FUGITIVE PIECES.

Wo! for my vine-clad home! That it should ever be so dark to me, With its bright threshold, and its whispering tree! That I should ever come, Fearing the lonely echo of a tread, Beneath the roof-tree of my glorious dead! Lead on! my orphan boy! Thy home is not so desolate to thee, And the low shiver in the linden tree May bring to thee a joy; But, oh! how dark is the bright home before thee, To her who with a joyous spirit bore thee! Lead on! for thou art now My sole remaining helper. God hath spoken, And the strong heart I leaned upon is broken; And I have seen his brow, The forehead of my upright one, and just, Trod by the hoof of battle to the dust. He will not meet thee there Who blest thee at the eventide, my son! And when the shadows of the night steal on, He will not call to prayer. The lips that melted, giving thee to God, Are in the icy keeping of the sod! Aye, my own boy! thy sire Is with the sleepers of the valley cast, And the proud glory of my life hath past, With his high glance of fire. Wo! that the linden and the vine should bloom, And a just man be gathered to the tomb! Why, bear them proudly, boy! It is the sword he girded to his thigh, It is the helm he wore in victory! And shall we have no joy? For thy green vales, O Switzerland, he died! I will forget my sorrow—in my pride!

Ye’ve gathered to your place of prayer With slow and measured tread; Your ranks are full, your mates all there; But the soul of one has fled. He was the proudest in his strength, The manliest of ye all; Why lies he at that fearful length, And ye around his pall? Ye reckon it in days since he Strode up that foot-worn aisle, With his dark eye flashing vividly, And his lip wreathed with a smile. Oh! had it been but told you then To mark whose lamp was dim, From out yon rank of fresh-lipped men, Would ye have singled him? Whose was the sinewy arm which flung Defiance to the ring? Whose laugh of victory loudest rung, Yet not for glorying? Whose heart, in generous deed and thought, No rivalry might brook, And yet distinction claiming not? There lies he; go and look! On now! his requiem is done; The last deep prayer is said. On to his burial, comrades! on, With the noblest of the dead! Slow! for it presses heavily; It is a man ye bear! Slow! for our thoughts dwell wearily On the noble sleeper there. Tread lightly, comrades! we have laid His dark locks on his brow Like life, save deeper light and shade; We’ll not disturb them now. Tread lightly; for ’tis beautiful, That blue-veined eyelid’s sleep, Hiding the eye death left so dull; Its slumber we will keep. Rest now! his journeying is done; Your feet are on his sod. Death’s chain is on your champion; Here waiteth he his God! Aye, turn and weep! ’tis manliness To be heart-broken here; For the grave of earth’s best nobleness Is watered by the tear.

Bright be the skies that cover thee, Child of the sunny brow! Bright as the dream flung over thee, By all that meets thee now. Thy heart is beating joyously, Thy voice is like a bird’s, And sweetly breaks the melody Of thy imperfect words. I know no fount that gushes out, As gladly as thy tiny shout. Thy coral lip is pencilled well, Thy cheek is deeply dyed; Thine eye might shame the fleet gazelle, In all his desert pride; Thy fairy foot’s uncertain step, Thy light bewitching grace, The smile that curls thy sleeping lip, And lights thy radiant face; Have made a gift of beauty up Too fair to taste life’s tainted cup. I would that thou mightst ever be As beautiful as now; That time might ever leave us free Thy yet unwritten brow! I would life were all poetry To gentle measures set, That nought but chastened melody, Might dim thine eye of jet, Nor one discordant note be spoken, Till God the cunning harp hath broken. I would—but deeper things than these With woman’s lot are wove; Wrought of intenser sympathies, And nerved by purer love. By the strong spirit’s discipline, By the fierce wrong forgiven, By all that wrings the heart of sin, Is woman won to heaven. ‘Her lot is on thee,’ lovely child! God keep thy spirit undefiled! I fear thy gentle loveliness, Thy witching tone and air, Thine eye’s beseeching earnestness, May be to thee a snare. For silver stars may purely shine, The waters taintless flow; But they who kneel at woman’s shrine, Breathe on it as they bow. Ye may fling back the gift again, But the crushed flower will leave a stain. What shall preserve thee, beautiful child! Keep thee, as thou art now? Bring thee, a spirit undefiled, At God’s pure throne to bow? The world is but a broken reed, And life grows early dim— Who shall be near thee in thy need, To lead thee up, to Him? He who himself was ‘undefiled’— With Him we trust thee, beautiful child!

Thine is a face to look upon and pray That a pure spirit keep thee. I would meet With one so gentle by the streams away, Living with nature; keeping thy pure feet For the unfingered moss, and for the grass Which leaneth where the gentle waters pass. The autumn leaves should sigh thee to thy sleep, And the capricious April, coming on, Awake thee like a flower, and stars should keep A vigil o’er thee like Endymion; And thou for very gentleness shouldst weep, As dew of the night’s quietness comes down. I’ve praised thee, Genevieve! A dream of mine Hath just such dark and shaded eyes as thine.

I have been gazing on thee, Genevieve, And musing, in my love, if thou must die; And I have thought it were not well to grieve At thy most delicate frame and lustrous eye; For as a harp is broken, when the finger That knew its cunning hath forgot to play, Thou wouldst not, for that frail confinement, linger, When it was time for thee to pass away; And therefore am I glad, that when my heart To thy enquiring tenderness is hushed, And thine endearments from mine eyes depart, ’Twill be enough for thee that life hath gushed, Gently to loose the silver cord, and die, And with me in my place of slumber lie.

I care not that the world, when I am dead, Remember me; I care not that they come To see the place where I shall lay my head, Or praise me with low voices at my tomb; I would not even a recording stone Should tell them what I was—when I am gone. There are a few who love me—whom I love— Gentle and gifted spirits, who would weep, But not that I had found a rest above, And in their hearts my trifling virtues keep; And one, whom I have folded like a dove In my affections, would lie down and sleep Softly beside me—and I should not care, That any one should know that I was there.

We shall go forth together. There will come Alike the day of trial unto all, And the rude world will buffet us alike. Temptation hath a music for all ears; And mad ambition trumpeteth to all; And the ungovernable thought within, Will be in every bosom eloquent; But when the silence and the calm come on, And the high seal of character is set, We shall not all be similar. The scale Of being is a graduated thing; And deeper than the vanities of power, Or the vain pomp of glory, there is writ Gradation, in its hidden characters. The pathway to the grave may be the same, And the proud man shall tread it, and the low, With his bowed head, shall bear him company. Decay will make no difference, and death With his cold hand shall make no difference; And there will be no precedence of power, In waking at the coming trump of God; But in the temper of the invisible mind, The godlike and undying intellect, There are distinctions that will live in heaven, When time is a forgotten circumstance! The elevated brow of kings will lose The impress of regalia, and the slave Will wear his immortality as free, Beside the chrystal waters; but the depth Of glory in the attributes of God, Will measure the capacities of mind; And as the angels differ, will the ken Of gifted spirits glorify him more. It is life’s mystery. The soul of man Createth its own destiny of power; And as the trial is intenser here, His being hath a nobler strength in heaven. What is its earthly victory? Press on! For it hath tempted angels. Yet press on! For it shall make you mighty among men; And from the eyrie of your eagle thought, Ye shall look down on monarchs. Oh! press on! For the high ones and powerful shall come To do you reverence; and the beautiful Will know the purer language of your brow, And read it like a talisman of love! Press on! for it is godlike to unloose The spirit, and forget yourself in thought; Bending a pinion for the deeper sky, And in the very fetters of your flesh, Mating with the pure essences of heaven! Press on!—‘for in the grave there is no work, And no device.’—Press on! while yet ye may! So lives the soul of man. It is the thirst Of his immortal nature; and he rends The rock for secret fountains, and pursues The path of the illimitable wind For mysteries—and this is human pride! There is a gentler element, and man May breathe it with a calm, unruffled soul, And drink its living waters till his heart Is pure—and this is human happiness! Its secret and its evidence are writ In the broad book of nature. ’Tis to have Attentive and believing faculties; To go abroad rejoicing in the joy Of beautiful and well created things; To love the voice of waters, and the sheen Of silver fountains leaping to the sea; To thrill with the rich melody of birds, Living their life of music; to be glad In the gay sunshine, reverent in the storm; To see a beauty in the stirring leaf, And find calm thoughts beneath the whispering tree; To see, and hear, and breathe the evidence Of God’s deep wisdom in the natural world! It is to linger on ‘the magic face Of human beauty,’ and from light and shade Alike to draw a lesson; ’tis to love The cadences of voices that are tuned By majesty and purity of thought; To gaze on woman’s beauty, as a star Whose purity and distance make it fair; And in the gush of music to be still, And feel that it has purified the heart! It is to love all virtue for itself, All nature for its breathing evidence; And when the eye hath seen, and when the ear Hath drunk the beautiful harmony of the world, It is to humble the imperfect mind, And lean the broken spirit upon God! Thus would I, at this parting hour, be true To the great moral of a passing world. Thus would I—like a just departing child, Who lingers on the threshold of his home— Remember the best lesson of the lips Whose accents shall be with us now, no more! It is the gift of sorrow to be pure; And I would press the lesson; that when life Hath half become a weariness, and hope Thirsts for serener waters, go abroad Upon the paths of nature, and when all Its voices whisper, and its silent things Are breathing the deep beauty of the world, Kneel at its simple altar, and the God Who hath the living waters, shall be there!