My babe! my tiny babe! my only babe! Behold the bud is gone! the thorns remain! My lamp hath fallen from its niche—ah, me! Earth drinks the fragrant flame, and I am left Forever and forever in the dark!

My babe! my babe! my own and only babe! Where art thou now? If somewhere in the sky An angel hold thee in his radiant arms, I challenge him to clasp thy tender form With half the fervor of a mother's love!

Forgive me, Lord! forgive my reckless grief! Forgive me that this rebel, selfish heart Would almost make me jealous for my child, Though thy own lap enthroned him. Lord, thou hast So many such! I have—ah! had but one!

O yet once more, my babe, to hear thy cry! O yet once more, my babe, to see thy smile! O yet once more to feel against my breast Those cool, soft hands, that warm, wet, eager mouth, With the sweet sharpness of its budding pearls!

But it must never, never more be mine To mark the growing meaning in thine eyes, To watch thy soul unfolding leaf by leaf, Or catch, with ever fresh surprise and joy, Thy dawning recognitions of the world.

Three different shadows of thyself, my babe, Change with each other while I weep. The first, The sweetest, yet the not least fraught with pain, Clings like my living boy around my neck, Or purrs and murmurs softly at my feet!

Another is a little mound of earth; That comes the oftenest, darling! In my dreams, I see it beaten by the midnight rain, Or chilled beneath the moon. Ah! what a couch For that which I have shielded from a breath That would not stir the violets on thy grave!

The third, my precious babe! the third, O Lord! Is a fair cherub face beyond the stars, Wearing the roses of a mystic bliss, Yet sometimes not unsaddened by a glance Turned earthward on a mother in her woe!

This is the vision, Lord, that I would keep Before me always. But, alas! as yet, It is the dimmest and the rarest, too! O touch my sight, or break the cloudy bars That hide it, lest I madden where I kneel!



Our Willie



'T was merry Christmas when he came, Our little boy beneath the sod; And brighter burned the Christmas flame, And merrier sped the Christmas game, Because within the house there lay A shape as tiny as a fay— The Christmas gift of God! In wreaths and garlands on the walls The holly hung its ruby balls, The mistletoe its pearls; And a Christmas tree's fantastic fruits Woke laughter like a choir of flutes From happy boys and girls. For the mirth, which else had swelled as shrill As a school let loose to its errant will, Was softened by the thought, That in a dim hushed room above A mother's pains in a mother's love Were only just forgot. The jest, the tale, the toast, the glee, All took a sober tone; We spoke of the babe upstairs, as we Held festival for him alone. When the bells rang in the Christmas morn, It scarcely seemed a sin to say That they rang because that babe was born, Not less than for the sacred day. Ah! Christ forgive us for the crime Which drowned the memories of the time In a merely mortal bliss! We owned the error when the mirth Of another Christmas lit the hearth Of every home but this. When, in that lonely burial-ground, With every Christmas sight and sound Removed or shunned, we kept A mournful Christmas by the mound Where little Willie slept!

Ah, hapless mother! darling wife! I might say nothing more, And the dull cold world would hold The story of that precious life As amply told! Shall we, shall you and I, before That world's unsympathetic eyes Lay other relics from our store Of tender memories? What could it know of the joy and love That throbbed and smiled and wept above An unresponsive thing? And who could share the ecstatic thrill With which we watched the upturned bill Of our bird at its living spring? Shall we tell how in the time gone by, Beneath all changes of the sky, And in an ordinary home Amid the city's din, Life was to us a crystal dome, Our babe the flame therein? Ah! this were jargon on the mart; And though some gentle friend, And many and many a suffering heart, Would weep and comprehend, Yet even these might fail to see What we saw daily in the child— Not the mere creature undefiled, But the winged cherub soon to be. That wandering hand which seemed to reach At angel finger-tips, And that murmur like a mystic speech Upon the rosy lips, That something in the serious face Holier than even its infant grace, And that rapt gaze on empty space, Which made us, half believing, say, "Ah, little wide-eyed seer! who knows But that for you this chamber glows With stately shapes and solemn shows?" Which touched us, too, with vague alarms, Lest in the circle of our arms We held a being less akin To his parents in a world of sin Than to beings not of clay: How could we speak in human phrase, Of such scarce earthly traits and ways, What would not seem A doting dream, In the creed of these sordid days? No! let us keep Deep, deep, In sorrowing heart and aching brain, This story hidden with the pain, Which since that blue October night When Willie vanished from our sight, Must haunt us even in our sleep. In the gloom of the chamber where he died, And by that grave which, through our care, From Yule to Yule of every year, Is made like Spring to bloom; And where, at times, we catch the sigh As of an angel floating nigh, Who longs but has not power to tell That in that violet-shrouded cell Lies nothing better than the shell Which he had cast aside— By that sweet grave, in that dark room, We may weave at will for each other's ear, Of that life, and that love, and that early doom, The tale which is shadowed here: To us alone it will always be As fresh as our own misery; But enough, alas! for the world is said, In the brief "Here lieth" of the dead!



Address Delivered at the Opening of the New Theatre at Richmond

A Prize Poem



A fairy ring Drawn in the crimson of a battle-plain— From whose weird circle every loathsome thing And sight and sound of pain Are banished, while about it in the air, And from the ground, and from the low-hung skies, Throng, in a vision fair As ever lit a prophet's dying eyes, Gleams of that unseen world That lies about us, rainbow-tinted shapes With starry wings unfurled, Poised for a moment on such airy capes As pierce the golden foam Of sunset's silent main— Would image what in this enchanted dome, Amid the night of war and death In which the armed city draws its breath, We have built up! For though no wizard wand or magic cup The spell hath wrought, Within this charmed fane, we ope the gates Of that divinest Fairy-land, Where under loftier fates Than rule the vulgar earth on which we stand, Move the bright creatures of the realm of thought. Shut for one happy evening from the flood That roars around us, here you may behold— As if a desert way Could blossom and unfold A garden fresh with May— Substantialized in breathing flesh and blood, Souls that upon the poet's page Have lived from age to age, And yet have never donned this mortal clay. A golden strand Shall sometimes spread before you like the isle Where fair Miranda's smile Met the sweet stranger whom the father's art Had led unto her heart, Which, like a bud that waited for the light, Burst into bloom at sight! Love shall grow softer in each maiden's eyes As Juliet leans her cheek upon her hand, And prattles to the night. Anon, a reverend form, With tattered robe and forehead bare, That challenge all the torments of the air, Goes by! And the pent feelings choke in one long sigh, While, as the mimic thunder rolls, you hear The noble wreck of Lear Reproach like things of life the ancient skies, And commune with the storm! Lo! next a dim and silent chamber where, Wrapt in glad dreams in which, perchance, the Moor Tells his strange story o'er, The gentle Desdemona chastely lies, Unconscious of the loving murderer nigh. Then through a hush like death Stalks Denmark's mailed ghost! And Hamlet enters with that thoughtful breath Which is the trumpet to a countless host Of reasons, but which wakes no deed from sleep; For while it calls to strife, He pauses on the very brink of fact To toy as with the shadow of an act, And utter those wise saws that cut so deep Into the core of life!

Nor shall be wanting many a scene Where forms of more familiar mien, Moving through lowlier pathways, shall present The world of every day, Such as it whirls along the busy quay, Or sits beneath a rustic orchard wall, Or floats about a fashion-freighted hall, Or toils in attics dark the night away. Love, hate, grief, joy, gain, glory, shame, shall meet, As in the round wherein our lives are pent; Chance for a while shall seem to reign, While Goodness roves like Guilt about the street, And Guilt looks innocent. But all at last shall vindicate the right, Crime shall be meted with its proper pain, Motes shall be taken from the doubter's sight, And Fortune's general justice rendered plain. Of honest laughter there shall be no dearth, Wit shall shake hands with humor grave and sweet, Our wisdom shall not be too wise for mirth, Nor kindred follies want a fool to greet. As sometimes from the meanest spot of earth A sudden beauty unexpected starts, So you shall find some germs of hidden worth Within the vilest hearts; And now and then, when in those moods that turn To the cold Muse that whips a fault with sneers, You shall, perchance, be strangely touched to learn You've struck a spring of tears!

But while we lead you thus from change to change, Shall we not find within our ample range Some type to elevate a people's heart— Some hero who shall teach a hero's part In this distracted time? Rise from thy sleep of ages, noble Tell! And, with the Alpine thunders of thy voice, As if across the billows unenthralled Thy Alps unto the Alleghanies called, Bid Liberty rejoice! Proclaim upon this trans-Atlantic strand The deeds which, more than their own awful mien, Make every crag of Switzerland sublime! And say to those whose feeble souls would lean, Not on themselves, but on some outstretched hand, That once a single mind sufficed to quell The malice of a tyrant; let them know That each may crowd in every well-aimed blow, Not the poor strength alone of arm and brand, But the whole spirit of a mighty land!

Bid Liberty rejoice! Aye, though its day Be far or near, these clouds shall yet be red With the large promise of the coming ray. Meanwhile, with that calm courage which can smile Amid the terrors of the wildest fray, Let us among the charms of Art awhile Fleet the deep gloom away; Nor yet forget that on each hand and head Rest the dear rights for which we fight and pray.



A Vision of Poesy



Part I

I

In a far country, and a distant age, Ere sprites and fays had bade farewell to earth, A boy was born of humble parentage; The stars that shone upon his lonely birth Did seem to promise sovereignty and fame— Yet no tradition hath preserved his name.

II

'T is said that on the night when he was born, A beauteous shape swept slowly through the room; Its eyes broke on the infant like a morn, And his cheek brightened like a rose in bloom; But as it passed away there followed after A sigh of pain, and sounds of elvish laughter.

III

And so his parents deemed him to be blest Beyond the lot of mortals; they were poor As the most timid bird that stored its nest With the stray gleanings at their cottage-door: Yet they contrived to rear their little dove, And he repaid them with the tenderest love.

IV

The child was very beautiful in sooth, And as he waxed in years grew lovelier still; On his fair brow the aureole of truth Beamed, and the purest maidens, with a thrill, Looked in his eyes, and from their heaven of blue Saw thoughts like sinless Angels peering through.

V

Need there was none of censure or of praise To mould him to the kind parental hand; Yet there was ever something in his ways, Which those about him could not understand; A self-withdrawn and independent bliss, Beside the father's love, the mother's kiss.

VI

For oft, when he believed himself alone, They caught brief snatches of mysterious rhymes, Which he would murmur in an undertone, Like a pleased bee's in summer; and at times A strange far look would come into his eyes, As if he saw a vision in the skies.

VII

And he upon a simple leaf would pore As if its very texture unto him Had some deep meaning; sometimes by the door, From noon until a summer-day grew dim, He lay and watched the clouds; and to his thought Night with her stars but fitful slumbers brought.

VIII

In the long hours of twilight, when the breeze Talked in low tones along the woodland rills, Or the loud North its stormy minstrelsies Blent with wild noises from the distant hills, The boy—his rosy hand against his ear Curved like a sea-shell—hushed as some rapt seer,

IX

Followed the sounds, and ever and again, As the wind came and went, in storm or play, He seemed to hearken as to some far strain Of mingled voices calling him away; And they who watched him held their breath to trace The still and fixed attention in his face.

X

Once, on a cold and loud-voiced winter night, The three were seated by their cottage-fire— The mother watching by its flickering light The wakeful urchin, and the dozing sire; There was a brief, quick motion like a bird's, And the boy's thought thus rippled into words:

XI

"O mother! thou hast taught me many things, But none I think more beautiful than speech— A nobler power than even those broad wings I used to pray for, when I longed to reach That distant peak which on our vale looks down, And wears the star of evening for a crown.

XII

"But, mother, while our human words are rife To us with meaning, other sounds there be Which seem, and are, the language of a life Around, yet unlike ours: winds talk; the sea Murmurs articulately, and the sky Listens, and answers, though inaudibly.

XIII

"By stream and spring, in glades and woodlands lone, Beside our very cot I've gathered flowers Inscribed with signs and characters unknown; But the frail scrolls still baffle all my powers: What is this language and where is the key That opes its weird and wondrous mystery?

XIV

"The forests know it, and the mountains know, And it is written in the sunset's dyes; A revelation to the world below Is daily going on before our eyes; And, but for sinful thoughts, I do not doubt That we could spell the thrilling secret out.

XV

"O mother! somewhere on this lovely earth I lived, and understood that mystic tongue, But, for some reason, to my second birth Only the dullest memories have clung, Like that fair tree that even while blossoming Keeps the dead berries of a former spring.

XVI

"Who shall put life in these?—my nightly dreams Some teacher of supernal powers foretell; A fair and stately shape appears, which seems Bright with all truth; and once, in a dark dell Within the forest, unto me there came A voice that must be hers, which called my name."

XVII

Puzzled and frightened, wondering more and more, The mother heard, but did not comprehend; "So early dallying with forbidden lore! Oh, what will chance, and wherein will it end? My child! my child!" she caught him to her breast, "Oh, let me kiss these wildering thoughts to rest!

XVIII

"They cannot come from God, who freely gives All that we need to have, or ought to know; Beware, my son! some evil influence strives To grieve thy parents, and to work thee woe; Alas! the vision I misunderstood! It could not be an angel fair and good."

XIX

And then, in low and tremulous tones, she told The story of his birth-night; the boy's eyes, As the wild tale went on, were bright and bold, With a weird look that did not seem surprise: "Perhaps," he said, "this lady and her elves Will one day come, and take me to themselves."

XX

"And wouldst thou leave us?" "Dearest mother, no! Hush! I will check these thoughts that give thee pain; Or, if they flow, as they perchance must flow, At least I will not utter them again; Hark! didst thou hear a voice like many streams? Mother! it is the spirit of my dreams!"

XXI

Thenceforth, whatever impulse stirred below, In the deep heart beneath that childish breast, Those lips were sealed, and though the eye would glow, Yet the brow wore an air of perfect rest; Cheerful, content, with calm though strong control He shut the temple-portals of his soul.

XXII

And when too restlessly the mighty throng Of fancies woke within his teeming mind, All silently they formed in glorious song, And floated off unheard, and undivined, Perchance not lost—with many a voiceless prayer They reached the sky, and found some record there.

XXIII

Softly and swiftly sped the quiet days; The thoughtful boy has blossomed into youth, And still no maiden would have feared his gaze, And still his brow was noble with the truth: Yet, though he masks the pain with pious art, There burns a restless fever in his heart.

XXIV

A childish dream is now a deathless need Which drives him to far hills and distant wilds; The solemn faith and fervor of his creed Bold as a martyr's, simple as a child's; The eagle knew him as she knew the blast, And the deer did not flee him as he passed.

XXV

But gentle even in his wildest mood, Always, and most, he loved the bluest weather, And in some soft and sunny solitude Couched like a milder sunshine on the heather, He communed with the winds, and with the birds, As if they might have answered him in words.

XXVI

Deep buried in the forest was a nook Remote and quiet as its quiet skies; He knew it, sought it, loved it as a book Full of his own sweet thoughts and memories; Dark oaks and fluted chestnuts gathering round, Pillared and greenly domed a sloping mound.

XXVII

Whereof—white, purple, azure, golden, red, Confused like hues of sunset—the wild flowers Wove a rich dais; through crosslights overhead Glanced the clear sunshine, fell the fruitful showers, And here the shyest bird would fold her wings; Here fled the fairest and the gentlest things.

XXVIII

Thither, one night of mist and moonlight, came The youth, with nothing deeper in his thoughts Than to behold beneath the silver flame New aspects of his fair and favorite spot; A single ray attained the ground, and shed Just light enough to guide the wanderer's tread.

XXIX

And high and hushed arose the stately trees, Yet shut within themselves, like dungeons, where Lay fettered all the secrets of the breeze; Silent, but not as slumbering, all things there Wore to the youth's aroused imagination An air of deep and solemn expectation.

XXX

"Hath Heaven," the youth exclaimed, "a sweeter spot, Or Earth another like it?—yet even here The old mystery dwells! and though I read it not, Here most I hope—it is, or seems so near; So many hints come to me, but, alas! I cannot grasp the shadows as they pass.

XXXI

"Here, from the very turf beneath me, I Catch, but just catch, I know not what faint sound, And darkly guess that from yon silent sky Float starry emanations to the ground; These ears are deaf, these human eyes are blind, I want a purer heart, a subtler mind.

XXXII

"Sometimes—could it be fancy?—I have felt The presence of a spirit who might speak; As down in lowly reverence I knelt, Its very breath hath kissed my burning cheek; But I in vain have hushed my own to hear A wing or whisper stir the silent air!"

XXXIII

Is not the breeze articulate? Hark! Oh, hark! A distant murmur, like a voice of floods; And onward sweeping slowly through the dark, Bursts like a call the night-wind from the woods! Low bow the flowers, the trees fling loose their dreams, And through the waving roof a fresher moonlight streams.

XXXIV

"Mortal!"—the word crept slowly round the place As if that wind had breathed it! From no star Streams that soft lustre on the dreamer's face. Again a hushing calm! while faint and far The breeze goes calling onward through the night. Dear God! what vision chains that wide-strained sight?

XXXV

Over the grass and flowers, and up the slope Glides a white cloud of mist, self-moved and slow, That, pausing at the hillock's moonlit cope, Swayed like a flame of silver; from below The breathless youth with beating heart beholds A mystic motion in its argent folds.

XXXVI

Yet his young soul is bold, and hope grows warm, As flashing through that cloud of shadowy crape, With sweep of robes, and then a gleaming arm, Slowly developing, at last took shape A face and form unutterably bright, That cast a golden glamour on the night.

XXXVII

But for the glory round it it would seem Almost a mortal maiden; and the boy, Unto whom love was yet an innocent dream, Shivered and crimsoned with an unknown joy; As to the young Spring bounds the passionate South, He could have clasped and kissed her mouth to mouth.

XXXVIII

Yet something checked, that was and was not dread, Till in a low sweet voice the maiden spake; She was the Fairy of his dreams, she said, And loved him simply for his human sake; And that in heaven, wherefrom she took her birth, They called her Poesy, the angel of the earth.

XXXIX

"And ever since that immemorial hour, When the glad morning-stars together sung, My task hath been, beneath a mightier Power, To keep the world forever fresh and young; I give it not its fruitage and its green, But clothe it with a glory all unseen.

XL

"I sow the germ which buds in human art, And, with my sister, Science, I explore With light the dark recesses of the heart, And nerve the will, and teach the wish to soar; I touch with grace the body's meanest clay, While noble souls are nobler for my sway.

XLI

"Before my power the kings of earth have bowed; I am the voice of Freedom, and the sword Leaps from its scabbard when I call aloud; Wherever life in sacrifice is poured, Wherever martyrs die or patriots bleed, I weave the chaplet and award the meed.

XLII

"Where Passion stoops, or strays, is cold, or dead, I lift from error, or to action thrill! Or if it rage too madly in its bed, The tempest hushes at my 'Peace! be still!' I know how far its tides should sink or swell, And they obey my sceptre and my spell.

XLIII

"All lovely things, and gentle—the sweet laugh Of children, Girlhood's kiss, and Friendship's clasp, The boy that sporteth with the old man's staff, The baby, and the breast its fingers grasp— All that exalts the grounds of happiness, All griefs that hallow, and all joys that bless,

XLIV

"To me are sacred; at my holy shrine Love breathes its latest dreams, its earliest hints; I turn life's tasteless waters into wine, And flush them through and through with purple tints. Wherever Earth is fair, and Heaven looks down, I rear my altars, and I wear my crown.

XLV

"I am the unseen spirit thou hast sought, I woke those shadowy questionings that vex Thy young mind, lost in its own cloud of thought, And rouse the soul they trouble and perplex; I filled thy days with visions, and thy nights Blessed with all sweetest sounds and fairy sights.

XLVI

"Not here, not in this world, may I disclose The mysteries in which this life is hearsed; Some doubts there be that, with some earthly woes, By Death alone shall wholly be dispersed; Yet on those very doubts from this low sod Thy soul shall pass beyond the stars to God.

XLVII

"And so to knowledge, climbing grade by grade, Thou shalt attain whatever mortals can, And what thou mayst discover by my aid Thou shalt translate unto thy brother man; And men shall bless the power that flings a ray Into their night from thy diviner day.

XLVIII

"For, from thy lofty height, thy words shall fall Upon their spirits like bright cataracts That front a sunrise; thou shalt hear them call Amid their endless waste of arid facts, As wearily they plod their way along, Upon the rhythmic zephyrs of thy song.

XLIX

"All this is in thy reach, but much depends Upon thyself—thy future I await; I give the genius, point the proper ends, But the true bard is his own only Fate; Into thy soul my soul have I infused; Take care thy lofty powers be wisely used.

L

"The Poet owes a high and holy debt, Which, if he feel, he craves not to be heard For the poor boon of praise, or place, nor yet Does the mere joy of song, as with the bird Of many voices, prompt the choral lay That cheers that gentle pilgrim on his way.

LI

"Nor may he always sweep the passionate lyre, Which is his heart, only for such relief As an impatient spirit may desire, Lest, from the grave which hides a private grief, The spells of song call up some pallid wraith To blast or ban a mortal hope or faith.

LII

"Yet over his deep soul, with all its crowd Of varying hopes and fears, he still must brood; As from its azure height a tranquil cloud Watches its own bright changes in the flood; Self-reading, not self-loving—they are twain— And sounding, while he mourns, the depths of pain.

LIII

"Thus shall his songs attain the common breast, Dyed in his own life's blood, the sign and seal, Even as the thorns which are the martyr's crest, That do attest his office, and appeal Unto the universal human heart In sanction of his mission and his art.

LIV

"Much yet remains unsaid—pure must he be; Oh, blessed are the pure! for they shall hear Where others hear not, see where others see With a dazed vision: who have drawn most near My shrine, have ever brought a spirit cased And mailed in a body clean and chaste.

LV

"The Poet to the whole wide world belongs, Even as the teacher is the child's—I said No selfish aim should ever mar his songs, But self wears many guises; men may wed Self in another, and the soul may be Self to its centre, all unconsciously.

LVI

"And therefore must the Poet watch, lest he, In the dark struggle of this life, should take Stains which he might not notice; he must flee Falsehood, however winsome, and forsake All for the Truth, assured that Truth alone Is Beauty, and can make him all my own.

LVII

"And he must be as armed warrior strong, And he must be as gentle as a girl, And he must front, and sometimes suffer wrong, With brow unbent, and lip untaught to curl; For wrath, and scorn, and pride, however just, Fill the clear spirit's eyes with earthly dust."

————

The story came to me—it recks not whence— In fragments. Oh! if I could tell it all, If human speech indeed could tell it all, 'T were not a whit less wondrous, than if I Should find, untouched in leaf and stem, and bright, As when it bloomed three thousand years ago, On some Idalian slope, a perfect rose. Alas! a leaf or two, and they perchance Scarce worth the hiving, one or two dead leaves Are the sole harvest of a summer's toil. There was a moment, ne'er to be recalled, When to the Poet's hope within my heart, They wore a tint like life's, but in my hand, I know not why, they withered. I have heard Somewhere, of some dead monarch, from the tomb, Where he had slept a century and more, Brought forth, that when the coffin was laid bare, Albeit the body in its mouldering robes Was fleshless, yet one feature still remained Perfect, or perfect seemed at least; the eyes Gleamed for a second on the startled crowd, And then went out in ashes. Even thus The story, when I drew it from the grave Where it had lain so long, did seem, I thought, Not wholly lifeless; but even while I gazed To fix its features on my heart, and called The world to wonder with me, lo! it proved I looked upon a corpse! What further fell In that lone forest nook, how much was taught, How much was only hinted, what the youth Promised, if promise were required, to do Or strive for, what the gifts he bore away— Or added powers or blessings—how at last, The vision ended and he sought his home, How lived there, and how long, and when he passed Into the busy world to seek his fate, I know not, and if any ever knew, The tale hath perished from the earth; for here The slender thread on which my song is strung Breaks off, and many after years of life Are lost to sight, the life to reappear Only towards its close—as of a dream We catch the end and opening, but forget That which had joined them in the dreaming brain; Or as a mountain with a belt of mist That shows his base, and far above, a peak With a blue plume of pines. But turn the page And read the only hints that yet remain.



Part II

I

It is not winter yet, but that sweet time In autumn when the first cool days are past; A week ago, the leaves were hoar with rime, And some have dropped before the North wind's blast; But the mild hours are back, and at mid-noon, The day hath all the genial warmth of June.

II

What slender form lies stretched along the mound? Can it be his, the Wanderer's, with that brow Gray in its prime, those eyes that wander round Listlessly, with a jaded glance that now Seems to see nothing where it rests, and then Pores on each trivial object in its ken?

III

See how a gentle maid's wan fingers clasp The last fond love-notes of some faithless hand; Thus, with a transient interest, his weak grasp Holds a few leaves as when of old he scanned The meaning in their gold and crimson streaks; But the sweet dream has vanished! hush! he speaks!

IV

"Once more, once more, after long pain and toil, And yet not long, if I should count by years, I breathe my native air, and tread the soil I trod in childhood; if I shed no tears, No happy tears, 't is that their fount is dry, And joy that cannot weep must sigh, must sigh.

V

"These leaves, my boyish books in days of yore, When, as the weeks sped by, I seemed to stand Ever upon the brink of some wild lore— These leaves shall make my bed, and—for the hand Of God is on me, chilling brain and breath— I shall not ask a softer couch in death.

VI

"Here was it that I saw, or dreamed I saw, I know not which, that shape of love and light. Spirit of Song! have I not owned thy law? Have I not taught, or striven to teach the right, And kept my heart as clean, my life as sweet, As mortals may, when mortals mortals meet?

VII

"Thou know'st how I went forth, my youthful breast On fire with thee, amid the paths of men; Once in my wanderings, my lone footsteps pressed A mountain forest; in a sombre glen, Down which its thundrous boom a cataract flung, A little bird, unheeded, built and sung.

VIII

"So fell my voice amid the whirl and rush Of human passions; if unto my art Sorrow hath sometimes owed a gentler gush, I know it not; if any Poet-heart Hath kindled at my songs its light divine, I know it not; no ray came back to mine.

IX

"Alone in crowds, once more I sought to make Of senseless things my friends; the clouds that burn Above the sunset, and the flowers that shake Their odors in the wind—these would not turn Their faces from me; far from cities, I Forgot the scornful world that passed me by.

X

"Yet even the world's cold slights I might have borne, Nor fled, though sorrowing; but I shrank at last When one sweet face, too sweet, I thought, for scorn, Looked scornfully upon me; then I passed From all that youth had dreamed or manhood planned, Into the self that none would understand.

XI

"She was—I never wronged her womanhood By crowning it with praises not her own— She was all earth's, and earth's, too, in that mood When she brings forth her fairest; I atone Now, in this fading brow and failing frame, That such a soul such soul as mine could tame.

XII

"Clay to its kindred clay! I loved, in sooth, Too deeply and too purely to be blest; With something more of lust and less of truth She would have sunk all blushes on my breast; And—but I must not blame her—in my ear Death whispers! and the end, thank God! draws near!"

XIII

Hist! on the perfect silence of the place Comes and dies off a sound like far-off rain With voices mingled; on the Poet's face A shadow, where no shadow should have lain, Falls the next moment: nothing meets his sight, Yet something moves betwixt him and the light.

XIV

And a voice murmurs, "Wonder not, but hear! ME to behold again thou need'st not seek; Yet by the dim-felt influence on the air, And by the mystic shadow on thy cheek, Know, though thou mayst not touch with fleshly hands, The genius of thy life beside thee stands!

XV

"Unto no fault, O weary-hearted one! Unto no fault of man's thou ow'st thy fate; All human hearts that beat this earth upon, All human thoughts and human passions wait Upon the genuine bard, to him belong, And help in their own way the Poet's song.

XVI

"How blame the world? for the world hast thou wrought? Or wast thou but as one who aims to fling The weight of some unutterable thought Down like a burden? what from questioning Too subtly thy own spirit, and to speech But half subduing themes beyond the reach

XVII

"Of mortal reason; what from living much In that dark world of shadows, where the soul Wanders bewildered, striving still to clutch Yet never clutching once, a shadowy goal, Which always flies, and while it flies seems near, Thy songs were riddles hard to mortal ear.

XVIII

"This was the hidden selfishness that marred Thy teachings ever; this the false key-note That on such souls as might have loved thee jarred Like an unearthly language; thou didst float On a strange water; those who stood on land Gazed, but they could not leave their beaten strand.

XIX

"Your elements were different, and apart— The world's and thine—and even in those intense And watchful broodings o'er thy inmost heart, It was thy own peculiar difference That thou didst seek; nor didst thou care to find Aught that would bring thee nearer to thy kind.

XX

"Not thus the Poet, who in blood and brain Would represent his race and speak for all, Weaves the bright woof of that impassioned strain Which drapes, as if for some high festival Of pure delights—whence few of human birth May rightly be shut out—the common earth.

XXI

"As the same law that moulds a planet, rounds A drop of dew, so the great Poet spheres Worlds in himself; no selfish limit bounds A sympathy that folds all characters, All ranks, all passions, and all life almost In its wide circle. Like some noble host,

XXII

"He spreads the riches of his soul, and bids Partake who will. Age has its saws of truth, And love is for the maiden's drooping lids, And words of passion for the earnest youth; Wisdom for all; and when it seeks relief, Tears, and their solace for the heart of grief.

XXIII

"Nor less on him than thee the mysteries Within him and about him ever weigh— The meanings in the stars, and in the breeze, All the weird wonders of the common day, Truths that the merest point removes from reach, And thoughts that pause upon the brink of speech;

XXIV

"But on the surface of his song these lie As shadows, not as darkness; and alway, Even though it breathe the secrets of the sky, There is a human purpose in the lay; Thus some tall fir that whispers to the stars Shields at its base a cotter's lattice-bars.

XXV

"Even such my Poet! for thou still art mine! Thou mightst have been, and now have calmly died, A priest, and not a victim at the shrine; Alas! yet was it all thy fault? I chide, Perchance, myself within thee, and the fate To which thy power was solely consecrate.

XXVI

"Thy life hath not been wholly without use, Albeit that use is partly hidden now; In thy unmingled scorn of any truce With this world's specious falsehoods, often thou Hast uttered, through some all unworldly song, Truths that for man might else have slumbered long.

XXVII

"And these not always vainly on the crowd Have fallen; some are cherished now, and some, In mystic phrases wrapped as in a shroud, Wait the diviner, who as yet is dumb Upon the breast of God—the gate of birth Closed on a dreamless ignorance of earth.

XXVIII

"And therefore, though thy name shall pass away, Even as a cloud that hath wept all its showers, Yet as that cloud shall live again one day In the glad grass, and in the happy flowers, So in thy thoughts, though clothed in sweeter rhymes, Thy life shall bear its flowers in future times."



The Past



To-day's most trivial act may hold the seed Of future fruitfulness, or future dearth; Oh, cherish always every word and deed! The simplest record of thyself hath worth.

If thou hast ever slighted one old thought, Beware lest Grief enforce the truth at last; The time must come wherein thou shalt be taught The value and the beauty of the Past.

Not merely as a warner and a guide, "A voice behind thee," sounding to the strife; But something never to be put aside, A part and parcel of thy present life.

Not as a distant and a darkened sky, Through which the stars peep, and the moon-beams glow; But a surrounding atmosphere, whereby We live and breathe, sustained in pain and woe.

A shadowy land, where joy and sorrow kiss, Each still to each corrective and relief, Where dim delights are brightened into bliss, And nothing wholly perishes but Grief.

Ah, me!—not dies—no more than spirit dies; But in a change like death is clothed with wings; A serious angel, with entranced eyes, Looking to far-off and celestial things.



Dreams



Who first said "false as dreams"? Not one who saw Into the wild and wondrous world they sway; No thinker who hath read their mystic law; No Poet who hath weaved them in his lay.

Else had he known that through the human breast Cross and recross a thousand fleeting gleams, That, passed unnoticed in the day's unrest, Come out at night, like stars, in shining dreams;

That minds too busy or too dull to mark The dim suggestion of the noisier hours, By dreams in the deep silence of the dark, Are roused at midnight with their folded powers.

Like that old fount beneath Dodona's oaks, That, dry and voiceless in the garish noon, When the calm night arose with modest looks, Caught with full wave the sparkle of the moon.

If, now and then, a ghastly shape glide in, And fright us with its horrid gloom or glee, It is the ghost of some forgotten sin We failed to exorcise on bended knee.

And that sweet face which only yesternight Came to thy solace, dreamer (didst thou read The blessing in its eyes of tearful light?), Was but the spirit of some gentle deed.

Each has its lesson; for our dreams in sooth, Come they in shape of demons, gods, or elves, Are allegories with deep hearts of truth That tell us solemn secrets of ourselves.



The Arctic Voyager



Shall I desist, twice baffled? Once by land, And once by sea, I fought and strove with storms, All shades of danger, tides, and weary calms; Head-currents, cold and famine, savage beasts, And men more savage; all the while my face Looked northward toward the pole; if mortal strength Could have sustained me, I had never turned Till I had seen the star which never sets Freeze in the Arctic zenith. That I failed To solve the mysteries of the ice-bound world, Was not because I faltered in the quest. Witness those pathless forests which conceal The bones of perished comrades, that long march, Blood-tracked o'er flint and snow, and one dread night By Athabasca, when a cherished life Flowed to give life to others. This, and worse, I suffered—let it pass—it has not tamed My spirit nor the faith which was my strength. Despite of waning years, despite the world Which doubts, the few who dare, I purpose now— A purpose long and thoughtfully resolved, Through all its grounds of reasonable hope— To seek beyond the ice which guards the Pole, A sea of open water; for I hold, Not without proofs, that such a sea exists, And may be reached, though since this earth was made No keel hath ploughed it, and to mortal ear No wind hath told its secrets.... With this tide I sail; if all be well, this very moon Shall see my ship beyond the southern cape Of Greenland, and far up the bay through which, With diamond spire and gorgeous pinnacle, The fleets of winter pass to warmer seas. Whether, my hardy shipmates! we shall reach Our bourne, and come with tales of wonder back, Or whether we shall lose the precious time, Locked in thick ice, or whether some strange fate Shall end us all, I know not; but I know A lofty hope, if earnestly pursued, Is its own crown, and never in this life Is labor wholly fruitless. In this faith I shall not count the chances—sure that all A prudent foresight asks we shall not want, And all that bold and patient hearts can do Ye will not leave undone. The rest is God's!



Dramatic Fragment



Let the boy have his will! I tell thee, brother, We treat these little ones too much like flowers, Training them, in blind selfishness, to deck Sticks of our poor setting, when they might, If left to clamber where themselves incline, Find nobler props to cling to, fitter place, And sweeter air to bloom in. It is wrong— Thou striv'st to sow with feelings all thine own, With thoughts and hopes, anxieties and aims, Born of thine own peculiar self, and fed Upon a certain round of circumstance, A soul as different and distinct from thine As love of goodness is from love of glory, Or noble poesy from noble prose. I could forgive thee, if thou wast of them Who do their fated parts in this world's business, Scarce knowing how or why—for common minds See not the difference 'twixt themselves and others— But thou, thou, with the visions which thy youth did cherish Substantialized upon thy regal brow, Shouldst boast a deeper insight. We are born, It is my faith, in miniature completeness, And like each other only in our weakness. Even with our mother's milk upon our lips, Our smiles have different meanings, and our hands Press with degrees of softness to her bosom. It is not change—whatever in the heart That wears its semblance, we, in looking back, With gratulation or regret, perceive— It is not change we undergo, but only Growth or development. Yes! what is childhood But after all a sort of golden daylight, A beautiful and blessed wealth of sunshine, Wherein the powers and passions of the soul Sleep starlike but existent, till the night Of gathering years shall call the slumbers forth, And they rise up in glory? Early grief, A shadow like the darkness of eclipse, Hath sometimes waked them sooner.



The Summer Bower



It is a place whither I've often gone For peace, and found it, secret, hushed, and cool, A beautiful recess in neighboring woods. Trees of the soberest hues, thick-leaved and tall, Arch it o'erhead and column it around, Framing a covert, natural and wild, Domelike and dim; though nowhere so enclosed But that the gentlest breezes reach the spot Unwearied and unweakened. Sound is here A transient and unfrequent visitor; Yet if the day be calm, not often then, Whilst the high pines in one another's arms Sleep, you may sometimes with unstartled ear Catch the far fall of voices, how remote You know not, and you do not care to know. The turf is soft and green, but not a flower Lights the recess, save one, star-shaped and bright— I do not know its name—which here and there Gleams like a sapphire set in emerald. A narrow opening in the branched roof, A single one, is large enough to show, With that half glimpse a dreamer loves so much, The blue air and the blessing of the sky. Thither I always bent my idle steps, When griefs depressed, or joys disturbed my heart, And found the calm I looked for, or returned Strong with the quiet rapture in my soul. But one day, One of those July days when winds have fled One knows not whither, I, most sick in mind With thoughts that shall be nameless, yet, no doubt, Wrong, or at least unhealthful, since though dark With gloom, and touched with discontent, they had No adequate excuse, nor cause, nor end, I, with these thoughts, and on this summer day, Entered the accustomed haunt, and found for once No medicinal virtue. Not a leaf Stirred with the whispering welcome which I sought, But in a close and humid atmosphere, Every fair plant and implicated bough Hung lax and lifeless. Something in the place, Its utter stillness, the unusual heat, And some more secret influence, I thought, Weighed on the sense like sin. Above I saw, Though not a cloud was visible in heaven, The pallid sky look through a glazed mist Like a blue eye in death. The change, perhaps, Was natural enough; my jaundiced sight, The weather, and the time explain it all: Yet have I drawn a lesson from the spot, And shrined it in these verses for my heart. Thenceforth those tranquil precincts I have sought Not less, and in all shades of various moods; But always shun to desecrate the spot By vain repinings, sickly sentiments, Or inconclusive sorrows. Nature, though Pure as she was in Eden when her breath Kissed the white brow of Eve, doth not refuse, In her own way and with a just reserve, To sympathize with human suffering; But for the pains, the fever, and the fret Engendered of a weak, unquiet heart, She hath no solace; and who seeks her when These be the troubles over which he moans, Reads in her unreplying lineaments Rebukes, that, to the guilty consciousness, Strike like contempt.



A Rhapsody of a Southern Winter Night



Oh! dost thou flatter falsely, Hope? The day hath scarcely passed that saw thy birth, Yet thy white wings are plumed to all their scope, And hour by hour thine eyes have gathered light, And grown so large and bright, That my whole future life unfolds what seems, Beneath their gentle beams, A path that leads athwart some guiltless earth, To which a star is dropping from the night!

Not many moons ago, But when these leafless beds were all aglow With summer's dearest treasures, I Was reading in this lonely garden-nook; A July noon was cloudless in the sky, And soon I put my shallow studies by; Then, sick at heart, and angered by the book, Which, in good sooth, was but the long-drawn sigh Of some one who had quarreled with his kind, Vexed at the very proofs which I had sought, And all annoyed while all alert to find A plausible likeness of my own dark thought, I cast me down beneath yon oak's wide boughs, And, shielding with both hands my throbbing brows, Watched lazily the shadows of my brain. The feeble tide of peevishness went down, And left a flat dull waste of dreary pain, Which seemed to clog the blood in every vein; The world, of course, put on its darkest frown— In all its realms I saw no mortal crown Which did not wound or crush some restless head; And hope, and will, and motive, all were dead. So, passive as a stone, I felt too low To claim a kindred with the humblest flower; Even that would bare its bosom to a shower, While I henceforth would take no pains to live, Nor place myself where I might feel or give A single impulse whence a wish could grow. There was a tulip scarce a gossamer's throw Beyond that platanus. A little child, Most dear to me, looked through the fence and smiled A hint that I should pluck it for her sake. Ah, me! I trust I was not well awake— The voice was very sweet, Yet a faint languor kept me in my seat. I saw a pouted lip, a toss, and heard Some low expostulating tones, but stirred Not even a leaf's length, till the pretty fay, Wondering, and half abashed at the wild feat, Climbed the low pales, and laughed my gloom away. And here again, but led by other powers, A morning and a golden afternoon, These happy stars, and yonder setting moon, Have seen me speed, unreckoned and untasked, A round of precious hours. Oh! here, where in that summer noon I basked, And strove, with logic frailer than the flowers, To justify a life of sensuous rest, A question dear as home or heaven was asked, And without language answered. I was blest! Blest with those nameless boons too sweet to trust Unto the telltale confidence of song. Love to his own glad self is sometimes coy, And even thus much doth seem to do him wrong; While in the fears which chasten mortal joy, Is one that shuts the lips, lest speech too free, With the cold touch of hard reality, Should turn its priceless jewels into dust. Since that long kiss which closed the morning's talk, I have not strayed beyond this garden walk. As yet a vague delight is all I know, A sense of joy so wild 't is almost pain, And like a trouble drives me to and fro, And will not pause to count its own sweet gain. I am so happy! that is all my thought. To-morrow I will turn it round and round, And seek to know its limits and its ground. To-morrow I will task my heart to learn The duties which shall spring from such a seed, And where it must be sown, and how be wrought. But oh! this reckless bliss is bliss indeed! And for one day I choose to seal the urn Wherein is shrined Love's missal and his creed. Meantime I give my fancy all it craves; Like him who found the West when first he caught The light that glittered from the world he sought, And furled his sails till Dawn should show the land; While in glad dreams he saw the ambient waves Go rippling brightly up a golden strand.

Hath there not been a softer breath at play In the long woodland aisles than often sweeps At this rough season through their solemn deeps— A gentle Ariel sent by gentle May, Who knew it was the morn On which a hope was born, To greet the flower e'er it was fully blown, And nurse it as some lily of her own? And wherefore, save to grace a happy day, Did the whole West at blushing sunset glow With clouds that, floating up in bridal snow, Passed with the festal eve, rose-crowned, away? And now, if I may trust my straining sight, The heavens appear with added stars to-night, And deeper depths, and more celestial height, Than hath been reached except in dreams or death. Hush, sweetest South! I love thy delicate breath; But hush! methought I felt an angel's kiss! Oh! all that lives is happy in my bliss. That lonely fir, which always seems As though it locked dark secrets in itself, Hideth a gentle elf, Whose wand shall send me soon a frolic troop Of rainbow visions, and of moonlit dreams. Can joy be weary, that my eyelids droop? To-night I shall not seek my curtained nest, But even here find rest. Who whispered then? And what are they that peep Betwixt the foliage in the tree-top there? Come, Fairy Shadows! for the morn is near, When to your sombre pine ye all must creep; Come, ye wild pilots of the darkness, ere My spirit sinks into the gulf of Sleep; Even now it circles round and round the deep— Appear! Appear!



Flower-Life



I think that, next to your sweet eyes, And pleasant books, and starry skies, I love the world of flowers; Less for their beauty of a day, Than for the tender things they say, And for a creed I've held alway, That they are sentient powers.

It may be matter for a smile— And I laugh secretly the while I speak the fancy out— But that they love, and that they woo, And that they often marry too, And do as noisier creatures do, I've not the faintest doubt.

And so, I cannot deem it right To take them from the glad sunlight, As I have sometimes dared; Though not without an anxious sigh Lest this should break some gentle tie, Some covenant of friendship, I Had better far have spared.

And when, in wild or thoughtless hours, My hand hath crushed the tiniest flowers, I ne'er could shut from sight The corpses of the tender things, With other drear imaginings, And little angel-flowers with wings Would haunt me through the night.

Oh! say you, friend, the creed is fraught With sad, and even with painful thought, Nor could you bear to know That such capacities belong To creatures helpless against wrong, At once too weak to fly the strong Or front the feeblest foe?

So be it always, then, with you; So be it—whether false or true— I press my faith on none; If other fancies please you more, The flowers shall blossom as before, Dear as the Sibyl-leaves of yore, But senseless, every one.

Yet, though I give you no reply, It were not hard to justify My creed to partial ears; But, conscious of the cruel part, My rhymes would flow with faltering art, I could not plead against your heart, Nor reason with your tears.



A Summer Shower



Welcome, rain or tempest From yon airy powers, We have languished for them Many sultry hours, And earth is sick and wan, and pines with all her flowers.

What have they been doing In the burning June? Riding with the genii? Visiting the moon? Or sleeping on the ice amid an arctic noon?

Bring they with them jewels From the sunset lands? What are these they scatter With such lavish hands? There are no brighter gems in Raolconda's sands.

Pattering on the gravel, Dropping from the eaves, Glancing in the grass, and Tinkling on the leaves, They flash the liquid pearls as flung from fairy sieves.

Meanwhile, unreluctant, Earth like Danae lies; Listen! is it fancy, That beneath us sighs, As that warm lap receives the largesse of the skies?

Jove, it is, descendeth In those crystal rills; And this world-wide tremor Is a pulse that thrills To a god's life infused through veins of velvet hills.

Wait, thou jealous sunshine, Break not on their bliss; Earth will blush in roses Many a day for this, And bend a brighter brow beneath thy burning kiss.



Baby's Age



She came with April blooms and showers; We count her little life by flowers. As buds the rose upon her cheek, We choose a flower for every week. A week of hyacinths, we say, And one of heart's-ease, ushered May; And then because two wishes met Upon the rose and violet— I liked the Beauty, Kate, the Nun— The violet and the rose count one. A week the apple marked with white; A week the lily scored in light; Red poppies closed May's happy moon, And tulips this blue week in June. Here end as yet the flowery links; To-day begins the week of pinks; But soon—so grave, and deep, and wise The meaning grows in Baby's eyes, So VERY deep for Baby's age— We think to date a week with sage!



The Messenger Rose



If you have seen a richer glow, Pray, tell me where your roses blow! Look! coral-leaved! and—mark these spots Red staining red in crimson clots, Like a sweet lip bitten through In a pique. There, where that hue Is spilt in drops, some fairy thing Hath gashed the azure of its wing, Or thence, perhaps, this very morn, Plucked the splinters of a thorn.

Rose! I make thy bliss my care! In my lady's dusky hair Thou shalt burn this coming night, With even a richer crimson light. To requite me thou shalt tell— What I might not say as well— How I love her; how, in brief, On a certain crimson leaf In my bosom, is a debt Writ in deeper crimson yet. If she wonder what it be— But she'll guess it, I foresee— Tell her that I date it, pray, From the first sweet night in May.



On Pressing Some Flowers



So, they are dead! Love! when they passed From thee to me, our fingers met; O withered darlings of the May! I feel those fairy fingers yet.

And for the bliss ye brought me then, Your faded forms are precious things; No flowers so fair, no buds so sweet Shall bloom through all my future springs.

And so, pale ones! with hands as soft As if I closed a baby's eyes, I'll lay you in some favorite book Made sacred by a poet's sighs.

Your lips shall press the sweetest song, The sweetest, saddest song I know, As ye had perished, in your pride, Of some lone bard's melodious woe.

Oh, Love! hath love no holier shrine! Oh, heart! could love but lend the power, I'd lay thy crimson pages bare, And every leaf should fold its flower.



1866—Addressed to the Old Year



Art thou not glad to close Thy wearied eyes, O saddest child of Time, Eyes which have looked on every mortal crime, And swept the piteous round of mortal woes?

In dark Plutonian caves, Beneath the lowest deep, go, hide thy head; Or earth thee where the blood that thou hast shed May trickle on thee from thy countless graves!

Take with thee all thy gloom And guilt, and all our griefs, save what the breast, Without a wrong to some dear shadowy guest, May not surrender even to the tomb.

No tear shall weep thy fall, When, as the midnight bell doth toll thy fate, Another lifts the sceptre of thy state, And sits a monarch in thine ancient hall.

HIM all the hours attend, With a new hope like morning in their eyes; Him the fair earth and him these radiant skies Hail as their sovereign, welcome as their friend.

Him, too, the nations wait; "O lead us from the shadow of the Past," In a long wail like this December blast, They cry, and, crying, grow less desolate.

How he will shape his sway They ask not—for old doubts and fears will cling— And yet they trust that, somehow, he will bring A sweeter sunshine than thy mildest day.

Beneath his gentle hand They hope to see no meadow, vale, or hill Stained with a deeper red than roses spill, When some too boisterous zephyr sweeps the land.

A time of peaceful prayer, Of law, love, labor, honest loss and gain— These are the visions of the coming reign Now floating to them on this wintry air.



Stanzas: A Mother Gazes Upon Her Daughter,

Arrayed for an Approaching Bridal. Written in Illustration of a Tableau Vivant



Is she not lovely! Oh! when, long ago, My own dead mother gazed upon my face, As I stood blushing near in bridal snow, I had not half her beauty and her grace.

Yet that fond mother praised, the world caressed, And ONE adored me—how shall HE who soon Shall wear my gentle flower upon his breast, Prize to its utmost worth the priceless boon?

Shall he not gird her, guard her, make her rich, (Not as the world is rich, in outward show,) With all the love and watchful kindness which A wise and tender manhood may bestow?

Oh! I shall part from her with many tears, My earthly treasure, pure and undefiled! And not without a weight of anxious fears For the new future of my darling child.

And yet—for well I know that virgin heart— No wifely duty will she leave undone; Nor will her love neglect that woman's art Which courts and keeps a love already won.

In no light girlish levity she goes Unto the altar where they wait her now, But with a thoughtful, prayerful heart that knows The solemn purport of a marriage vow.

And she will keep, with all her soul's deep truth, The lightest pledge which binds her love and life; And she will be—no less in age than youth My noble child will be—a noble wife.

And he, her lover! husband! what of him? Yes, he will shield, I think, my bud from blight! Yet griefs will come—enough! my eyes are dim With tears I must not shed—at least, to-night.

Bless thee, my daughter!—Oh! she is so fair!— Heaven bend above thee with its starriest skies! And make thee truly all thou dost appear Unto a lover's and thy mother's eyes!



Hymn Sung at an Anniversary of the Asylum of Orphans at Charleston



We scarce, O God! could lisp thy name, When those who loved us passed away, And left us but thy love to claim, With but an infant's strength to pray.

Thou gav'st that Refuge and that Shrine, At which we learn to know thy ways; Father! the fatherless are thine! Thou wilt not spurn the orphan's praise.

Yet hear a single cry of pain! Lord! whilst we dream in quiet beds, The summer sun and winter rain Beat still on many homeless heads.

And o'er this weary earth, we know, Young outcasts roam the waste and wave; And little hands are clasped in woe Above some tender mother's grave.

Ye winds! keep every storm aloof, And kiss away the tears they weep! Ye skies, that make their only roof, Look gently on their houseless sleep!

And thou, O Friend and Father! find A home to shield their helpless youth! Dear hearts to love—sweet ties to bind— And guide and guard them in the truth!



To a Captive Owl



I should be dumb before thee, feathered sage! And gaze upon thy phiz with solemn awe, But for a most audacious wish to gauge The hoarded wisdom of thy learned craw.

Art thou, grave bird! so wondrous wise indeed? Speak freely, without fear of jest or gibe— What is thy moral and religious creed? And what the metaphysics of thy tribe?

A Poet, curious in birds and brutes, I do not question thee in idle play; What is thy station? What are thy pursuits? Doubtless thou hast thy pleasures—what are THEY?

Or is 't thy wont to muse and mouse at once, Entice thy prey with airs of meditation, And with the unvarying habits of a dunce, To dine in solemn depths of contemplation?

There may be much—the world at least says so— Behind that ponderous brow and thoughtful gaze; Yet such a great philosopher should know, It is by no means wise to think always.

And, Bird, despite thy meditative air, I hold thy stock of wit but paltry pelf— Thou show'st that same grave aspect everywhere, And wouldst look thoughtful, stuffed, upon a shelf.

I grieve to be so plain, renowned Bird— Thy fame 's a flam, and thou an empty fowl; And what is more, upon a Poet's word I'd say as much, wert thou Minerva's owl.

So doff th' imposture of those heavy brows; They do not serve to hide thy instincts base— And if thou must be sometimes munching MOUSE, Munch it, O Owl! with less profound a face.



Love's Logic



And if I ask thee for a kiss, I ask no more than this sweet breeze, With far less title to the bliss, Steals every minute at his ease. And yet how placid is thy brow! It seems to woo the bold caress, While now he takes his kiss, and now All sorts of freedoms with thy dress.

Or if I dare thy hand to touch, Hath nothing pressed its palm before? A flower, I'm sure, hath done as much, And ah! some senseless diamond more. It strikes me, love, the very rings, Now sparkling on that hand of thine, Could tell some truly startling things, If they had tongues or touch like mine.

Indeed, indeed, I do not know Of all that thou hast power to grant, A boon for which I could not show Some pretty precedent extant. Suppose, for instance, I should clasp Thus,—so,—and thus!—thy slender waist— I would not hold within my grasp More than this loosened zone embraced.

Oh! put the anger from thine eyes, Or shut them if they still must frown; Those lids, despite yon garish skies, Can bring a timely darkness down. Then, if in that convenient night, My lips should press thy dewy mouth, The touch shall be so soft, so light, Thou 'lt fancy me—this gentle South.



Second Love



Could I reveal the secret joy Thy presence always with it brings, The memories so strangely waked Of long forgotten things,

The love, the hope, the fear, the grief, Which with that voice come back to me,— Thou wouldst forgive the impassioned gaze So often turned on thee.

It was, indeed, that early love, But foretaste of this second one,— The soft light of the morning star Before the morning sun.

The same dark beauty in her eyes, The same blonde hair and placid brow, The same deep-meaning, quiet smile Thou bendest on me now,

She might have been, she WAS no more Than what a prescient hope could make,— A dear presentiment of thee I loved but for thy sake.



Hymn Sung at the Consecration of Magnolia Cemetery, Charleston, S.C.



Whose was the hand that painted thee, O Death! In the false aspect of a ruthless foe, Despair and sorrow waiting on thy breath— O gentle Power! who could have wronged thee so?

Thou rather shouldst be crowned with fadeless flowers, Of lasting fragrance and celestial hue; Or be thy couch amid funereal bowers, But let the stars and sunlight sparkle through.

So, with these thoughts before us, we have fixed And beautified, O Death! thy mansion here, Where gloom and gladness—grave and garden—mixed, Make it a place to love, and not to fear.

Heaven! shed thy most propitious dews around! Ye holy stars! look down with tender eyes, And gild and guard and consecrate the ground Where we may rest, and whence we pray to rise.



Hymn Sung at a Sacred Concert at Columbia, S.C.



I

Faint falls the gentle voice of prayer In the wild sounds that fill the air, Yet, Lord, we know that voice is heard, Not less than if Thy throne it stirred.

II

Thine ear, thou tender One, is caught, If we but bend the knee in thought; No choral song that shakes the sky Floats farther than the Christian's sigh.

III

Not all the darkness of the land Can hide the lifted eye and hand; Nor need the clanging conflict cease, To make Thee hear our cries for peace.



Lines to R. L.



That which we are and shall be is made up Of what we have been. On the autumn leaf The crimson stains bear witness of its spring; And, on its perfect nodes, the ocean shell Notches the slow, strange changes of its growth. Ourselves are our own records; if we looked Rightly into that blotted crimson page Within our bosoms, then there were no need To chronicle our stories; for the heart Hath, like the earth, its strata, and contains Its past within its present. Well for us, And our most cherished secrets, that within The round of being few there are who read Beneath the surface. Else our very forms, The merest gesture of our hands, might tell Much we would hide forever. Know you not Those eyes, in whose dark heaven I have gazed More curiously than on my favorite stars, Are deeper for such griefs as they have seen, And brighter for the fancies they have shrined, And sweeter for the loves which they have talked? Oh! that I had the power to read their smiles, Or sound the depth of all their glorious gloom. So should I learn your history from its birth, Through all its glad and grave experiences, Better than if—(your journal in my hand, Written as only women write, with all A woman's shades and shapes of feeling, traced As with the fine touch of a needle's point)— I followed you from that bright hour when first I saw you in the garden 'mid the flowers, To that wherein a letter from your hand Made me all rich with the dear name of friend.



To Whom?



Awake upon a couch of pain, I see a star betwixt the trees; Across yon darkening field of cane, Comes slow and soft the evening breeze. My curtain's folds are faintly stirred; And moving lightly in her rest, I hear the chirrup of a bird, That dreameth in some neighboring nest.

Last night I took no note of these— How it was passed I scarce can say; 'T was not in prayers to Heaven for ease, 'T was not in wishes for the day. Impatient tears, and passionate sighs, Touched as with fire the pulse of pain,— I cursed, and cursed the wildering eyes That burned this fever in my brain.

Oh! blessings on the quiet hour! My thoughts in calmer current flow; She is not conscious of her power, And hath no knowledge of my woe. Perhaps, if like yon peaceful star, She looked upon my burning brow, She would not pity from afar, But kiss me as the breeze does now.



To Thee



Draw close the lattice and the door! Shut out the very stars above! No other eyes than mine shall pore Upon this thrilling tale of love. As, since the book was open last, Along its dear and sacred text No other eyes than thine have passed— Be mine the eyes that trace it next!

Oh! very nobly is it wrought,— This web of love's divinest light,— But not to feed my soul with thought, Hang I upon the book to-night; I read it only for thy sake, To every page my lips I press— The very leaves appear to make A silken rustle like thy dress.

And so, as each blest page I turn, I seem, with many a secret thrill, To touch a soft white hand, and burn To clasp and kiss it at my will. Oh! if a fancy be so sweet, These shadowy fingers touching mine— How wildly would my pulses beat, If they COULD feel the beat of thine!



Storm and Calm



Sweet are these kisses of the South, As dropped from woman's rosiest mouth, And tenderer are those azure skies Than this world's tenderest pair of eyes!

But ah! beneath such influence Thought is too often lost in Sense; And Action, faltering as we thrill, Sinks in the unnerved arms of Will.

Awake, thou stormy North, and blast The subtle spells around us cast; Beat from our limbs these flowery chains With the sharp scourges of thy rains!

Bring with thee from thy Polar cave All the wild songs of wind and wave, Of toppling berg and grinding floe, And the dread avalanche of snow!

Wrap us in Arctic night and clouds! Yell like a fiend amid the shrouds Of some slow-sinking vessel, when He hears the shrieks of drowning men!

Blend in thy mighty voice whate'er Of danger, terror, and despair Thou hast encountered in thy sweep Across the land and o'er the deep.

Pour in our ears all notes of woe, That, as these very moments flow, Rise like a harsh discordant psalm, While we lie here in tropic calm.

Sting our weak hearts with bitter shame, Bear us along with thee like flame; And prove that even to destroy More God-like may be than to toy And rust or rot in idle joy!



Retirement



My gentle friend! I hold no creed so false As that which dares to teach that we are born For battle only, and that in this life The soul, if it would burn with starlike power, Must needs forsooth be kindled by the sparks Struck from the shock of clashing human hearts. There is a wisdom that grows up in strife, And one—I like it best—that sits at home And learns its lessons of a thoughtful ease. So come! a lonely house awaits thee!—there Nor praise, nor blame shall reach us, save what love Of knowledge for itself shall wake at times In our own bosoms; come! and we will build A wall of quiet thought, and gentle books, Betwixt us and the hard and bitter world. Sometimes—for we need not be anchorites— A distant friend shall cheer us through the Post, Or some Gazette—of course no partisan— Shall bring us pleasant news of pleasant things; Then, twisted into graceful allumettes, Each ancient joke shall blaze with genuine flame To light our pipes and candles; but to wars, Whether of words or weapons, we shall be Deaf—so we twain shall pass away the time Ev'n as a pair of happy lovers, who, Alone, within some quiet garden-nook, With a clear night of stars above their heads, Just hear, betwixt their kisses and their talk, The tumult of a tempest rolling through A chain of neighboring mountains; they awhile Pause to admire a flash that only shows The smile upon their faces, but, full soon, Turn with a quick, glad impulse, and perhaps A conscious wile that brings them closer yet, To dally with their own fond hearts, and play With the sweet flowers that blossom at their feet.



A Common Thought



Somewhere on this earthly planet In the dust of flowers to be, In the dewdrop, in the sunshine, Sleeps a solemn day for me.

At this wakeful hour of midnight I behold it dawn in mist, And I hear a sound of sobbing Through the darkness—hist! oh, hist!

In a dim and murky chamber, I am breathing life away; Some one draws a curtain softly, And I watch the broadening day.

As it purples in the zenith, As it brightens on the lawn, There's a hush of death about me, And a whisper, "He is gone!"



POEMS WRITTEN IN WAR TIMES



Carolina



I

The despot treads thy sacred sands, Thy pines give shelter to his bands, Thy sons stand by with idle hands, Carolina! He breathes at ease thy airs of balm, He scorns the lances of thy palm; Oh! who shall break thy craven calm, Carolina! Thy ancient fame is growing dim, A spot is on thy garment's rim; Give to the winds thy battle hymn, Carolina!

II

Call on thy children of the hill, Wake swamp and river, coast and rill, Rouse all thy strength and all thy skill, Carolina! Cite wealth and science, trade and art, Touch with thy fire the cautious mart, And pour thee through the people's heart, Carolina! Till even the coward spurns his fears, And all thy fields and fens and meres Shall bristle like thy palm with spears, Carolina!

III

Hold up the glories of thy dead; Say how thy elder children bled, And point to Eutaw's battle-bed, Carolina! Tell how the patriot's soul was tried, And what his dauntless breast defied; How Rutledge ruled and Laurens died, Carolina! Cry! till thy summons, heard at last, Shall fall like Marion's bugle-blast Re-echoed from the haunted Past, Carolina!

IV

I hear a murmur as of waves That grope their way through sunless caves, Like bodies struggling in their graves, Carolina! And now it deepens; slow and grand It swells, as, rolling to the land, An ocean broke upon thy strand, Carolina! Shout! let it reach the startled Huns! And roar with all thy festal guns! It is the answer of thy sons, Carolina!

V

They will not wait to hear thee call; From Sachem's Head to Sumter's wall Resounds the voice of hut and hall, Carolina! No! thou hast not a stain, they say, Or none save what the battle-day Shall wash in seas of blood away, Carolina! Thy skirts indeed the foe may part, Thy robe be pierced with sword and dart, They shall not touch thy noble heart, Carolina!

VI

Ere thou shalt own the tyrant's thrall Ten times ten thousand men must fall; Thy corpse may hearken to his call, Carolina! When, by thy bier, in mournful throngs The women chant thy mortal wrongs, 'T will be their own funereal songs, Carolina! From thy dead breast by ruffians trod No helpless child shall look to God; All shall be safe beneath thy sod, Carolina!

VII

Girt with such wills to do and bear, Assured in right, and mailed in prayer, Thou wilt not bow thee to despair, Carolina! Throw thy bold banner to the breeze! Front with thy ranks the threatening seas Like thine own proud armorial trees, Carolina! Fling down thy gauntlet to the Huns, And roar the challenge from thy guns; Then leave the future to thy sons, Carolina!



A Cry to Arms



Ho! woodsmen of the mountain side! Ho! dwellers in the vales! Ho! ye who by the chafing tide Have roughened in the gales! Leave barn and byre, leave kin and cot, Lay by the bloodless spade; Let desk, and case, and counter rot, And burn your books of trade.

The despot roves your fairest lands; And till he flies or fears, Your fields must grow but armed bands, Your sheaves be sheaves of spears! Give up to mildew and to rust The useless tools of gain; And feed your country's sacred dust With floods of crimson rain!

Come, with the weapons at your call— With musket, pike, or knife; He wields the deadliest blade of all Who lightest holds his life. The arm that drives its unbought blows With all a patriot's scorn, Might brain a tyrant with a rose, Or stab him with a thorn.

Does any falter? let him turn To some brave maiden's eyes, And catch the holy fires that burn In those sublunar skies. Oh! could you like your women feel, And in their spirit march, A day might see your lines of steel Beneath the victor's arch.

What hope, O God! would not grow warm When thoughts like these give cheer? The Lily calmly braves the storm, And shall the Palm-tree fear? No! rather let its branches court The rack that sweeps the plain; And from the Lily's regal port Learn how to breast the strain!

Ho! woodsmen of the mountain side! Ho! dwellers in the vales! Ho! ye who by the roaring tide Have roughened in the gales! Come! flocking gayly to the fight, From forest, hill, and lake; We battle for our Country's right, And for the Lily's sake!



Charleston



Calm as that second summer which precedes The first fall of the snow, In the broad sunlight of heroic deeds, The City bides the foe.

As yet, behind their ramparts stern and proud, Her bolted thunders sleep— Dark Sumter, like a battlemented cloud, Looms o'er the solemn deep.

No Calpe frowns from lofty cliff or scar To guard the holy strand; But Moultrie holds in leash her dogs of war Above the level sand.

And down the dunes a thousand guns lie couched, Unseen, beside the flood— Like tigers in some Orient jungle crouched That wait and watch for blood.

Meanwhile, through streets still echoing with trade, Walk grave and thoughtful men, Whose hands may one day wield the patriot's blade As lightly as the pen.

And maidens, with such eyes as would grow dim Over a bleeding hound, Seem each one to have caught the strength of him Whose sword she sadly bound.

Thus girt without and garrisoned at home, Day patient following day, Old Charleston looks from roof, and spire, and dome, Across her tranquil bay.

Ships, through a hundred foes, from Saxon lands And spicy Indian ports, Bring Saxon steel and iron to her hands, And Summer to her courts.

But still, along yon dim Atlantic line, The only hostile smoke Creeps like a harmless mist above the brine, From some frail, floating oak.

Shall the Spring dawn, and she still clad in smiles, And with an unscathed brow, Rest in the strong arms of her palm-crowned isles, As fair and free as now?

We know not; in the temple of the Fates God has inscribed her doom; And, all untroubled in her faith, she waits The triumph or the tomb.



Ripley



Rich in red honors, that upon him lie As lightly as the Summer dews Fall where he won his fame beneath the sky Of tropic Vera Cruz;

Bold scorner of the cant that has its birth In feeble or in failing powers; A lover of all frank and genial mirth That wreathes the sword with flowers;

He moves amid the warriors of the day, Just such a soldier as the art That builds its trophies upon human clay Moulds of a cheerful heart.

I see him in the battle that shall shake, Ere long, old Sumter's haughty crown, And from their dreams of peaceful traffic wake The wharves of yonder town;

As calm as one would greet a pleasant guest, And quaff a cup to love and life, He hurls his deadliest thunders with a jest, And laughs amid the strife.

Yet not the gravest soldier of them all Surveys a field with broader scope; And who behind that sea-encircled wall Fights with a loftier hope?

Gay Chieftain! on the crimson rolls of Fame Thy deeds are written with the sword; But there are gentler thoughts which, with thy name, Thy country's page shall hoard.

A nature of that rare and happy cast Which looks, unsteeled, on murder's face; Through what dark scenes of bloodshed hast thou passed, Yet lost no social grace?

So, when the bard depicts thee, thou shalt wield The weapon of a tyrant's doom, Round which, inscribed with many a well-fought field, The rose of joy shall bloom.



Ethnogenesis

Written During the Meeting of the First Southern Congress, at Montgomery, February, 1861



I

Hath not the morning dawned with added light? And shall not evening call another star Out of the infinite regions of the night, To mark this day in Heaven? At last, we are A nation among nations; and the world Shall soon behold in many a distant port Another flag unfurled! Now, come what may, whose favor need we court? And, under God, whose thunder need we fear? Thank Him who placed us here Beneath so kind a sky—the very sun Takes part with us; and on our errands run All breezes of the ocean; dew and rain Do noiseless battle for us; and the Year, And all the gentle daughters in her train, March in our ranks, and in our service wield Long spears of golden grain! A yellow blossom as her fairy shield, June flings her azure banner to the wind, While in the order of their birth Her sisters pass, and many an ample field Grows white beneath their steps, till now, behold, Its endless sheets unfold THE SNOW OF SOUTHERN SUMMERS! Let the earth Rejoice! beneath those fleeces soft and warm Our happy land shall sleep In a repose as deep As if we lay intrenched behind Whole leagues of Russian ice and Arctic storm!

II

And what if, mad with wrongs themselves have wrought, In their own treachery caught, By their own fears made bold, And leagued with him of old, Who long since in the limits of the North Set up his evil throne, and warred with God— What if, both mad and blinded in their rage, Our foes should fling us down their mortal gage, And with a hostile step profane our sod! We shall not shrink, my brothers, but go forth To meet them, marshaled by the Lord of Hosts, And overshadowed by the mighty ghosts Of Moultrie and of Eutaw—who shall foil Auxiliars such as these? Nor these alone, But every stock and stone Shall help us; but the very soil, And all the generous wealth it gives to toil, And all for which we love our noble land, Shall fight beside, and through us; sea and strand, The heart of woman, and her hand, Tree, fruit, and flower, and every influence, Gentle, or grave, or grand; The winds in our defence Shall seem to blow; to us the hills shall lend Their firmness and their calm; And in our stiffened sinews we shall blend The strength of pine and palm!

III

Nor would we shun the battle-ground, Though weak as we are strong; Call up the clashing elements around, And test the right and wrong! On one side, creeds that dare to teach What Christ and Paul refrained to preach; Codes built upon a broken pledge, And Charity that whets a poniard's edge; Fair schemes that leave the neighboring poor To starve and shiver at the schemer's door, While in the world's most liberal ranks enrolled, He turns some vast philanthropy to gold; Religion, taking every mortal form But that a pure and Christian faith makes warm, Where not to vile fanatic passion urged, Or not in vague philosophies submerged, Repulsive with all Pharisaic leaven, And making laws to stay the laws of Heaven! And on the other, scorn of sordid gain, Unblemished honor, truth without a stain, Faith, justice, reverence, charitable wealth, And, for the poor and humble, laws which give, Not the mean right to buy the right to live, But life, and home, and health! To doubt the end were want of trust in God, Who, if he has decreed That we must pass a redder sea Than that which rang to Miriam's holy glee, Will surely raise at need A Moses with his rod!

IV

But let our fears—if fears we have—be still, And turn us to the future! Could we climb Some mighty Alp, and view the coming time, The rapturous sight would fill Our eyes with happy tears! Not only for the glories which the years Shall bring us; not for lands from sea to sea, And wealth, and power, and peace, though these shall be; But for the distant peoples we shall bless, And the hushed murmurs of a world's distress: For, to give labor to the poor, The whole sad planet o'er, And save from want and crime the humblest door, Is one among the many ends for which God makes us great and rich! The hour perchance is not yet wholly ripe When all shall own it, but the type Whereby we shall be known in every land Is that vast gulf which lips our Southern strand, And through the cold, untempered ocean pours Its genial streams, that far off Arctic shores May sometimes catch upon the softened breeze Strange tropic warmth and hints of summer seas.



Carmen Triumphale



Go forth and bid the land rejoice, Yet not too gladly, O my song! Breathe softly, as if mirth would wrong The solemn rapture of thy voice.

Be nothing lightly done or said This happy day! Our joy should flow Accordant with the lofty woe That wails above the noble dead.

Let him whose brow and breast were calm While yet the battle lay with God, Look down upon the crimson sod And gravely wear his mournful palm;

And him, whose heart still weak from fear Beats all too gayly for the time, Know that intemperate glee is crime While one dead hero claims a tear.

Yet go thou forth, my song! and thrill, With sober joy, the troubled days; A nation's hymn of grateful praise May not be hushed for private ill.

Our foes are fallen! Flash, ye wires! The mighty tidings far and nigh! Ye cities! write them on the sky In purple and in emerald fires!

They came with many a haughty boast; Their threats were heard on every breeze; They darkened half the neighboring seas; And swooped like vultures on the coast.

False recreants in all knightly strife, Their way was wet with woman's tears; Behind them flamed the toil of years, And bloodshed stained the sheaves of life.

They fought as tyrants fight, or slaves; God gave the dastards to our hands; Their bones are bleaching on the sands, Or mouldering slow in shallow graves.

What though we hear about our path The heavens with howls of vengeance rent? The venom of their hate is spent; We need not heed their fangless wrath.

Meantime the stream they strove to chain Now drinks a thousand springs, and sweeps With broadening breast, and mightier deeps, And rushes onward to the main;

While down the swelling current glides Our Ship of State before the blast, With streamers poured from every mast, Her thunders roaring from her sides.

Lord! bid the frenzied tempest cease, Hang out thy rainbow on the sea! Laugh round her, waves! in silver glee, And speed her to the port of peace!



The Unknown Dead



The rain is plashing on my sill, But all the winds of Heaven are still; And so it falls with that dull sound Which thrills us in the church-yard ground, When the first spadeful drops like lead Upon the coffin of the dead. Beyond my streaming window-pane, I cannot see the neighboring vane, Yet from its old familiar tower The bell comes, muffled, through the shower. What strange and unsuspected link Of feeling touched, has made me think— While with a vacant soul and eye I watch that gray and stony sky— Of nameless graves on battle-plains Washed by a single winter's rains, Where, some beneath Virginian hills, And some by green Atlantic rills, Some by the waters of the West, A myriad unknown heroes rest. Ah! not the chiefs, who, dying, see Their flags in front of victory, Or, at their life-blood's noble cost Pay for a battle nobly lost, Claim from their monumental beds The bitterest tears a nation sheds.

Beneath yon lonely mound—the spot By all save some fond few forgot— Lie the true martyrs of the fight Which strikes for freedom and for right. Of them, their patriot zeal and pride, The lofty faith that with them died, No grateful page shall farther tell Than that so many bravely fell; And we can only dimly guess What worlds of all this world's distress, What utter woe, despair, and dearth, Their fate has brought to many a hearth. Just such a sky as this should weep Above them, always, where they sleep; Yet, haply, at this very hour, Their graves are like a lover's bower; And Nature's self, with eyes unwet, Oblivious of the crimson debt To which she owes her April grace, Laughs gayly o'er their burial-place.



The Two Armies



Two armies stand enrolled beneath The banner with the starry wreath; One, facing battle, blight and blast, Through twice a hundred fields has passed; Its deeds against a ruffian foe, Stream, valley, hill, and mountain know, Till every wind that sweeps the land Goes, glory laden, from the strand.

The other, with a narrower scope, Yet led by not less grand a hope, Hath won, perhaps, as proud a place, And wears its fame with meeker grace. Wives march beneath its glittering sign, Fond mothers swell the lovely line, And many a sweetheart hides her blush In the young patriot's generous flush.

No breeze of battle ever fanned The colors of that tender band; Its office is beside the bed, Where throbs some sick or wounded head. It does not court the soldier's tomb, But plies the needle and the loom; And, by a thousand peaceful deeds, Supplies a struggling nation's needs.

Nor is that army's gentle might Unfelt amid the deadly fight; It nerves the son's, the husband's hand, It points the lover's fearless brand; It thrills the languid, warms the cold, Gives even new courage to the bold; And sometimes lifts the veriest clod To its own lofty trust in God.

When Heaven shall blow the trump of peace, And bid this weary warfare cease, Their several missions nobly done, The triumph grasped, and freedom won, Both armies, from their toils at rest, Alike may claim the victor's crest, But each shall see its dearest prize Gleam softly from the other's eyes.



Christmas



How grace this hallowed day? Shall happy bells, from yonder ancient spire, Send their glad greetings to each Christmas fire Round which the children play?

Alas! for many a moon, That tongueless tower hath cleaved the Sabbath air, Mute as an obelisk of ice, aglare Beneath an Arctic noon.

Shame to the foes that drown Our psalms of worship with their impious drum, The sweetest chimes in all the land lie dumb In some far rustic town.

There, let us think, they keep, Of the dead Yules which here beside the sea They've ushered in with old-world, English glee, Some echoes in their sleep.

How shall we grace the day? With feast, and song, and dance, and antique sports, And shout of happy children in the courts, And tales of ghost and fay?

Is there indeed a door, Where the old pastimes, with their lawful noise, And all the merry round of Christmas joys, Could enter as of yore?

Would not some pallid face Look in upon the banquet, calling up Dread shapes of battles in the wassail cup, And trouble all the place?

How could we bear the mirth, While some loved reveler of a year ago Keeps his mute Christmas now beneath the snow, In cold Virginian earth?

How shall we grace the day? Ah! let the thought that on this holy morn The Prince of Peace—the Prince of Peace was born, Employ us, while we pray!

Pray for the peace which long Hath left this tortured land, and haply now Holds its white court on some far mountain's brow, There hardly safe from wrong!

Let every sacred fane Call its sad votaries to the shrine of God, And, with the cloister and the tented sod, Join in one solemn strain!

With pomp of Roman form, With the grave ritual brought from England's shore, And with the simple faith which asks no more Than that the heart be warm!

He, who, till time shall cease, Will watch that earth, where once, not all in vain, He died to give us peace, may not disdain A prayer whose theme is—peace.

Perhaps ere yet the Spring Hath died into the Summer, over all The land, the peace of His vast love shall fall, Like some protecting wing.

Oh, ponder what it means! Oh, turn the rapturous thought in every way! Oh, give the vision and the fancy play, And shape the coming scenes!

Peace in the quiet dales, Made rankly fertile by the blood of men, Peace in the woodland, and the lonely glen, Peace in the peopled vales!

Peace in the crowded town, Peace in a thousand fields of waving grain, Peace in the highway and the flowery lane, Peace on the wind-swept down!

Peace on the farthest seas, Peace in our sheltered bays and ample streams, Peace wheresoe'er our starry garland gleams, And peace in every breeze!

Peace on the whirring marts, Peace where the scholar thinks, the hunter roams, Peace, God of Peace! peace, peace, in all our homes, And peace in all our hearts!



Ode Sung on the Occasion of Decorating the Graves of the Confederate Dead,

at Magnolia Cemetery, Charleston, S.C., 1867



I

Sleep sweetly in your humble graves, Sleep, martyrs of a fallen cause; Though yet no marble column craves The pilgrim here to pause.

II

In seeds of laurel in the earth The blossom of your fame is blown, And somewhere, waiting for its birth, The shaft is in the stone!

III

Meanwhile, behalf the tardy years Which keep in trust your storied tombs, Behold! your sisters bring their tears, And these memorial blooms.

IV

Small tributes! but your shades will smile More proudly on these wreaths to-day, Than when some cannon-moulded pile Shall overlook this bay.

V

Stoop, angels, hither from the skies! There is no holier spot of ground Than where defeated valor lies, By mourning beauty crowned!



SONNETS



I "Poet! If on a Lasting Fame Be Bent"



Poet! if on a lasting fame be bent Thy unperturbing hopes, thou will not roam Too far from thine own happy heart and home; Cling to the lowly earth, and be content! So shall thy name be dear to many a heart; So shall the noblest truths by thee be taught; The flower and fruit of wholesome human thought Bless the sweet labors of thy gentle art. The brightest stars are nearest to the earth, And we may track the mighty sun above, Even by the shadow of a slender flower. Always, O bard, humility is power! And thou mayst draw from matters of the hearth Truths wide as nations, and as deep as love.



II "Most Men Know Love But as a Part of Life"



Most men know love but as a part of life; They hide it in some corner of the breast, Even from themselves; and only when they rest In the brief pauses of that daily strife, Wherewith the world might else be not so rife, They draw it forth (as one draws forth a toy To soothe some ardent, kiss-exacting boy) And hold it up to sister, child, or wife. Ah me! why may not love and life be one? Why walk we thus alone, when by our side, Love, like a visible God, might be our guide? How would the marts grow noble! and the street, Worn like a dungeon-floor by weary feet, Seem then a golden court-way of the Sun!



III "Life Ever Seems as from Its Present Site"



Life ever seems as from its present site It aimed to lure us. Mountains of the past It melts, with all their crags and caverns vast, Into a purple cloud! Across the night Which hides what is to be, it shoots a light All rosy with the yet unrisen dawn. Not the near daisies, but yon distant height Attracts us, lying on this emerald lawn. And always, be the landscape what it may— Blue, misty hill or sweep of glimmering plain— It is the eye's endeavor still to gain The fine, faint limit of the bounding day. God, haply, in this mystic mode, would fain Hint of a happier home, far, far away!



IV "They Dub Thee Idler, Smiling Sneeringly"



They dub thee idler, smiling sneeringly, And why? because, forsooth, so many moons, Here dwelling voiceless by the voiceful sea, Thou hast not set thy thoughts to paltry tunes In song or sonnet. Them these golden noons Oppress not with their beauty; they could prate, Even while a prophet read the solemn runes On which is hanging some imperial fate. How know they, these good gossips, what to thee The ocean and its wanderers may have brought? How know they, in their busy vacancy, With what far aim thy spirit may be fraught? Or that thou dost not bow thee silently Before some great unutterable thought?



V "Some Truths There Be Are Better Left Unsaid"



Some truths there be are better left unsaid; Much is there that we may not speak unblamed. On words, as wings, how many joys have fled! The jealous fairies love not to be named. There is an old-world tale of one whose bed A genius graced, to all, save him, unknown; One day the secret passed his lips, and sped As secrets speed—thenceforth he slept alone. Too much, oh! far too much is told in books; Too broad a daylight wraps us all and each. Ah! it is well that, deeper than our looks, Some secrets lie beyond conjecture's reach. Ah! it is well that in the soul are nooks That will not open to the keys of speech.



VI "I Scarcely Grieve, O Nature! at the Lot"



I scarcely grieve, O Nature! at the lot That pent my life within a city's bounds, And shut me from thy sweetest sights and sounds. Perhaps I had not learned, if some lone cot Had nursed a dreamy childhood, what the mart Taught me amid its turmoil; so my youth Had missed full many a stern but wholesome truth. Here, too, O Nature! in this haunt of Art, Thy power is on me, and I own thy thrall. There is no unimpressive spot on earth! The beauty of the stars is over all, And Day and Darkness visit every hearth. Clouds do not scorn us: yonder factory's smoke Looked like a golden mist when morning broke.



VII "Grief Dies Like Joy; the Tears Upon My Cheek"



Grief dies like joy; the tears upon my cheek Will disappear like dew. Dear God! I know Thy kindly Providence hath made it so, And thank thee for the law. I am too weak To make a friend of Sorrow, or to wear, With that dark angel ever by my side (Though to thy heaven there be no better guide), A front of manly calm. Yet, for I hear How woe hath cleansed, how grief can deify, So weak a thing it seems that grief should die, And love and friendship with it, I could pray, That if it might not gloom upon my brow, Nor weigh upon my arm as it doth now, No grief of mine should ever pass away.



VIII "At Last, Beloved Nature! I Have Met"



At last, beloved Nature! I have met Thee face to face upon thy breezy hills, And boldly, where thy inmost bowers are set, Gazed on thee naked in thy mountain rills. When first I felt thy breath upon my brow, Tears of strange ecstasy gushed out like rain, And with a longing, passionate as vain, I strove to clasp thee. But, I know not how, Always before me didst thou seem to glide; And often from one sunny mountain-side, Upon the next bright peak I saw thee kneel, And heard thy voice upon the billowy blast; But, climbing, only reached that shrine to feel The shadow of a Presence which had passed.



IX "I Know Not Why, But All This Weary Day"



I know not why, but all this weary day, Suggested by no definite grief or pain, Sad fancies have been flitting through my brain; Now it has been a vessel losing way, Rounding a stormy headland; now a gray Dull waste of clouds above a wintry main; And then, a banner, drooping in the rain, And meadows beaten into bloody clay. Strolling at random with this shadowy woe At heart, I chanced to wander hither! Lo! A league of desolate marsh-land, with its lush, Hot grasses in a noisome, tide-left bed, And faint, warm airs, that rustle in the hush, Like whispers round the body of the dead!