high church the stiffening corpse he hid, And then, to 'scape that suffocating air, Like a scared ghoul out of the porch he slid; But his strained eyes saw bloodspots everywhere, And ghastly faces thrust themselves between His soul and hopes of peace with blasting mien. XXIV. His heart went out within him, like a spark Dropt in the sea; wherever he made bold To turn his eyes, he saw, all stiff and stark, Pale Margaret lying dead; the lavish gold Of her loose hair seemed in the cloudy dark To spread a glory, and a thousandfold More strangely pale and beautiful she grew: Her silence stabbed his conscience through and through: XXV. Or visions of past days,—a mother's eyes That smiled down on the fair boy at her knee, Whose happy upturned face to hers replies,— He saw sometimes: or Margaret mournfully Gazed on him full of doubt, as one who tries To crush belief that does love injury; Then she would wring her hands, but soon again Love's patience glimmered out through cloudy pain. XXVI. Meanwhile he dared not go and steal away The silent, dead-cold witness of his sin; He had not feared the life, but that dull clay, Those open eyes that showed the death within, Would surely stare him mad; yet all the day A dreadful impulse, whence his will could win No refuge, made him linger in the aisle, Freezing with his wan look each greeting smile. XXVII. Now, on the second day there was to be A festival in church: from far and near Came flocking in the sunburnt peasantry, And knights and dames with stately antique cheer, Blazing with pomp, as if all faërie Had emptied her quaint halls, or, as it were, The illuminated marge of some old book, While we were gazing, life and motion took. XXVIII. When all were entered, and the roving eyes Of all were staid, some upon faces bright, Some on the priests, some on the traceries That decked the slumber of a marble knight, And all the rustlings over that arise From recognizing tokens of delight, When friendly glances meet,—then silent ease Spread o'er the multitude by slow degrees. XXIX. Then swelled the organ: up through choir and nave The music trembled with an inward thrill Of bliss at its own grandeur: wave on wave Its flood of mellow thunder rose, until The hushed air shivered with the throb it gave, Then, poising for a moment, it stood still, And sank and rose again, to burst in spray That wandered into silence far away. XXX. Like to a mighty heart the music seemed, That yearns with melodies it cannot speak, Until, in grand despair of what it dreamed, In the agony of effort it doth break, Yet triumphs breaking; on it rushed and streamed And wantoned in its might, as when a lake, Long pent among the mountains, bursts its walls And in one crowding gush leaps forth and falls. XXXI. Deeper and deeper shudders shook the air, As the huge bass kept gathering heavily, Like thunder when it rouses in its lair, And with its hoarse growl shakes the low-hung sky, It grew up like a darkness everywhere, Filling the vast cathedral;—suddenly, From the dense mass a boy's clear treble broke Like lightning, and the full-toned choir awoke. XXXII. Through gorgeous windows shone the sun aslant, Brimming the church with gold and purple mist, Meet atmosphere to bosom that rich chant, Where fifty voices in one strand did twist Their varicolored tones, and left no want To the delighted soul, which sank abyssed In the warm music cloud, while, far below, The organ heaved its surges to and fro. XXXIII. As if a lark should suddenly drop dead While the blue air yet trembled with its song, So snapped at once that music's golden thread, Struck by a nameless fear that leapt along From heart to heart, and like a shadow spread With instantaneous shiver through the throng, So that some glanced behind, as half aware A hideous shape of dread were standing there. XXXIV. As when a crowd of pale men gather round, Watching an eddy in the leaden deep, From which they deem the body of one drowned Will be cast forth, from face to face doth creep An eager dread that holds all tongues fast bound Until the horror, with a ghastly leap, Starts up, its dead blue arms stretched aimlessly, Heaved with the swinging of the careless sea,— XXXV. So in the faces of all these there grew, As by one impulse, a dark, freezing awe, Which, with a fearful fascination drew All eyes toward the altar; damp and raw The air grew suddenly, and no man knew Whether perchance his silent neighbor saw The dreadful thing which all were sure would rise To scare the strained lids wider from their eyes. XXXVI. The incense trembled as it upward sent Its slow, uncertain thread of wandering blue, As 't were the only living element In all the church, so deep the stillness grew, It seemed one might have heard it, as it went, Give out an audible rustle, curling through The midnight silence of that awe-struck air, More hushed than death, though so much life was there. XXXVII. Nothing they saw, but a low voice was heard Threading the ominous silence of that fear, Gentle and terrorless as if a bird, Wakened by some volcano's glare, should cheer The murk air with his song; yet every word In the cathedral's farthest arch seemed near As if it spoke to every one apart, Like the clear voice of conscience in each heart. XXXVIII. "O Rest, to weary hearts thou art most dear! O Silence, after life's bewildering din, Thou art most welcome, whether in the sear Days of our age thou comest, or we win Thy poppy-wreath in youth! then wherefore here Linger I yet, once free to enter in At that wished gate which gentle Death doth ope, Into the boundless realm of strength and hope? XXXIX. "Think not in death my love could ever cease; If thou wast false, more need there is for me Still to be true; that slumber were not peace, If 't were unvisited with dreams of thee: And thou hadst never heard such words as these, Save that in heaven I must ever be Most comfortless and wretched, seeing this Our unbaptizèd babe shut out from bliss. XL. "This little spirit with imploring eyes Wanders alone the dreary wild of space; The shadow of his pain forever lies Upon my soul in this new dwelling-place; His loneliness makes me in Paradise More lonely, and, unless I see his face, Even here for grief could I lie down and die, Save for my curse of immortality. XLI. "World after world he sees around him swim Crowded with happy souls, that take no heed Of the sad eyes that from the night's faint rim Gaze sick with longing on them as they speed With golden gates, that only shut out him; And shapes sometimes from Hell's abysses freed Flap darkly by him, with enormous sweep Of wings that roughen wide the pitchy deep. XLII. "I am a mother,—spirits do not shake This much of earth from them,—and I must pine Till I can feel his little hands, and take His weary head upon this heart of mine; And, might it be, full gladly for his sake Would I this solitude of bliss resign, And be shut out of Heaven to dwell with him Forever in that silence drear and dim. XLIII. "I strove to hush my soul, and would not speak At first, for thy dear sake; a woman's love Is mighty, but a mother's heart is weak, And by its weakness overcomes; I strove To smother bitter thoughts with patience meek, But still in the abyss my soul would rove, Seeking my child, and drove me here to claim The rite that gives him peace in Christ's dear name. XLIV. "I sit and weep while blessed spirits sing; I can but long and pine the while they praise, And, leaning o'er the wall of Heaven, I fling My voice to where I deem my infant strays, Like a robbed bird that cries in vain to bring Her nestlings back beneath her wings' embrace; But still he answers not, and I but know That Heaven and earth are both alike in woe." XLV. Then the pale priests, with ceremony due, Baptized the child within its dreadful tomb Beneath that mother's heart, whose instinct true Star-like had battled down the triple gloom Of sorrow, love, and death: young maidens, too, Strewed the pale corpse with many a milkwhite bloom, And parted the bright hair, and on the breast Crossed the unconscious hands in sign of rest. XLVI. Some said, that, when the priest had sprinkled o'er The consecrated drops, they seemed to hear A sigh, as of some heart from travail sore Released, and then two voices singing clear, Misereatur Deus, more and more Fading far upward, and their ghastly fear Fell from them with that sound, as bodies fall From souls upspringing to celestial hall.