Volume 5 — ANNUARIES,

I. A year has gone down silently To the dark bosom of the Past, Since I beneath this very tree Sat hoping, fearing, dreaming, last. Its waning glories, like a flame, Are trembling to the wind's light touch— All just a year ago the same, And I—oh! I am changed so much! The beauty of a wildering dream Hung softly round declining day; A star of all too sweet a beam In Eve's flushed bosom trembling lay. Changed in its aspect, yet the same, Still climbs that star from sunset's glow, But its embraces of pale flame Clasp not the weary world from wo! Another year shall I return, And cross this solemn chapel floor, While round me memory's shrine-lamps burn— Or shall this pilgrimage be o'er? One that I loved, grown faint with strife, When drooped and died the tenderer bloom, Folded the white tent of young life For the pale army of the tomb. The dry seeds dropping from their pods, The hawthorn apples bright as dawn, And the pale mullen's starless rods, Were just as now a year agone. But changed is every thing to me, From the small flower to sunset's glow, Since last I sat beneath this tree, A year—a little year—ago. I leaned against this broken bough, This faded turf my footstep pressed; But glad hopes that are not there now, Lay softly trembling in my breast: Trembling, for though the golden haze, Rose, as the dead leaves drifted by, As from the Vala of old days, The mournful voice of prophecy. Give woman's heart one triumph hour, Even on the borders of the grave, And thou hast given her strength and power The saddest ills of life to brave. Crush that far hope down, thou dost bring To the poor bird the tempest's wrath, Without the petrel's stormy wing To beat the darkness from its path. Once knowing mortal hope and fear, Whate'er in heaven's sweet clime thou art, Bend, pitying mother, softly near, And save, O save me from my heart! Be still pale-handed memory, My knee is trembling on the sod, The heir of immortality, A child of the eternal God. II. When last year took her mournful flight, With all her train of wo and ill, As pale processions sweep at night Across some lonesome burial hill— My soul with sorrow for its mate, And bowed with unrequited wrong, Stood knocking at the starry gate Of the wild wondrous realm of song. For hope from my poor hert was gone, With all the sheltering peace it gave, And a dim twilight, stealing on, Foretold the night-time of the grave. Past is that time of dim unrest, Hope reillumes its faded track, And the soft hand of love has prest Death's deep and awful shadows back. A year agone, when wildly shrill The wind sat singing on this bough, The churchyard on the neighboring hill Had not so many graves as now. When the May-morn, with hand of light, The clouds above her bosom drew, And o'er the blue, cold steeps of night Went treading out the stars like dew— One, whose dear joy it had been ours Two little summer times to keep, Folded his white hands from the flowers, And, softly smiling, fell asleep. And when the northern light streamed cold Across October's moaning blast, One whose brief tarriance was foretold All the sweet summer that was past, Meekly unlocked from her young arms The scarcely faded bridal crown, And in death's fearful night of storms The dim day of her life went down. While still beneath the golden hours, That like a roof the woods o'erspread, Among the few and faded flowers, Musing this idle rhyme I tread. Above yon reach of level mist Bright shines the cross-crowned spire afar, As in the sky's clear amethyst The splendor of some steadfast star. And still beneath its steady light The waves of time heave to and fro, From night to day, from day to night, As the dim seasons come and go. Some eager for ambition's strife, Some to love's banquet hurrying on, Like pilgrims on the hills of life We cross each other, and are gone. But though our lives are little drops, Welled from the infinite fount above, Our deaths are but the mystic stops In the great melody of love. III. Burying the basement of the skies October's mists hang dull and red, And with each wild gust's fall and rise, The yellow leaves are round me spread. 'Tis the third autumn, ay, so long, Since memory 'neath this very bough, Thrilled my sad lyre strings into song— What shall unlock their music now? Then sang I of a sweet hope changed, Of pale hands beckoning, glad health fled, Of hearts grown careless or estranged, Of friends, or living, lost, or dead. O living lost, forever lost, Your light still lingers, faint and far, As if an awful shadow crossed The bright disk of the morning star. Blow, autumn, in thy wildest wrath, Down from the northern woodlands, blow! Drift the last wild-flowers from my path— What care I for the summer now? Yet shrink I, trembling and afraid, From searching glances inward thrown; What deep foundation have I laid, For any joyance, not my own? While with my poor, unskilful hands, Half hopeful, half in vague alarm, Building up walls of shining sands That fell and faded with the storm, E'en now my bosom shakes with fear, Like the last leaflets of this bough, For through the silence I can hear, "Unprofitable servant, thou!" Yet have there been, there are to-day In spite of health, or hope's decline, Fountains of beauty sealed away From every mortal eye but mine. Even dreams have filled my soul with light, and on my way their beauty left, As if the darkness of the night Were by some planet's rising cleft. And peace hath in my heart been born, That shut from memory all life's ills, In walking with the blue-eyed morn Among the white mists of the hills. And joyous, I have heard the wails That heave the wild woods to and fro, When autumn's crown of crimson pales Beneath the winter's hand of snow. Once, leaving all its lovely mates, On yonder lightning-withered tree, That vainly for the springtime waits, A wild bird perched and sang for me. And listening to the clear sweet strain That came like sunshine o'er the day My forehead's hot and burning pain, Fell like a crown of thorns away. But shadows from the western height Are stretching to the valley low, For through the cloudy gates of night The day is passing, solemn, slow. While o'er yon blue and rocky steep The moon, half hidden in the mist, Waits for the loving wind to keep The promise of the twilight tryst— Come thou, whose meek blue eyes divine, What thou, and only thou canst see, I wait to put my hand in thine— What answer sendest thou to me? Ah! thoughts of one whom helpless blight Had pushed from all fair hope apart, Making it thenceforth hers to fight The stormy battles of the heart. Well, I have no complaint of wrath, And no reproaches for my doom; Spring cannot blossom in thy path So bright as I would have it bloom. IV. O sorrowful and faded years, Gathered away a time ago, How could your deaths the fount of tears Have troubled to an overflow? I muse upon the songs I made Beneath the maple's yellow limbs, When down the aisles of thin cold shade Sounded the wild birds' farewell hymns. But no sad spell my spirit binds As when, in days on which it broods, October hunted with the winds Along the reddening sunset woods. Alas, the seasons come and go, Brightly or dimly rise and set The days, but stir no fount of woe, Nor kindle hope, nor wake regret. I sit with the complaining night, And underneath the waning moon, As when the lilies large and white Lay round the forehead of the June. What time within a snowy grave Closed the blue eyes so heavenly dear, Darkness swept o'er me like a wave, And time has nothing that I fear. The golden wings of summer hours Make to my heart a dirge-like sound, The spring's sweet boughs of bridal flowers Lie bright across a smooth-heaped mound. What care I that I sing to-day Where sound not the old plaintive hymns, And where the mountains hide away The sunset maple's yellow limbs?