Flower-de-Luce.

Beautiful lily, dwelling by still rivers, Or solitary mere, Or where the sluggish meadow-brook delivers Its water to the weir! Thou laughest at the mill, the whirr and worry Of spindle and of loom, And the great wheel that toils amid the hurry And rushing of the flume. Born to the purple, born to joy and pleasance, Thou dost not toil nor spin, But makest glad and radiant with thy presence The meadow and the lin. The wind blows, and uplifts thy drooping banner, And round thee throng and run The rushes, the green yeomen of thy manor, The outlaws of the sun. The burnished dragon-fly is thine attendant, And tilts against the field, And down the listed sunbeam rides resplendent With steel-blue mail and shield. Thou art the Iris, fair among the fairest, Who, armed with golden rod And winged with the celestial azure, bearest The message of some God. Thou art the Muse, who far from crowded cities Hauntest the sylvan streams, Playing on pipes of reed the artless ditties That come to us as dreams. O flower-de-luce, bloom on, and let the river Linger to kiss thy feet! O flower of song, bloom on, and make for ever The world more fair and sweet.

I lay upon the headland height, and listened To the incessant sobbing of the sea In caverns under me, And watched the waves, that tossed and fled and glistened, Until the rolling meadows of amethyst Melted away in mist. Then suddenly, as one from sleep, I started; For round about me all the sunny capes Seemed peopled with the shapes Of those whom I had known in days departed, Apparelled in the loveliness which gleams On faces seen in dreams. A moment only, and the light and glory Faded away, and the disconsolate shore Stood lonely as before; And the wild roses of the promontory Around me shuddered in the wind, and shed Their petals of pale red. There was an old belief that in the embers Of all things their primordial form exists, And cunning alchemists Could re-create the rose with all its members From its own ashes, but without the bloom, Without the lost perfume. Ah me! what wonder-working, occult science Can from the ashes in our hearts once more The rose of youth restore? What craft of alchemy can bid defiance To time and change, and for a single hour Renew this phantom flower? “Oh, give me back,” I cried, “the vanished splendours, The breath of morn, and the exultant strife, When the swift stream of life Bounds over its rocky channel, and surrenders The pond with all its lilies, for the leap Into the unknown deep!” And the sea answered, with a lamentation, Like some old prophet wailing, and it said, “Alas! thy youth is dead! It breathes no more, its heart has no pulsation, In the dark places with the dead of old, It lies for ever cold!” Then said I, “From its consecrated cerements I will not drag this sacred dust again, Only to give me pain; But, still remembering all the lost endearments, Go on my way, like one who looks before, And turns to weep no more.” Into what land of harvests, what plantations Bright with autumnal foliage and the glow Of sunsets burning low; Beneath what midnight skies, whose constellations Light up the spacious avenues between This world and the unseen! Amid what friendly greetings and caresses, What households, though not alien, yet not mine, What bowers of rest divine; To what temptations in lone wildernesses, What famine of the heart, what pain and loss, The bearing of what cross! I do not know; nor will I vainly question Those pages of the mystic book which hold The story still untold, But without rash conjecture or suggestion Turn its last leaves in reverence and good heed, Until “The End” I read.

How beautiful it was, that one bright day In the long week of rain! Though all its splendour could not chase away The omnipresent pain. The lovely town was white with apple-blooms, And the great elms o’erhead, Dark shadows wove on their aërial looms, Shot through with golden thread. Across the meadows, by the grey old manse, The historic river flowed;— I was as one who wanders in a trance, Unconscious of his road. The faces of familiar friends seemed strange; Their voices I could hear, And yet the words they uttered seemed to change Their meaning to the ear. For the one face I looked for was not there, The one low voice was mute; Only an unseen presence filled the air, And baffled my pursuit. Now I look back, and meadow, manse, and stream, Dimly my thought defines; I only see—a dream within a dream— The hill-top hearsed with pines. I only hear above his place of rest Their tender undertone, The infinite longings of a troubled breast, The voice so like his own. There in seclusion and remote from men The wizard hand lies cold, Which at its topmost speed let fall the pen, And left the tale half told. Ah! who shall lift that wand of magic power, And the lost clue regain? The unfinished window in Aladdin’s tower, Unfinished must remain!

O curfew of the setting sun! O Bells of Lynn! O requiem of the dying day! O Bells of Lynn! From the dark belfries of yon cloud-cathedral wafted, Your sounds aërial seem to float, O Bells of Lynn! Borne on the evening wind across the crimson twilight, O’er land and sea they rise and fall, O Bells of Lynn! The fisherman in his boat, far out beyond the headland, Listens, and leisurely rows ashore, O Bells of Lynn! Over the shining sands the wandering cattle homeward Follow each other at your call, O Bells of Lynn! The distant lighthouse hears, and with his flaming signal Answers you, passing the watchword on, O Bells of Lynn! And down the darkening coast run the tumultuous surges, And clap their hands, and shout to you, O Bells of Lynn! Till from the shuddering sea, with your wild incantations, Ye summon up the spectral moon, O Bells of Lynn! And startled at the sight, like the weird woman of Endor, Ye cry aloud, and then are still, O Bells of Lynn!

Burn, O evening hearth, and waken Pleasant visions, as of old! Though the house by winds be shaken, Safe I keep this room of gold. Ah, no longer wizard Fancy Builds her castles in the air, Luring me by necromancy Up the never-ending stair. But, instead, she builds me bridges Over many a dark ravine, Where, beneath the gusty ridges, Cataracts dash and roar unseen. And I cross them, little heeding Blast of wind, or torrent’s roar, As I follow the receding Footsteps that have gone before. Nought avails the imploring gesture, Nought avails the cry of pain! When I touch the flying vesture, ’Tis the grey robe of the rain. Baffled I return, and leaning O’er the parapets of cloud, Watch the mist that intervening Wraps the valley in its shroud. And the sounds of life ascending Feebly, vaguely, meet the ear, Murmur of bells and voices blending With the rush of waters near. Well I know what there lies hidden, Every tower, and town, and farm, And again the land forbidden Reassumes its vanished charm. Well I know the secret places, And the nests in hedge and tree; At what doors are friendly faces, In what hearts a thought of me. Through the mist and darkness sinking, Blown by wind, and beaten by shower, Down I fling the thought I’m thinking, Down I toss this Alpine flower.

See, the fire is sinking low, Dusky red the embers glow, While above them still I cower,— While a moment more I linger, Though the clock, with lifted finger, Points beyond the midnight hour. Sings the blackened log a tune Learned in some forgotten June From a schoolboy in his play, When they both were young together, Heart of youth and summer weather Making all their holiday. And the night-wind rising, hark! How above there in the dark, In the midnight and the snow, Ever wilder, fiercer, grander, Like the trumpets of Iskander, All the noisy chimneys blow! Every quivering tongue of flame Seems to murmur some great name, Seems to say to me, “Aspire!” But the night-wind answers,—“Hollow Are the visions that you follow; Into darkness sinks your fire!” Then the flicker of the blaze Gleams on volumes of old days, Written by masters of the art, Loud through whose majestic pages Rolls the melody of ages, Throb the harp-strings of the heart. And again the tongues of flame Start exulting and exclaim,— “These are prophets, bards, and seers; In the horoscope of nations, Like ascendant constellations, They control the coming years.” But the night-wind cries,—“Despair! Those who walk with feet of air Leave no long-enduring marks; At God’s forges incandescent Mighty hammers beat incessant, These are but the flying sparks. “Dust are all the hands that wrought; Books are sepulchres of thought; The dead laurels of the dead Rustle for a moment only, Like the withered leaves in lonely Churchyards at some passing tread.” Suddenly the flame sinks down; Sink the rumours of renown; And alone the night-wind drear Clamours louder, wilder, vaguer, “’Tis the brand of Meleager Dying on the hearthstone here!” And I answer: “Though it be, Why should that discomfort me? No endeavour is in vain; Its reward is in the doing, And the rapture of pursuing Is the prize the vanquished gain.”

He is dead, the beautiful youth, The heart of honour, the tongue of truth,— He, the life and light of us all, Whose voice was blithe as a bugle call Whom all eyes followed with one consent, The cheer of whose laugh, and whose pleasant word, Hushed all murmurs of discontent. Only last night, as we rode along, Down the dark of the mountain gap, To visit the picquet-guard at the ford, Little dreaming of any mishap, He was humming the words of some old song: “Two red roses he had on his cap, And another he bore at the point of his sword.” Sudden and swift a whistling ball Came out of the wood, and the voice was still; Something I heard in the darkness fall, And for a moment my blood grew chill: I spake in a whisper, as he who speaks In a room when some one is lying dead; But he made no answer to what I said. We lifted him on his saddle again, And through the mire, and the mist, and the rain Carried him back to the silent camp, And laid him as if asleep on his bed; And I saw, by the light of the surgeon’s lamp, Two white roses upon his cheeks, And one just over his heart blood-red! And I saw in a vision how far and fleet That fatal bullet went speeding forth, Till it reached a town in the distant North, Till it reached a house in a sunny street, Till it reached a heart that ceased to beat, Without a murmur, without a cry; And a bell was tolled in that far-off town, For one who had passed from cross to crown,— And the neighbours wondered that she should die.

L’Académie en respect, Nonobstant l’incorrection, À la faveur du sujet, Ture-lure, N’y fera point de rature; Noël! ture-lure-lure. Gui-Barôzai. Quand les astres de Noël Brillaient, palpitaient au ciel, Six gaillards, et chacun ivre, Chantaient gaîment dans le givre, “Bons amis, Allons donc chez Agassiz!” Ces illustres Pélerins D’Outre Mer, adroits et fins, Se donnant des airs de prêtre, A l’envi se vantaient d’être, “Bons amis, De Jean Rudolphe Agassiz.” Œil-de-Perdrix, grand farceur, Sans reproche et sans pudeur, Dans son patois de Bourgogne, Bredouillait comme un ivrogne, “Bons amis, J’ai dansé chez Agassiz!” Verzenay le Champenois, Bon Français, point New-Yorquois, Mais des environs d’Avize, Fredonne, à mainte reprise, “Bons amis, J’ai chanté chez Agassiz!” A côté marchait un vieux Hidalgo, mais non mousseux; Dans le temps de Charlemagne, Fut son père Grand d’Espagne! “Bons amis, J’ai diné chez Agassiz!” Derrière eux un Bordelais, Gascon, s’il en fût jamais, Parfumé de poésie Riait, chantait plein de vie, “Bons amis, J’ai soupé chez Agassiz!” Avec ce beau cadet roux, Bras dessus et bras dessous, Mine altière et couleur terne, Vint le Sire de Sauterne; “Bon amis, J’ai couché chez Agassiz!” Mais le dernier de ces preux Était un pauvre Chartreux, Qui disait, d’un ton robuste, “Bénédictions sur le Juste! Bon amis, Bénissons Père Agassiz!” Ils arrivent trois à trois, Montent l’escalier de bois Clopin-clopant! quel gendarme Peut permettre ce vacarme, Bons amis, À la porte d’Agassiz! “Ouvrez donc, mon bon Seigneur, Ouvrez vite et n’ayez peur; Ouvrez, ouvrez, car nous sommes Gens de bien et gentilshommes, Bons amis, De la famille Agassiz.” Chut, ganaches! taisez-vous! C’en est trop de vos glouglous Épargnez aux Philosophes Vos abominables strophes! Bons amis, Respectez mon Agassiz!

I heard the bells on Christmas Day Their old, familiar carols play, And wild and sweet The words repeat Of peace on earth, good-will to men! And thought how, as the day had come, The belfries of all Christendom Had rolled along The unbroken song Of peace on earth, good-will to men! Till, ringing, singing on its way, The world revolved from night to day, A voice, a chime, A chant sublime Of peace on earth, good-will to men! Then from each black, accursèd mouth The cannon thundered in the South, And with the sound The carols drowned Of peace on earth, good-will to men! It was as if an earthquake rent The hearthstones of a continent, And made forlorn The households born Of peace on earth, good-will to men! And in despair I bowed my head; “There is no peace on earth,” I said; “For hate is strong, And mocks the song Of peace on earth, good-will to men!” Then pealed the bells more loud and deep: “God is not dead! nor doth he sleep! The Wrong shall fail, The Right prevail, With peace on earth, good-will to men!”