Ez for their l'yalty, don't take a goad to 't, But I do' want to block their only road to 't 170 By lettin' 'em believe thet they can git Mor'n wut they lost, out of our little wit: I tell ye wut, I'm 'fraid we'll drif' to leeward 'thout we can put more stiffenin' into Seward; He seems to think Columby'd better ect Like a scared widder with a boy stiff-necked Thet stomps an' swears he wun't come in to supper; She mus' set up for him, ez weak ez Tupper, Keepin' the Constitootion on to warm, Tell he'll eccept her 'pologies in form: 180 The neighbors tell her he's a cross-grained cuss Thet needs a hidin' 'fore he comes to wus; 'No,' sez Ma Seward, 'he's ez good 'z the best, All he wants now is sugar-plums an' rest;' 'He sarsed my Pa,' sez one; 'He stoned my son,' Another edds, 'Oh wal, 'twuz jes' his fun.' 'He tried to shoot our Uncle Samwell dead.' ''Twuz only tryin' a noo gun he hed.' 'Wal, all we ask's to hev it understood You'll take his gun away from him for good; 190 We don't, wal, nut exac'ly, like his play, Seem' he allus kin' o' shoots our way. You kill your fatted calves to no good eend, 'thout his fust sayin', "Mother, I hev sinned!"' ['Amen!' frum Deac'n Greenleaf]

The Pres'dunt he thinks thet the slickest plan 'ould be t' allow thet he's our on'y man, An' thet we fit thru all thet dreffle war Jes' for his private glory an' eclor; 'Nobody ain't a Union man,' sez he, ''thout he agrees, thru thick an' thin, with me; 200 Warn't Andrew Jackson's 'nitials jes' like mine? An' ain't thet sunthin' like a right divine To cut up ez kentenkerous ez I please, An' treat your Congress like a nest o' fleas?' Wal, I expec' the People wouldn' care, if The question now wuz techin' bank or tariff, But I conclude they've 'bout made up their min' This ain't the fittest time to go it blin', Nor these ain't metters thet with pol'tics swings, But goes 'way down amongst the roots o' things; 210 Coz Sumner talked o' whitewashin' one day They wun't let four years' war be throwed away. 'Let the South hev her rights?' They say, 'Thet's you! But nut greb hold of other folks's tu.' Who owns this country, is it they or Andy? Leastways it ough' to be the People and he; Let him be senior pardner, ef he's so, But let them kin' o' smuggle in ez Co; [Laughter.] Did he diskiver it? Consid'ble numbers Think thet the job wuz taken by Columbus. 220 Did he set tu an' make it wut it is? Ef so, I guess the One-Man-power hez riz. Did he put thru the rebbles, clear the docket, An' pay th' expenses out of his own pocket? Ef thet's the case, then everythin' I exes Is t' hev him come an' pay my ennooal texes. [Profoun' sensation.] Was 't he thet shou'dered all them million guns? Did he lose all the fathers, brothers, sons? Is this ere pop'lar gov'ment thet we run A kin' o' sulky, made to kerry one? 230 An' is the country goin' to knuckle down To hev Smith sort their letters 'stid o'Brown? Who wuz the 'Nited States 'fore Richmon' fell? Wuz the South needfle their full name to spell? An' can't we spell it in thet short-han' way Till th' underpinnin's settled so's to stay? Who cares for the Resolves of '61, Thet tried to coax an airthquake with a bun? Hez act'ly nothin' taken place sence then To larn folks they must hendle fects like men? 240 Ain't this the true p'int? Did the Rebs accep' 'em? Ef nut, whose fault is 't thet we hevn't kep 'em? Warn't there two sides? an' don't it stend to reason Thet this week's 'Nited States ain't las' week's treason? When all these sums is done, with nothin' missed, An' nut afore, this school 'll be dismissed.

I knowed ez wal ez though I'd seen 't with eyes Thet when the war wuz over copper'd rise, An' thet we'd hev a rile-up in our kettle 'twould need Leviathan's whole skin to settle: 250 I thought 'twould take about a generation 'fore we could wal begin to be a nation, But I allow I never did imegine 'twould be our Pres'dunt thet 'ould drive a wedge in To keep the split from closin' ef it could. An' healin' over with new wholesome wood; For th' ain't no chance o' healin' while they think Thet law an' gov'ment's only printer's ink; I mus' confess I thank him for discoverin' The curus way in which the States are sovereign; 260 They ain't nut quite enough so to rebel, But, when they fin' it's costly to raise h——, [A groan from Deac'n G.] Why, then, for jes' the same superl'tive reason, They're 'most too much so to be tetched for treason; They can't go out, but ef they somehow du, Their sovereignty don't noways go out tu; The State goes out, the sovereignty don't stir, But stays to keep the door ajar for her. He thinks secession never took 'em out, An' mebby he's correc', but I misdoubt? 270 Ef they warn't out, then why, 'n the name o' sin, Make all this row 'bout lettin' of 'em in? In law, p'r'aps nut; but there's a diffurence, ruther, Betwixt your mother-'n-law an' real mother, [Derisive cheers.] An' I, for one, shall wish they'd all ben som'eres, Long 'z U.S. Texes are sech reg'lar comers. But, O my patience! must we wriggle back Into th' ole crooked, pettyfoggin' track, When our artil'ry-wheels a road hev cut Stret to our purpose ef we keep the rut? 280 War's jes' dead waste excep' to wipe the slate Clean for the cyph'rin' of some nobler fate. [Applause.] Ez for dependin' on their oaths an' thet, 'twun't bind 'em more 'n the ribbin roun' my het: I heared a fable once from Othniel Starns, That pints it slick ez weathercocks do barns; Onct on a time the wolves hed certing rights Inside the fold; they used to sleep there nights, An' bein' cousins o' the dogs, they took Their turns et watchin', reg'lar ez a book; 290 But somehow, when the dogs hed gut asleep, Their love o' mutton beat their love o' sheep, Till gradilly the shepherds come to see Things warn't agoin' ez they'd ough' to be; So they sent off a deacon to remonstrate Along 'th the wolves an' urge 'em to go on straight; They didn't seem to set much by the deacon, Nor preachin' didn' cow 'em, nut to speak on; Fin'ly they swore thet they'd go out an' stay, An' hev their fill o' mutton every day; 300 Then dogs an' shepherds, after much hard dammin', [Groan from Deac'n G.] Turned tu an' give 'em a tormented lammin', An' sez, 'Ye sha'n't go out, the murrain rot ye, To keep us wastin' half our time to watch ye!' But then the question come, How live together 'thout losin' sleep, nor nary yew nor wether? Now there wuz some dogs (noways wuth their keep) Thet sheered their cousins' tastes an' sheered the sheep; They sez, 'Be gin'rous, let 'em swear right in, An', ef they backslide, let 'em swear ag'in; 310 Jes' let 'em put on sheep-skins whilst they're swearin'; To ask for more 'ould be beyond all bearin'.' 'Be gin'rous for yourselves, where you're to pay, Thet's the best prectice,' sez a shepherd gray; 'Ez for their oaths they wun't be wuth a button, Long 'z you don't cure 'em o' their taste for mutton; Th' ain't but one solid way, howe'er you puzzle: Tell they're convarted, let 'em wear a muzzle.' [Cries of 'Bully for you!']

I've noticed thet each half-baked scheme's abetters Are in the hebbit o' producin' letters 320 Writ by all sorts o' never-heared-on fellers, 'bout ez oridge'nal ez the wind in bellers; I've noticed, tu, it's the quack med'cine gits (An' needs) the grettest heaps o' stiffykits; [Two pothekeries goes out.] Now, sence I lef off creepin' on all fours, I hain't ast no man to endorse my course; It's full ez cheap to be your own endorser, An' ef I've made a cup, I'll fin' the saucer; But I've some letters here from t'other side, An' them's the sort thet helps me to decide; 330 Tell me for wut the copper-comp'nies hanker, An' I'll tell you jest where it's safe to anchor. [Faint hiss.] Fus'ly the Hon'ble B.O. Sawin writes Thet for a spell he couldn't sleep o' nights, Puzzlin' which side wuz preudentest to pin to, Which wuz th' ole homestead, which the temp'ry leanto; Et fust he jedged 'twould right-side-up his pan To come out ez a 'ridge'nal Union man, 'But now,' he sez, 'I ain't nut quite so fresh; The winnin' horse is goin' to be Secesh; 340 You might, las' spring, hev eas'ly walked the course, 'fore we contrived to doctor th' Union horse; Now we're the ones to walk aroun' the nex' track: Jest you take hol' an' read the follerin' extrac', Out of a letter I received last week From an ole frien' thet never sprung a leak, A Nothun Dem'crat o' th' ole Jarsey blue, Born copper-sheathed an' copper-fastened tu.'

'These four years past it hez ben tough To say which side a feller went for; 350 Guideposts all gone, roads muddy 'n' rough, An' nothin' duin' wut 'twuz meant for; Pickets a-firin' left an' right, Both sides a lettin' rip et sight,— Life warn't wuth hardly payin' rent for.

'Columby gut her back up so, It warn't no use a-tryin' to stop her,— War's emptin's riled her very dough An' made it rise an' act improper; 'Twuz full ez much ez I could du 360 To jes' lay low an' worry thru, 'Thout hevin' to sell out my copper.

'Afore the war your mod'rit men, Could set an' sun 'em on the fences, Cyph'rin' the chances up, an' then Jump off which way bes' paid expenses; Sence, 'twuz so resky ary way, I didn't hardly darst to say I 'greed with Paley's Evidences. [Groan from Deac'n G.]

'Ask Mac ef tryin' to set the fence 370 Warn't like bein' rid upon a rail on 't, Headin' your party with a sense O' bein' tipjint in the tail on 't, An' tryin' to think thet, on the whole, You kin' o' quasi own your soul When Belmont's gut a bill o' sale on 't? [Three cheers for Grant and Sherman.]

'Come peace, I sposed thet folks 'ould like Their pol'tics done ag'in by proxy; Give their noo loves the bag an' strike A fresh trade with their reg'lar doxy; 380 But the drag's broke, now slavery's gone, An' there's gret resk they'll blunder on, Ef they ain't stopped, to real Democ'cy.

'We've gut an awful row to hoe In this 'ere job o' reconstructin'; Folks dunno skurce which way to go, Where th' ain't some boghole to be ducked in; But one thing's clear; there is a crack, Ef we pry hard, 'twixt white an' black, Where the ole makebate can be tucked in. 390

'No white man sets in airth's broad aisle Thet I ain't willin' t' own ez brother, An' ef he's happened to strike ile, I dunno, fin'ly, but I'd ruther; An' Paddies, long 'z they vote all right, Though they ain't jest a nat'ral white, I hold one on 'em good 'z another, [Applause.]

'Wut is there lef I'd like to know, Ef 'tain't the defference o' color, To keep up self-respec' an' show 400 The human natur' of a fullah? Wut good in bein' white, onless It's fixed by law, nut lef' to guess, We're a heap smarter an' they duller?

'Ef we're to hev our ekle rights, 'twun't du to 'low no competition; Th' ole debt doo us for bein' whites Ain't safe onless we stop th' emission O' these noo notes, whose specie base Is human natur', thout no trace 410 O' shape, nor color, nor condition. [Continood applause.]

'So fur I'd writ an' couldn' jedge Aboard wut boat I'd best take pessige, My brains all mincemeat, 'thout no edge Upon 'em more than tu a sessige, But now it seems ez though I see Sunthin' resemblin' an idee, Sence Johnson's speech an' veto message.

'I like the speech best, I confess, The logic, preudence, an' good taste on 't; 420 An' it's so mad, I ruther guess There's some dependence to be placed on 't; [Laughter.] It's narrer, but 'twixt you an' me, Out o' the allies o' J.D. A temp'ry party can be based on 't.

'Jes' to hold on till Johnson's thru An' dug his Presidential grave is, An' then!—who knows but we could slew The country roun' to put in——? Wun't some folks rare up when we pull 430 Out o' their eyes our Union wool An' larn 'em wut a p'lit'cle shave is!

'Oh, did it seem 'z ef Providunce Could ever send a second Tyler? To see the South all back to once, Reapin' the spiles o' the Free-siler, Is cute ez though an ingineer Should claim th' old iron for his sheer Coz 'twas himself that bust the biler!' [Gret laughter.]

Thet tells the story! Thet's wut we shall git 440 By tryin' squirtguns on the burnin' Pit; For the day never comes when it'll du To kick off Dooty like a worn-out shoe. I seem to hear a whisperin' in the air, A sighin' like, of unconsoled despair, Thet comes from nowhere an' from everywhere, An' seems to say, 'Why died we? warn't it, then, To settle, once for all, thet men wuz men? Oh, airth's sweet cup snetched from us barely tasted, The grave's real chill is feelin' life wuz wasted! 450 Oh, you we lef', long-lingerin' et the door, Lovin' you best, coz we loved Her the more, Thet Death, not we, had conquered, we should feel Ef she upon our memory turned her heel, An' unregretful throwed us all away To flaunt it in a Blind Man's Holiday!'

My frien's, I've talked nigh on to long enough. I hain't no call to bore ye coz ye're tough; My lungs are sound, an' our own v'ice delights Our ears, but even kebbige-heads hez rights. 460 It's the las' time thet I shell e'er address ye, But you'll soon fin' some new tormentor: bless ye! [Tumult'ous applause and cries of 'Go on!' 'Don't stop!']



UNDER THE WILLOWS AND OTHER POEMS



TO CHARLES ELIOT NORTON

AGRO DOLCE

The wind is roistering out of doors, My windows shake and my chimney roars; My Elmwood chimneys seem crooning to me, As of old, in their moody, minor key, And out of the past the hoarse wind blows, As I sit in my arm-chair, and toast my toes.

'Ho! ho! nine-and-forty,' they seem to sing, 'We saw you a little toddling thing. We knew you child and youth and man, A wonderful fellow to dream and plan, With a great thing always to come,—who knows? Well, well! 'tis some comfort to toast one's toes.

'How many times have you sat at gaze Till the mouldering fire forgot to blaze, Shaping among the whimsical coals Fancies and figures and shining goals! What matters the ashes that cover those? While hickory lasts you can toast your toes.

'O dream-ship-builder: where are they all, Your grand three-deckers, deep-chested and tall, That should crush the waves under canvas piles, And anchor at last by the Fortunate Isles? There's gray in your beard, the years turn foes, While you muse in your arm-chair, and toast your toes.'

I sit and dream that I hear, as of yore, My Elmwood chimneys' deep-throated roar; If much be gone, there is much remains; By the embers of loss I count my gains, You and yours with the best, till the old hope glows In the fanciful flame, as I toast my toes.

Instead of a fleet of broad-browed ships, To send a child's armada of chips! Instead of the great gun, tier on tier, A freight of pebbles and grass-blades sere! 'Well, maybe more love with the less gift goes,' I growl, as, half moody, I toast my toes.



UNDER THE WILLOWS

Frank-hearted hostess of the field and wood, Gypsy, whose roof is every spreading tree, June is the pearl of our New England year. Still a surprisal, though expected long. Her coming startles. Long she lies in wait, Makes many a feint, peeps forth, draws coyly back, Then, from some southern ambush in the sky, With one great gush of blossom storms the world. A week ago the sparrow was divine; The bluebird, shifting his light load of song 10 From post to post along the cheerless fence, Was as a rhymer ere the poet come; But now, oh rapture! sunshine winged and voiced, Pipe blown through by the warm wild breath of the West Shepherding his soft droves of fleecy cloud, Gladness of woods, skies, waters, all in one, The bobolink has come, and, like the soul Of the sweet season vocal in a bird, Gurgles in ecstasy we know not what Save June! Dear June! Now God be praised for June. 20

May is a pious fraud of the almanac, A ghastly parody of real Spring Shaped out of snow and breathed with eastern wind; Or if, o'er-confident, she trust the date, And, with her handful of anemones, Herself as shivery, steal into the sun, The season need but turn his hour-glass round, And Winter suddenly, like crazy Lear, Reels back, and brings the dead May in his arms, Her budding breasts and wan dislustred front 30 With frosty streaks and drifts of his white beard All overblown. Then, warmly walled with books, While my wood-fire supplies the sun's defect, Whispering old forest-sagas in its dreams, I take my May down from the happy shelf Where perch the world's rare song-birds in a row, Waiting my choice to open with full breast, And beg an alms of springtime, ne'er denied Indoors by vernal Chaucer, whose fresh woods Throb thick with merle and mavis all the year. 40

July breathes hot, sallows the crispy fields, Curls up the wan leaves of the lilac-hedge, And every eve cheats us with show of clouds That braze the horizon's western rim, or hang Motionless, with heaped canvas drooping idly, Like a dim fleet by starving men besieged, Conjectured half, and half descried afar, Helpless of wind, and seeming to slip back Adown the smooth curve of the oily sea.

But June is full of invitations sweet, 50 Forth from the chimney's yawn and thrice-read tomes To leisurely delights and sauntering thoughts That brook no ceiling narrower than the blue. The cherry, drest for bridal, at my pane Brushes, then listens, Will he come? The bee, All dusty as a miller, takes his toll Of powdery gold, and grumbles. What a day To sun me and do nothing! Nay, I think Merely to bask and ripen is sometimes The student's wiser business; the brain 60 That forages all climes to line its cells, Ranging both worlds on lightest wings of wish, Will not distil the juices it has sucked To the sweet substance of pellucid thought, Except for him who hath the secret learned To mix his blood with sunshine, and to take The winds into his pulses. Hush! 'tis he! My oriole, my glance of summer fire, Is come at last, and, ever on the watch, Twitches the packthread I had lightly wound 70 About the bough to help his housekeeping,— Twitches and scouts by turns, blessing his luck, Yet fearing me who laid it in his way, Nor, more than wiser we in our affairs, Divines the providence that hides and helps. Heave, ho! Heave, ho! he whistles as the twine Slackens its hold; once more, now! and a flash Lightens across the sunlight to the elm Where his mate dangles at her cup of felt. Nor all his booty is the thread; he trails 80 My loosened thought with it along the air, And I must follow, would I ever find The inward rhyme to all this wealth of life.

I care not how men trace their ancestry, To ape or Adam: let them please their whim; But I in June am midway to believe A tree among my far progenitors, Such sympathy is mine with all the race, Such mutual recognition vaguely sweet There is between us. Surely there are times 90 When they consent to own me of their kin, And condescend to me, and call me cousin, Murmuring faint lullabies of eldest time, Forgotten, and yet dumbly felt with thrills Moving the lips, though fruitless of all words. And I have many a lifelong leafy friend, Never estranged nor careful of my soul, That knows I hate the axe, and welcomes me Within his tent as if I were a bird, Or other free companion of the earth, 100 Yet undegenerate to the shifts of men. Among them one, an ancient willow, spreads Eight balanced limbs, springing at once all round His deep-ridged trunk with upward slant diverse, In outline like enormous beaker, fit For hand of Jotun, where mid snow and mist He holds unwieldy revel. This tree, spared, I know not by what grace,—for in the blood Of our New World subduers lingers yet Hereditary feud with trees, they being 110 (They and the red-man most) our fathers' foes,— Is one of six, a willow Pleiades, The seventh fallen, that lean along the brink Where the steep upland dips into the marsh, Their roots, like molten metal cooled in flowing, Stiffened in coils and runnels down the bank. The friend of all the winds, wide-armed he towers And glints his steely aglets in the sun, Or whitens fitfully with sudden bloom Of leaves breeze-lifted, much as when a shoal 120 Of devious minnows wheel from where a pike Lurks balanced 'neath the lily-pads, and whirl A rood of silver bellies to the day. Alas! no acorn from the British oak 'Neath which slim fairies tripping wrought those rings Of greenest emerald, wherewith fireside life Did with the invisible spirit of Nature wed, Was ever planted here! No darnel fancy Might choke one useful blade in Puritan fields; With horn and hoof the good old Devil came, 130 The witch's broomstick was not contraband, But all that superstition had of fair, Or piety of native sweet, was doomed. And if there be who nurse unholy faiths, Fearing their god as if he were a wolf That snuffed round every home and was not seen, There should be some to watch and keep alive All beautiful beliefs. And such was that,— By solitary shepherd first surmised Under Thessalian oaks, loved by some maid 140 Of royal stirp, that silent came and vanished, As near her nest the hermit thrush, nor dared Confess a mortal name,—that faith which gave A Hamadryed to each tree; and I Will hold it true that in this willow dwells The open-handed spirit, frank and blithe, Of ancient Hospitality, long since, With ceremonious thrift, bowed out of doors.

In June 'tis good to lie beneath a tree While the blithe season comforts every sense, 150 Steeps all the brain in rest, and heals the heart, Brimming it o'er with sweetness unawares, Fragrant and silent as that rosy snow Wherewith the pitying apple-tree fills up And tenderly lines some last-year robin's nest. There muse I of old times, old hopes, old friends,— Old friends! The writing of those words has borne My fancy backward to the gracious past, The generous past, when all was possible. For all was then untried; the years between 160 Have taught some sweet, some bitter lessons, none Wiser than this,—to spend in all things else, But of old friends to be most miserly. Each year to ancient friendships adds a ring, As to an oak, and precious more and more, Without deservingness or help of ours, They grow, and, silent, wider spread, each year, Their unbought ring of shelter or of shade, Sacred to me the lichens on the bark, Which Nature's milliners would scrape away; 170 Most dear and sacred every withered limb! 'Tis good to set them early, for our faith Pines as we age, and, after wrinkles come, Few plant, but water dead ones with vain tears.

This willow is as old to me as life; And under it full often have I stretched, Feeling the warm earth like a thing alive, And gathering virtue in at every pore Till it possessed me wholly, and thought ceased, Or was transfused in something to which thought 180 Is coarse and dull of sense. Myself was lost. Gone from me like an ache, and what remained Become a part of the universal joy. My soul went forth, and, mingling with the tree, Danced in the leaves; or, floating in the cloud, Saw its white double in the stream below; Or else, sublimed to purer ecstasy, Dilated in the broad blue over all. I was the wind that dappled the lush grass, The tide that crept with coolness to its roots, 190 The thin-winged swallow skating on the air; The life that gladdened everything was mine. Was I then truly all that I beheld? Or is this stream of being but a glass Where the mind sees its visionary self, As, when the kingfisher flits o'er his bay, Across the river's hollow heaven below His picture flits,—another, yet the same? But suddenly the sound of human voice Or footfall, like the drop a chemist pours, 200 Doth in opacous cloud precipitate The consciousness that seemed but now dissolved Into an essence rarer than its own. And I am narrowed to myself once more.

For here not long is solitude secure, Nor Fantasy left vacant to her spell. Here, sometimes, in this paradise of shade, Rippled with western winds, the dusty Tramp, Seeing the treeless causey burn beyond, Halts to unroll his bundle of strange food 210 And munch an unearned meal. I cannot help Liking this creature, lavish Summer's bedesman, Who from the almshouse steals when nights grow warm, Himself his large estate and only charge, To be the guest of haystack or of hedge, Nobly superior to the household gear That forfeits us our privilege of nature. I bait him with my match-box and my pouch, Nor grudge the uncostly sympathy of smoke, His equal now, divinely unemployed. 220 Some smack of Robin Hood is in the man, Some secret league with wild wood-wandering things; He is our ragged Duke, our barefoot Earl, By right of birth exonerate from toil, Who levies rent from us his tenants all, And serves the state by merely being. Here The Scissors-grinder, pausing, doffs his hat, And lets the kind breeze, with its delicate fan, Winnow the heat from out his dank gray hair,— A grimy Ulysses, a much-wandered man, 230 Whose feet are known to all the populous ways, And many men and manners he hath seen, Not without fruit of solitary thought. He, as the habit is of lonely men,— Unused to try the temper of their mind In fence with others,—positive and shy, Yet knows to put an edge upon his speech, Pithily Saxon in unwilling talk. Him I entrap with my long-suffering knife, And, while its poor blade hums away in sparks, 240 Sharpen my wit upon his gritty mind, In motion set obsequious to his wheel, And in its quality not much unlike.

Nor wants my tree more punctual visitors. The children, they who are the only rich, Creating for the moment, and possessing Whate'er they choose to feign,—for still with them Kind Fancy plays the fairy godmother, Strewing their lives with cheap material For winged horses and Aladdin's lamps, 250 Pure elfin-gold, by manhood's touch profane To dead leaves disenchanted,—long ago Between the branches of the tree fixed seats, Making an o'erturned box their table. Oft The shrilling girls sit here between school hours, And play at What's my thought like? while the boys, With whom the age chivalric ever bides, Pricked on by knightly spur of female eyes, Climb high to swing and shout on perilous boughs, Or, from the willow's armory equipped 260 With musket dumb, green banner, edgeless sword, Make good the rampart of their tree-redoubt 'Gainst eager British storming from below, And keep alive the tale of Bunker's Hill.

Here, too, the men that mend our village ways, Vexing Macadam's ghost with pounded slate, Their nooning take; much noisy talk they spend On horses and their ills; and, as John Bull Tells of Lord This or That, who was his friend, So these make boast of intimacies long 270 With famous teams, and add large estimates, By competition swelled from mouth to mouth. Of how much they could draw, till one, ill pleased To have his legend overbid, retorts: 'You take and stretch truck-horses in a string From here to Long Wharf end, one thing I know, Not heavy neither, they could never draw,— Ensign's long bow!' Then laughter loud and long. So they in their leaf-shadowed microcosm Image the larger world; for wheresoe'er 280 Ten men are gathered, the observant eye Will find mankind in little, as the stars Glide up and set, and all the heavens revolve In the small welkin of a drop of dew.

I love to enter pleasure by a postern, Not the broad popular gate that gulps the mob; To find my theatres in roadside nooks, Where men are actors, and suspect it not; Where Nature all unconscious works her will, And every passion moves with easy gait, 290 Unhampered by the buskin or the train. Hating the crowd, where we gregarious men Lead lonely lives, I love society, Nor seldom find the best with simple souls Unswerved by culture from their native bent, The ground we meet on being primal man, And nearer the deep bases of our lives.

But oh, half heavenly, earthly half, my soul, Canst thou from those late ecstasies descend, Thy lips still wet with the miraculous wine 300 That transubstantiates all thy baser stuff To such divinity that soul and sense, Once more commingled in their source, are lost,— Canst thou descend to quench a vulgar thirst With the mere dregs and rinsings of the world? Well, if my nature find her pleasure so, I am content, nor need to blush; I take My little gift of being clean from God, Not haggling for a better, holding it Good as was ever any in the world, 310 My days as good and full of miracle. I pluck my nutriment from any bush, Finding out poison as the first men did By tasting and then suffering, if I must. Sometimes my bush burns, and sometimes it is A leafless wilding shivering by the wall; But I have known when winter barberries Pricked the effeminate palate with surprise Of savor whose mere harshness seemed divine.

Oh, benediction of the higher mood 320 And human-kindness of the lower! for both I will be grateful while I live, nor question The wisdom that hath made us what we are, With such large range as from the ale-house bench Can reach the stars and be with both at home. They tell us we have fallen on prosy days, Condemned to glean the leavings of earth's feast Where gods and heroes took delight of old; But though our lives, moving in one dull round Of repetition infinite, become 330 Stale as a newspaper once read, and though History herself, seen in her workshop, seem To have lost the art that dyed those glorious panes, Rich with memorial shapes of saint and sage, That pave with splendor the Past's dusky aisles,— Panes that enchant the light of common day With colors costly as the blood of kings, Till with ideal hues it edge our thought,— Yet while the world is left, while nature lasts, And man the best of nature, there shall be 340 Somewhere contentment for these human hearts, Some freshness, some unused material For wonder and for song. I lose myself In other ways where solemn guide-posts say, This way to Knowledge, This way to Repose, But here, here only, I am ne'er betrayed, For every by-path leads me to my love.

God's passionless reformers, influences, That purify and heal and are not seen, Shall man say whence your virtue is, or how 350 Ye make medicinal the wayside weed? I know that sunshine, through whatever rift, How shaped it matters not, upon my walls Paints discs as perfect-rounded as its source, And, like its antitype, the ray divine, However finding entrance, perfect still, Repeats the image unimpaired of God.

We, who by shipwreck only find the shores Of divine wisdom, can but kneel at first; Can but exult to feel beneath our feet, 360 That long stretched vainly down the yielding deeps, The shock and sustenance of solid earth; Inland afar we see what temples gleam Through immemorial stems of sacred groves, And we conjecture shining shapes therein; Yet for a space we love to wander here Among the shells and seaweed of the beach.

So mused I once within my willow-tent One brave June morning, when the bluff northwest, Thrusting aside a dank and snuffling day 370 That made us bitter at our neighbors' sins, Brimmed the great cup of heaven with sparkling cheer And roared a lusty stave; the sliding Charles, Blue toward the west, and bluer and more blue, Living and lustrous as a woman's eyes Look once and look no more, with southward curve Ran crinkling sunniness, like Helen's hair Glimpsed in Elysium, insubstantial gold; From blossom-clouded orchards, far away The bobolink tinkled; the deep meadows flowed 380 With multitudinous pulse of light and shade Against the bases of the southern hills, While here and there a drowsy island rick Slept and its shadow slept; the wooden bridge Thundered, and then was silent; on the roofs The sun-warped shingles rippled with the heat; Summer on field and hill, in heart and brain, All life washed clean in this high tide of June.



DARA

When Persia's sceptre trembled in a hand Wilted with harem-heats, and all the land Was hovered over by those vulture ills That snuff decaying empire from afar, Then, with a nature balanced as a star, Dara arose, a shepherd of the hills.

He who had governed fleecy subjects well Made his own village by the selfsame spell Secure and quiet as a guarded fold; Then, gathering strength by slow and wise degrees 10 Under his sway, to neighbor villages Order returned, and faith and justice old.

Now when it fortuned that a king more wise Endued the realm with brain and hands and eyes, He sought on every side men brave and just; And having heard our mountain shepherd's praise, How he refilled the mould of elder days, To Dara gave a satrapy in trust.

So Dara shepherded a province wide, Nor in his viceroy's sceptre took more pride 20 Than in his crook before; but envy finds More food in cities than on mountains bare; And the frank sun of natures clear and rare Breeds poisonous fogs in low and marish minds.

Soon it was hissed into the royal ear, That, though wise Dara's province, year by year, Like a great sponge, sucked wealth and plenty up, Yet, when he squeezed it at the king's behest, Some yellow drops, more rich than all the rest, Went to the filling of his private cup. 30

For proof, they said, that, wheresoe'er he went, A chest, beneath whose weight the camel bent, Went with him; and no mortal eye had seen What was therein, save only Dara's own; But, when 'twas opened, all his tent was known To glow and lighten with heaped jewels' sheen.

The King set forth for Dara's province straight; There, as was fit, outside the city's gate, The viceroy met him with a stately train, And there, with archers circled, close at hand, 40 A camel with the chest was seen to stand: The King's brow reddened, for the guilt was plain.

'Open me here,' he cried, 'this treasure-chest!' 'Twas done; and only a worn shepherd's vest Was found therein. Some blushed and hung the head; Not Dara; open as the sky's blue roof He stood, and 'O my lord, behold the proof That I was faithful to my trust,' he said.

'To govern men, lo all the spell I had!' My soul in these rude vestments ever clad 50 Still to the unstained past kept true and leal, Still on these plains could breathe her mountain air, And fortune's heaviest gifts serenely bear, Which bend men from their truth and make them reel.

'For ruling wisely I should have small skill, Were I not lord of simple Dara still; That sceptre kept, I could not lose my way.' Strange dew in royal eyes grew round and bright, And strained the throbbing lids; before 'twas night Two added provinces blest Dara's sway. 60



THE FIRST SNOW-FALL

The snow had begun in the gloaming, And busily all the night Had been heaping field and highway With a silence deep and white.

Every pine and fir and hemlock Wore ermine too dear for an earl, And the poorest twig on the elm-tree Was ridged inch deep with pearl.

From sheds new-roofed with Carrara Came Chanticleer's muffled crow, The stiff rails softened to swan's-down, And still fluttered down the snow.

I stood and watched by the window The noiseless work of the sky, And the sudden flurries of snowbirds, Like brown leaves whirling by.

I thought of a mound in sweet Auburn Where a little headstone stood; How the flakes were folding it gently, As did robins the babes in the wood.

Up spoke our own little Mabel, Saying, 'Father, who makes it snow?' And I told of the good All-father Who cares for us here below.

Again I looked at the snow-fall, And thought of the leaden sky That arched o'er our first great sorrow, When that mound was heaped so high.

I remembered the gradual patience That fell from that cloud like snow, Flake by flake, healing and hiding The scar that renewed our woe.

And again to the child I whispered, 'The snow that husheth all, Darling, the merciful Father Alone can make it fall!'

Then, with eyes that saw not, I kissed her: And she, kissing back, could not know That my kiss was given to her sister, Folded close under deepening snow.



THE SINGING LEAVES

A BALLAD

I

'What fairings will ye that I bring?' Said the King to his daughters three; 'For I to Vanity Fair am bound, Now say what shall they be?'

Then up and spake the eldest daughter, That lady tall and grand: 'Oh, bring me pearls and diamonds great, And gold rings for my hand.'

Thereafter spake the second daughter, That was both white and red: 10 'For me bring silks that will stand alone, And a gold comb for my head.'

Then came the turn of the least daughter, That was whiter than thistle-down, And among the gold of her blithesome hair Dim shone the golden crown.

'There came a bird this morning, And sang 'neath my bower eaves, Till I dreamed, as his music made me, "Ask thou for the Singing Leaves."' 20

Then the brow of the King swelled crimson With a flush of angry scorn: 'Well have ye spoken, my two eldest, And chosen as ye were born;

'But she, like a thing of peasant race, That is happy binding the sheaves;' Then he saw her dead mother in her face, And said, 'Thou shalt have thy leaves.'

II

He mounted and rode three days and nights Till he came to Vanity Fair, 30 And 'twas easy to buy the gems and the silk, But no Singing Leaves were there.

Then deep in the greenwood rode he, And asked of every tree, 'Oh, if you have ever a Singing Leaf, I pray you give it me!'

But the trees all kept their counsel, And never a word said they, Only there sighed from the pine-tops A music of seas far away. 40

Only the pattering aspen Made a sound of growing rain, That fell ever faster and faster, Then faltered to silence again.

'Oh, where shall I find a little foot-page That would win both hose and shoon, And will bring to me the Singing Leaves If they grow under the moon?'

Then lightly turned him Walter the page, By the stirrup as he ran: 50 'Now pledge you me the truesome word Of a king and gentleman,

'That you will give me the first, first thing You meet at your castle-gate, And the Princess shall get the Singing Leaves, Or mine be a traitor's fate.'

The King's head dropt upon his breast A moment, as it might be; 'Twill be my dog, he thought, and said, 'My faith I plight to thee.' 60

Then Walter took from next his heart A packet small and thin, 'Now give you this to the Princess Anne, The Singing Leaves are therein.'

III

As the King rode in at his castle-gate, A maiden to meet him ran, And 'Welcome, father!' she laughed and cried Together, the Princess Anne.

'Lo, here the Singing Leaves,' quoth he, 'And woe, but they cost me dear!' 70 She took the packet, and the smile Deepened down beneath the tear.

It deepened down till it reached her heart, And then gushed up again, And lighted her tears as the sudden sun Transfigures the summer rain.

And the first Leaf, when it was opened, Sang: 'I am Walter the page, And the songs I sing 'neath thy window Are my only heritage.' 80

And the second Leaf sang: 'But in the land That is neither on earth nor sea, My lute and I are lords of more Than thrice this kingdom's fee.'

And the third Leaf sang, 'Be mine! Be mine!' And ever it sang, 'Be mine!' Then sweeter it sang and ever sweeter, And said, 'I am thine, thine, thine!'

At the first Leaf she grew pale enough, At the second she turned aside, 90 At the third, 'twas as if a lily flushed With a rose's red heart's tide.

'Good counsel gave the bird,' said she, 'I have my hope thrice o'er, For they sing to my very heart,' she said, 'And it sings to them evermore.'

She brought to him her beauty and truth, But and broad earldoms three, And he made her queen of the broader lands He held of his lute in fee. 100



SEAWEED

Not always unimpeded can I pray, Nor, pitying saint, thine intercession claim; Too closely clings the burden of the day, And all the mint and anise that I pay But swells my debt and deepens my self-blame.

Shall I less patience have than Thou, who know That Thou revisit'st all who wait for thee, Nor only fill'st the unsounded deeps below, But dost refresh with punctual overflow The rifts where unregarded mosses be?

The drooping seaweed hears, in night abyssed, Far and more far the wave's receding shocks, Nor doubts, for all the darkness and the mist, That the pale shepherdess will keep her tryst, And shoreward lead again her foam-fleeced flocks.

For the same wave that rims the Carib shore With momentary brede of pearl and gold, Goes hurrying thence to gladden with its roar Lorn weeds bound fast on rocks of Labrador, By love divine on one sweet errand rolled.

And, though Thy healing waters far withdraw, I, too, can wait and feed on hope of Thee And of the dear recurrence of Thy law, Sure that the parting grace my morning saw Abides its time to come in search of me.



THE FINDING OF THE LYRE

There lay upon the ocean's shore What once a tortoise served to cover; A year and more, with rush and roar, The surf had rolled it over, Had played with it, and flung it by, As wind and weather might decide it, Then tossed it high where sand-drifts dry Cheap burial might provide it.

It rested there to bleach or tan, The rains had soaked, the suns had burned it; With many a ban the fisherman Had stumbled o'er and spurned it; And there the fisher-girl would stay, Conjecturing with her brother How in their play the poor estray Might serve some use or other.

So there it lay, through wet and dry As empty as the last new sonnet, Till by and by came Mercury, And, having mused upon it, 'Why, here,' cried he, 'the thing of things In shape, material, and dimension! Give it but strings, and, lo, it sings, A wonderful invention!'

So said, so done; the chords he strained, And, as his fingers o'er them hovered, The shell disdained a soul had gained, The lyre had been discovered. O empty world that round us lies, Dead shell, of soul and thought forsaken, Brought we but eyes like Mercury's, In thee what songs should waken!



NEW-YEAR'S EVE, 1850

This is the midnight of the century,—hark! Through aisle and arch of Godminster have gone Twelve throbs that tolled the zenith of the dark, And mornward now the starry hands move on; 'Mornward!' the angelic watchers say, 'Passed is the sorest trial; No plot of man can stay The hand upon the dial; Night is the dark stem of the lily Day.'

If we, who watched in valleys here below, Toward streaks, misdeemed of morn, our faces turned When volcan glares set all the east aglow, We are not poorer that we wept and yearned; Though earth swing wide from God's intent, And though no man nor nation Will move with full consent In heavenly gravitation, Yet by one Sun is every orbit bent.



FOR AN AUTOGRAPH

Though old the thought and oft exprest, 'Tis his at last who says it best,— I'll try my fortune with the rest.

Life is a leaf of paper white Whereon each one of us may write His word or two, and then comes night.

'Lo, time and space enough,' we cry, 'To write an epic!' so we try Our nibs upon the edge, and die.

Muse not which way the pen to hold, Luck hates the slow and loves the bold, Soon come the darkness and the cold.

Greatly begin! though thou have time But for a line, be that sublime,— Not failure, but low aim, is crime.

Ah, with what lofty hope we came! But we forget it, dream of fame, And scrawl, as I do here, a name.



AL FRESCO

The dandelions and buttercups Gild all the lawn; the drowsy bee Stumbles among the clover-tops, And summer sweetens all but me: Away, unfruitful lore of books, For whose vain idiom we reject The soul's more native dialect, Aliens among the birds and brooks, Dull to interpret or conceive What gospels lost the woods retrieve! 10 Away, ye critics, city-bred, Who springes set of thus and so, And in the first man's footsteps tread, Like those who toil through drifted snow! Away, my poets, whose sweet spell Can make a garden of a cell! I need ye not, for I to-day Will make one long sweet verse of play.

Snap, chord of manhood's tenser strain! To-day I will be a boy again; 20 The mind's pursuing element, Like a bow slackened and unbent, In some dark corner shall be leant. The robin sings, as of old, from the limb! The cat-bird croons in the lilac-bush! Through the dim arbor, himself more dim, Silently hops the hermit-thrush, The withered leaves keep dumb for him; The irreverent buccaneering bee Hath stormed and rifled the nunnery 30 Of the lily, and scattered the sacred floor With haste-dropt gold from shrine to door; There, as of yore, The rich, milk-tingeing buttercup Its tiny polished urn holds up, Filled with ripe summer to the edge, The sun in his own wine to pledge; And our tall elm, this hundredth year Doge of our leafy Venice here, Who, with an annual ring, doth wed 40 The blue Adriatic overhead, Shadows with his palatial mass The deep canals of flowing grass.

O unestranged birds and bees! O face of Nature always true! O never-unsympathizing trees! O never-rejecting roof of blue, Whose rash disherison never falls On us unthinking prodigals, Yet who convictest all our ill, 50 So grand and unappeasable! Methinks my heart from each of these Plucks part of childhood back again, Long there imprisoned, as the breeze Doth every hidden odor seize Of wood and water, hill and plain: Once more am I admitted peer In the upper house of Nature here, And feel through all my pulses run The royal blood of wind and sun. 60

Upon these elm-arched solitudes No hum of neighbor toil intrudes; The only hammer that I hear Is wielded by the woodpecker, The single noisy calling his In all our leaf-hid Sybaris; The good old time, close-hidden here, Persists, a loyal cavalier, While Roundheads prim, with point of fox, Probe wainscot-chink and empty box; 70 Here no hoarse-voiced iconoclast, Insults thy statues, royal Past; Myself too prone the axe to wield, I touch the silver side of the shield With lance reversed, and challenge peace, A willing convert of the trees.

How chanced it that so long I tost A cable's length from this rich coast, With foolish anchors hugging close The beckoning weeds and lazy ooze, 80 Nor had the wit to wreck before On this enchanted island's shore, Whither the current of the sea, With wiser drift, persuaded me?

Oh, might we but of such rare days Build up the spirit's dwelling-place! A temple of so Parian stone Would brook a marble god alone, The statue of a perfect life, Far-shrined from earth's bestaining strife. 90 Alas! though such felicity In our vext world here may not be, Yet, as sometimes the peasant's hut Shows stones which old religion cut With text inspired, or mystic sign Of the Eternal and Divine, Torn from the consecration deep Of some fallen nunnery's mossy sleep, So, from the ruins of this day Crumbling in golden dust away, 100 The soul one gracious block may draw, Carved with, some fragment of the law, Which, set in life's prosaic wall, Old benedictions may recall, And lure some nunlike thoughts to take Their dwelling here for memory's sake.



MASACCIO

IN THE BRANCACCI CHAPEL

He came to Florence long ago, And painted here these walls, that shone For Raphael and for Angelo, With secrets deeper than his own, Then shrank into the dark again, And died, we know not how or when.

The shadows deepened, and I turned Half sadly from the fresco grand; 'And is this,' mused I, 'all ye earned, High-vaulted brain and cunning hand, That ye to greater men could teach The skill yourselves could never reach?'

'And who were they,' I mused, 'that wrought Through pathless wilds, with labor long, The highways of our daily thought? Who reared those towers of earliest song That lift us from the crowd to peace Remote in sunny silences?'

Out clanged the Ave Mary bells, And to my heart this message came: Each clamorous throat among them tells What strong-souled martyrs died in flame To make it possible that thou Shouldst here with brother sinners bow.

Thoughts that great hearts once broke for, we Breathe cheaply in the common air; The dust we trample heedlessly Throbbed once in saints and heroes rare, Who perished, opening for their race New pathways to the commonplace.

Henceforth, when rings the health to those Who live in story and in song, O nameless dead, that now repose, Safe in Oblivion's chambers strong, One cup of recognition true Shall silently be drained to you!



WITHOUT AND WITHIN

My coachman, in the moonlight there, Looks through the side-light of the door; I hear him with his brethren swear, As I could do,—but only more.

Flattening his nose against the pane, He envies me my brilliant lot, Breathes on his aching fists in vain, And dooms me to a place more hot.

He sees me in to supper go, A silken wonder by my side, Bare arms, bare shoulders, and a row Of flounces, for the door too wide.

He thinks how happy is my arm 'Neath its white-gloved and jewelled load; And wishes me some dreadful harm, Hearing the merry corks explode.

Meanwhile I inly curse the bore Of hunting still the same old coon, And envy him, outside the door, In golden quiets of the moon.

The winter wind is not so cold As the bright smile he sees me win, Nor the host's oldest wine so old As our poor gabble sour and thin.

I envy him the ungyved prance With which his freezing feet he warms, And drag my lady's chains and dance The galley-slave of dreary forms.

Oh, could he have my share of din, And I his quiet!—past a doubt 'Twould still be one man bored within, And just another bored without.

Nay, when, once paid my mortal fee, Some idler on my headstone grim Traces the moss-blurred name, will he Think me the happier, or I him?



THE PARTING OF THE WAYS



GODMINSTER CHIMES

WRITTEN IN AID OF A CHIME OF BELLS FOR CHRIST CHURCH, CAMBRIDGE

Godminster? Is it Fancy's play? I know not, but the word Sings in my heart, nor can I say Whether 'twas dreamed or heard; Yet fragrant in my mind it clings As blossoms after rain, And builds of half-remembered things This vision in my brain.

Through aisles of long-drawn centuries My spirit walks in thought, And to that symbol lifts its eyes Which God's own pity wrought; From Calvary shines the altar's gleam, The Church's East is there, The Ages one great minster seem, That throbs with praise and prayer.

And all the way from Calvary down The carven pavement shows Their graves who won the martyr's crown And safe in God repose; The saints of many a warring creed Who now in heaven have learned That all paths to the Father lead Where Self the feet have spurned.

And, as the mystic aisles I pace, By aureoled workmen built, Lives ending at the Cross I trace Alike through grace and guilt; One Mary bathes the blessed feet With ointment from her eyes, With spikenard one, and both are sweet, For both are sacrifice.

Moravian hymn and Roman chant In one devotion blend, To speak the soul's eternal want Of Him, the inmost friend; One prayer soars cleansed with martyr fire, One choked with sinner's tears, In heaven both meet in one desire, And God one music hears.

Whilst thus I dream, the bells clash out Upon the Sabbath air, Each seems a hostile faith to shout, A selfish form of prayer: My dream is shattered, yet who knows But in that heaven so near These discords find harmonious close In God's atoning ear?

O chime of sweet Saint Charity, Peal soon that Easter morn When Christ for all shall risen be, And in all hearts new-born! That Pentecost when utterance clear To all men shall be given, When all shall say My Brother here, And hear My Son in heaven!



THE PARTING OF THE WAYS

Who hath not been a poet? Who hath not, With life's new quiver full of winged years, Shot at a venture, and then, following on, Stood doubtful at the Parting of the Ways?

There once I stood in dream, and as I paused, Looking this way and that, came forth to me The figure of a woman veiled, that said, 'My name is Duty, turn and follow me;' Something there was that chilled me in her voice; I felt Youth's hand grow slack and cold in mine, 10 As if to be withdrawn, and I exclaimed: 'Oh, leave the hot wild heart within my breast! Duty comes soon enough, too soon comes Death; This slippery globe of life whirls of itself, Hasting our youth away into the dark; These senses, quivering with electric heats, Too soon will show, like nests on wintry boughs Obtrusive emptiness, too palpable wreck, Which whistling north-winds line with downy snow Sometimes, or fringe with foliaged rime, in vain, 20 Thither the singing birds no more return.'

Then glowed to me a maiden from the left, With bosom half disclosed, and naked arms More white and undulant than necks of swans; And all before her steps an influence ran Warm as the whispering South that opens buds And swells the laggard sails of Northern May. 'I am called Pleasure, come with me!' she said, Then laughed, and shook out sunshine from her hair, Nor only that, but, so it seemed, shook out 30 All memory too, and all the moonlit past, Old loves, old aspirations, and old dreams, More beautiful for being old and gone.

So we two went together; downward sloped The path through yellow meads, or so I dreamed, Yellow with sunshine and young green, but I Saw naught nor heard, shut up in one close joy; I only felt the hand within my own, Transmuting all my blood to golden fire, Dissolving all my brain in throbbing mist. 40

Suddenly shrank the hand; suddenly burst A cry that split the torpor of my brain, And as the first sharp thrust of lightning loosens From the heaped cloud its rain, loosened my sense: 'Save me!' it thrilled; 'oh, hide me! there is Death! Death the divider, the unmerciful, That digs his pitfalls under Love and Youth, And covers Beauty up in the cold ground; Horrible Death! bringer of endless dark; Let him not see me! hide me in thy breast!' 50 Thereat I strove to clasp her, but my arms Met only what slipped crumbling down, and fell, A handful of gray ashes, at my feet.

I would have fled, I would have followed back That pleasant path we came, but all was changed; Rocky the way, abrupt, and hard to find; Yet I toiled on, and, toiling on, I thought, 'That way lies Youth, and Wisdom, and all Good; For only by unlearning Wisdom comes And climbing backward to diviner Youth; 60 What the world teaches profits to the world, What the soul teaches profits to the soul, Which then first stands erect with Godward face, When she lets fall her pack of withered facts, The gleanings of the outward eye and ear, And looks and listens with her finer sense; Nor Truth nor Knowledge cometh from without.'

After long, weary days I stood again And waited at the Parting of the Ways; Again the figure of a woman veiled 70 Stood forth and beckoned, and I followed now: Down to no bower of roses led the path, But through the streets of towns where chattering Cold Hewed wood for fires whose glow was owned and fenced, Where Nakedness wove garments of warm wool Not for itself;—or through the fields it led Where Hunger reaped the unattainable grain, Where idleness enforced saw idle lands, Leagues of unpeopled soil, the common earth, Walled round with paper against God and Man. 80 'I cannot look,' I groaned, 'at only these; The heart grows hardened with perpetual wont, And palters with a feigned necessity, Bargaining with itself to be content; Let me behold thy face.' The Form replied: 'Men follow Duty, never overtake; Duty nor lifts her veil nor looks behind.' But, as she spake, a loosened lock of hair Slipped from beneath her hood, and I, who looked To see it gray and thin, saw amplest gold; 90 Not that dull metal dug from sordid earth, But such as the retiring sunset flood Leaves heaped on bays and capes of island cloud. 'O Guide divine,' I prayed, 'although not yet I may repair the virtue which I feel Gone out at touch of untuned things and foul With draughts of Beauty, yet declare how soon!'

'Faithless and faint of heart,' the voice returned, 'Thou seest no beauty save thou make it first; Man, Woman, Nature each is but a glass 100 Where the soul sees the image of herself, Visible echoes, offsprings of herself. But, since thou need'st assurance of how soon, Wait till that angel comes who opens all, The reconciler, he who lifts the veil, The reuniter, the rest-bringer, Death.'

I waited, and methought he came; but how, Or in what shape, I doubted, for no sign, By touch or mark, he gave me as he passed; Only I knew a lily that I held 110 Snapt short below the head and shrivelled up; Then turned my Guide and looked at me unveiled, And I beheld no face of matron stern, But that enchantment I had followed erst, Only more fair, more clear to eye and brain, Heightened and chastened by a household charm; She smiled, and 'Which is fairer,' said her eyes, 'The hag's unreal Florimel or mine?'



ALADDIN

When I was a beggarly boy And lived in a cellar damp, I had not a friend nor a toy, But I had Aladdin's lamp; When I could not sleep for the cold, I had fire enough in my brain, And builded, with roofs of gold, My beautiful castles in Spain!

Since then I have toiled day and night, I have money and power good store, But I'd give all my lamps of silver bright For the one that is mine no more; Take, Fortune, whatever you choose, You gave, and may snatch again; I have nothing 'twould pain me to lose, For I own no more castles in Spain!



AN INVITATION

TO J[OHN] F[RANCIS] H[EATH]

Nine years have slipt like hour-glass sand From life's still-emptying globe away, Since last, dear friend, I clasped your hand, And stood upon the impoverished land, Watching the steamer down the bay.

I held the token which you gave, While slowly the smoke-pennon curled O'er the vague rim 'tween sky and wave, And shut the distance like a grave, Leaving me in the colder world; 10

The old, worn world of hurry and heat, The young, fresh world of thought and scope; While you, where beckoning billows fleet Climb far sky-beaches still and sweet, Sank wavering down the ocean-slope.

You sought the new world in the old, I found the old world in the new, All that our human hearts can hold, The inward world of deathless mould, The same that Father Adam knew. 20

He needs no ship to cross the tide, Who, in the lives about him, sees Fair window-prospects opening wide O'er history's fields on every side, To Ind and Egypt, Rome and Greece.

Whatever moulds of various brain E'er shaped the world to weal or woe, Whatever empires' wax and wane To him that hath not eyes in vain, Our village-microcosm can show. 30

Come back our ancient walks to tread, Dear haunts of lost or scattered friends, Old Harvard's scholar-factories red, Where song and smoke and laughter sped The nights to proctor-haunted ends.

Constant are all our former loves, Unchanged the icehouse-girdled pond, Its hemlock glooms, its shadowy coves, Where floats the coot and never moves, Its slopes of long-tamed green beyond. 40

Our old familiars are not laid, Though snapt our wands and sunk our books; They beckon, not to be gainsaid, Where, round broad meads that mowers wade, The Charles his steel-blue sickle crooks.

Where, as the cloudbergs eastward blow, From glow to gloom the hillsides shift Their plumps of orchard-trees arow, Their lakes of rye that wave and flow, Their snowy whiteweed's summer drift. 50

There have we watched the West unfurl A cloud Byzantium newly born, With flickering spires and domes of pearl, And vapory surfs that crowd and curl Into the sunset's Golden Horn.

There, as the flaming occident Burned slowly down to ashes gray, Night pitched o'erhead her silent tent, And glimmering gold from Hesper sprent Upon the darkened river lay, 60

Where a twin sky but just before Deepened, and double swallows skimmed, And from a visionary shore Hung visioned trees, that more and more Grew dusk as those above were dimmed.

Then eastward saw we slowly grow Clear-edged the lines of roof and spire, While great elm-masses blacken slow, And linden-ricks their round heads show Against a flush of widening fire. 70

Doubtful at first and far away, The moon-flood creeps more wide and wide; Up a ridged beach of cloudy gray, Curved round the east as round a bay, It slips and spreads its gradual tide.

Then suddenly, in lurid mood, The disk looms large o'er town and field As upon Adam, red like blood, 'Tween him and Eden's happy wood, Glared the commissioned angel's shield. 80

Or let us seek the seaside, there To wander idly as we list, Whether, on rocky headlands bare, Sharp cedar-horns, like breakers, tear The trailing fringes of gray mist,

Or whether, under skies full flown, The brightening surfs, with foamy din, Their breeze-caught forelocks backward blown, Against the beach's yellow zone Curl slow, and plunge forever in. 90

And, as we watch those canvas towers That lean along the horizon's rim, 'Sail on,' I'll say; 'may sunniest hours Convoy you from this land of ours, Since from my side you bear not him!'

For years thrice three, wise Horace said, A poem rare let silence bind; And love may ripen to the shade, Like ours, for nine long seasons laid In deepest arches of the mind. 100

Come back! Not ours the Old World's good, The Old World's ill, thank God, not ours; But here, far better understood, The days enforce our native mood, And challenge all our manlier powers.

Kindlier to me the place of birth That first my tottering footsteps trod; There may be fairer spots of earth, But all their glories are not worth The virtue in the native sod. 110

Thence climbs an influence more benign Through pulse and nerve, through heart and brain; Sacred to me those fibres fine That first clasped earth. Oh, ne'er be mine The alien sun and alien rain!

These nourish not like homelier glows Or waterings of familiar skies, And nature fairer blooms bestows On the heaped hush of wintry snows, In pastures dear to childhood's eyes, 120

Than where Italian earth receives The partial sunshine's ampler boons, Where vines carve friezes 'neath the eaves, And, in dark firmaments of leaves, The orange lifts its golden moons.



THE NOMADES

What Nature makes in any mood To me is warranted for good, Though long before I learned to see She did not set us moral theses, And scorned to have her sweet caprices Strait-waistcoated in you or me.

I, who take root and firmly cling, Thought fixedness the only thing; Why Nature made the butterflies, (Those dreams of wings that float and hover 10 At noon the slumberous poppies over,) Was something hidden from mine eyes,

Till once, upon a rock's brown bosom, Bright as a thorny cactus-blossom, I saw a butterfly at rest; Then first of both I felt the beauty; The airy whim, the grim-set duty, Each from the other took its best.

Clearer it grew than winter sky That Nature still had reasons why; 20 And, shifting sudden as a breeze, My fancy found no satisfaction, No antithetic sweet attraction, So great as in the Nomades.

Scythians, with Nature not at strife, Light Arabs of our complex life, They build no houses, plant no mills To utilize Time's sliding river, Content that it flow waste forever, If they, like it, may have their wills. 30

An hour they pitch their shifting tents In thoughts, in feelings, and events; Beneath the palm-trees, on the grass, They sing, they dance, make love, and chatter, Vex the grim temples with their clatter, And make Truth's fount their looking-glass.

A picnic life; from love to love, From faith to faith they lightly move, And yet, hard-eyed philosopher, The flightiest maid that ever hovered 40 To me your thought-webs fine discovered, No lens to see them through like her.

So witchingly her finger-tips To Wisdom, as away she trips, She kisses, waves such sweet farewells To Duty, as she laughs 'To-morrow!' That both from that mad contrast borrow A perfectness found nowhere else.

The beach-bird on its pearly verge Follows and flies the whispering surge, 50 While, in his tent, the rock-stayed shell Awaits the flood's star-timed vibrations, And both, the flutter and the patience, The sauntering poet loves them well.

Fulfil so much of God's decree As works its problem out in thee, Nor dream that in thy breast alone The conscience of the changeful seasons, The Will that in the planets reasons With space-wide logic, has its throne. 60

Thy virtue makes not vice of mine, Unlike, but none the less divine; Thy toil adorns, not chides, my play; Nature of sameness is so chary, With such wild whim the freakish fairy Picks presents for the christening-day.



SELF-STUDY

A presence both by night and day, That made my life seem just begun, Yet scarce a presence, rather say The warning aureole of one.

And yet I felt it everywhere; Walked I the woodland's aisles along, It seemed to brush me with its hair; Bathed I, I heard a mermaid's song.

How sweet it was! A buttercup Could hold for me a day's delight, A bird could lift my fancy up To ether free from cloud or blight.

Who was the nymph? Nay, I will see, Methought, and I will know her near; If such, divined, her charm can be, Seen and possessed, how triply dear!

So every magic art I tried, And spells as numberless as sand, Until, one evening, by my side I saw her glowing fulness stand.

I turned to clasp her, but 'Farewell,' Parting she sighed, 'we meet no more; Not by my hand the curtain fell That leaves you conscious, wise, and poor.

'Since you nave found me out, I go; Another lover I must find, Content his happiness to know, Nor strive its secret to unwind.'



PICTURES FROM APPLEDORE

I

A heap of bare and splintery crags Tumbled about by lightning and frost, With rifts and chasms and storm-bleached jags, That wait and growl for a ship to be lost; No island, but rather the skeleton Of a wrecked and vengeance-smitten one, Where, aeons ago, with half-shut eye, The sluggish saurian crawled to die, Gasping under titanic ferns; Ribs of rock that seaward jut, 10 Granite shoulders and boulders and snags, Round which, though the winds in heaven be shut, The nightmared ocean murmurs and yearns, Welters, and swashes, and tosses, and turns, And the dreary black seaweed lolls and wags; Only rock from shore to shore, Only a moan through the bleak clefts blown, With sobs in the rifts where the coarse kelp shifts, Falling and lifting, tossing and drifting, And under all a deep, dull roar, 20 Dying and swelling, forevermore,— Rock and moan and roar alone, And the dread of some nameless thing unknown, These make Appledore.

These make Appledore by night: Then there are monsters left and right; Every rock is a different monster; All you have read of, fancied, dreamed, When you waked at night because you screamed, There they lie for half a mile, 30 Jumbled together in a pile, And (though you know they never once stir) If you look long, they seem to be moving Just as plainly as plain can be, Crushing and crowding, wading and shoving Out into the awful sea, Where you can hear them snort and spout With pauses between, as if they were listening, Then tumult anon when the surf breaks glistening In the blackness where they wallow about. 40

II

All this you would scarcely comprehend, Should you see the isle on a sunny day; Then it is simple enough in its way,— Two rocky bulges, one at each end, With a smaller bulge and a hollow between; Patches of whortleberry and bay; Accidents of open green, Sprinkled with loose slabs square and gray, Like graveyards for ages deserted; a few Unsocial thistles; an elder or two, 50 Foamed over with blossoms white as spray; And on the whole island never a tree Save a score of sumachs, high as your knee. That crouch in hollows where they may, (The cellars where once stood a village, men say,) Huddling for warmth, and never grew Tall enough for a peep at the sea; A general dazzle of open blue; A breeze always blowing and playing rat-tat With the bow of the ribbon round your hat; 60 A score of sheep that do nothing but stare Up or down at you everywhere; Three or four cattle that chew the cud Lying about in a listless despair; A medrick that makes you look overhead With short, sharp scream, as he sights his prey, And, dropping straight and swift as lead, Splits the water with sudden thud;— This is Appledore by day.

A common island, you will say; 70 But stay a moment: only climb Up to the highest rock of the isle, Stand there alone for a little while, And with gentle approaches it grows sublime, Dilating slowly as you win A sense from the silence to take it in. So wide the loneness, so lucid the air, The granite beneath you so savagely bare, You well might think you were looking down From some sky-silenced mountain's crown, 80 Whose waist-belt of pines is wont to tear Locks of wool from the topmost cloud. Only be sure you go alone, For Grandeur is inaccessibly proud, And never yet has backward thrown Her veil to feed the stare of a crowd; To more than one was never shown That awful front, nor is it fit That she, Cothurnus-shod, stand bowed Until the self-approving pit 90 Enjoy the gust of its own wit In babbling plaudits cheaply loud; She hides her mountains and her sea From the harriers of scenery, Who hunt down sunsets, and huddle and bay, Mouthing and mumbling the dying day.

Trust me, 'tis something to be cast Face to face with one's Self at last, To be taken out of the fuss and strife, The endless clatter of plate and knife, 100 The bore of books and the bores of the street, From the singular mess we agree to call Life, Where that is best which the most fools vote is, And planted firm on one's own two feet So nigh to the great warm heart of God, You almost seem to feel it beat Down from the sunshine and up from the sod; To be compelled, as it were, to notice All the beautiful changes and chances Through which the landscape flits and glances, 110 And to see how the face of common day Is written all over with tender histories, When you study it that intenser way In which a lover looks at his mistress.

Till now you dreamed not what could be done With a bit of rock and a ray of sun: But look, how fade the lights and shades Of keen bare edge and crevice deep! How doubtfully it fades and fades, And glows again, yon craggy steep, 120 O'er which, through color's dreamiest grades, The musing sunbeams pause and creep! Now pink it blooms, now glimmers gray, Now shadows to a filmy blue, Tries one, tries all, and will not stay, But flits from opal hue to hue, And runs through every tenderest range Of change that seems not to be change, So rare the sweep, so nice the art, That lays no stress on any part, 130 But shifts and lingers and persuades; So soft that sun-brush in the west, That asks no costlier pigments' aids, But mingling knobs, flaws, angles, dints, Indifferent of worst or best, Enchants the cliffs with wraiths and hints And gracious preludings of tints, Where all seems fixed, yet all evades, And indefinably pervades Perpetual movement with perpetual rest! 140

III

Away northeast is Boone Island light; You might mistake it for a ship, Only it stands too plumb upright, And like the others does not slip Behind the sea's unsteady brink; Though, if a cloud-shade chance to dip Upon it a moment, 'twill suddenly sink, Levelled and lost in the darkened main, Till the sun builds it suddenly up again, As if with a rub of Aladdin's lamp. 150 On the mainland you see a misty camp Of mountains pitched tumultuously: That one looming so long and large Is Saddleback, and that point you see Over yon low and rounded marge, Like the boss of a sleeping giant's targe Laid over his breast, is Ossipee; That shadow there may be Kearsarge; That must be Great Haystack; I love these names, Wherewith the lonely farmer tames 160 Nature to mute companionship With his own mind's domestic mood, And strives the surly world to clip In the arms of familiar habitude. 'Tis well he could not contrive to make A Saxon of Agamenticus: He glowers there to the north of us, Wrapt in his blanket of blue haze, Unconvertibly savage, and scorns to take The white man's baptism or his ways. 170 Him first on shore the coaster divines Through the early gray, and sees him shake The morning mist from his scalp-lock of pines; Him first the skipper makes out in the west, Ere the earliest sunstreak shoots tremulous, Plashing with orange the palpitant lines Of mutable billow, crest after crest, And murmurs Agamenticus! As if it were the name of a saint. But is that a mountain playing cloud, 180 Or a cloud playing mountain, just there, so faint? Look along over the low right shoulder Of Agamenticus into that crowd Of brassy thunderheads behind it; Now you have caught it, but, ere you are older By half an hour, you will lose it and find it A score of times; while you look 'tis gone, And, just as you've given it up, anon It is there again, till your weary eyes Fancy they see it waver and rise, 190 With its brother clouds; it is Agiochook, There if you seek not, and gone if you look, Ninety miles off as the eagle flies.

But mountains make not all the shore The mainland shows to Appledore: Eight miles the heaving water spreads To a long, low coast with beaches and heads That run through unimagined mazes, As the lights and shades and magical hazes Put them away or bring them near, 200 Shimmering, sketched out for thirty miles Between two capes that waver like threads, And sink in the ocean, and reappear, Crumbled and melted to little isles With filmy trees, that seem the mere Half-fancies of drowsy atmosphere; And see the beach there, where it is Flat as a threshing-floor, beaten and packed With the flashing flails of weariless seas, How it lifts and looms to a precipice, 210 O'er whose square front, a dream, no more, The steepened sand-stripes seem to pour, A murmurless vision of cataract; You almost fancy you hear a roar, Fitful and faint from the distance wandering; But 'tis only the blind old ocean maundering, Raking the shingle to and fro, Aimlessly clutching and letting go The kelp-haired sedges of Appledore, Slipping down with a sleepy forgetting, 220 And anon his ponderous shoulder setting, With a deep, hoarse pant against Appledore.

IV

Eastward as far as the eye can see, Still eastward, eastward, endlessly, The sparkle and tremor of purple sea That rises before you, a flickering hill, On and on to the shut of the sky, And beyond, you fancy it sloping until The same multitudinous throb and thrill That vibrate under your dizzy eye 230 In ripples of orange and pink are sent Where the poppied sails doze on the yard, And the clumsy junk and proa lie Sunk deep with precious woods and nard, 'Mid the palmy isles of the Orient. Those leaning towers of clouded white On the farthest brink of doubtful ocean, That shorten and shorten out of sight, Yet seem on the selfsame spot to stay, Receding with a motionless motion, 240 Fading to dubious films of gray, Lost, dimly found, then vanished wholly, Will rise again, the great world under, First films, then towers, then high-heaped clouds, Whose nearing outlines sharpen slowly Into tall ships with cobweb shrouds, That fill long Mongol eyes with wonder, Crushing the violet wave to spray Past some low headland of Cathay;— What was that sigh which seemed so near, 250 Chilling your fancy to the core? 'Tis only the sad old sea you hear, That seems to seek forevermore Something it cannot find, and so, Sighing, seeks on, and tells its woe To the pitiless breakers of Appledore.

V

How looks Appledore in a storm? I have seen it when its crags seemed frantic, Butting against the mad Atlantic, When surge on surge would heap enorme, 260 Cliffs of emerald topped with snow, That lifted and lifted, and then let go A great white avalanche of thunder, A grinding, blinding, deafening ire Monadnock might have trembled under; And the island, whose rock-roots pierce below To where they are warmed with the central fire, You could feel its granite fibres racked, As it seemed to plunge with a shudder and thrill Right at the breast of the swooping hill, 270 And to rise again snorting a cataract Of rage-froth from every cranny and ledge, While the sea drew its breath in hoarse and deep, And the next vast breaker curled its edge, Gathering itself for a mightier leap.

North, east, and south there are reefs and breakers You would never dream of in smooth weather, That toss and gore the sea for acres, Bellowing and gnashing and snarling together; Look northward, where Duck Island lies, 280 And over its crown you will see arise, Against a background of slaty skies, A row of pillars still and white, That glimmer, and then are gone from sight, As if the moon should suddenly kiss, While you crossed the gusty desert by night, The long colonnades of Persepolis; Look southward for White Island light, The lantern stands ninety feet o'er the tide; There is first a half-mile of tumult and fight, 290 Of dash and roar and tumble and fright, And surging bewilderment wild and wide, Where the breakers struggle left and right, Then a mile or more of rushing sea, And then the lighthouse slim and lone; And whenever the weight of ocean is thrown Full and fair on White Island head, A great mist-jotun you will see Lifting himself up silently High and huge o'er the lighthouse top, 300 With hands of wavering spray outspread, Groping after the little tower, That seems to shrink and shorten and cower, Till the monster's arms of a sudden drop, And silently and fruitlessly He sinks back into the sea.

You, meanwhile, where drenched you stand, Awaken once more to the rush and roar, And on the rock-point tighten your hand, As you turn and see a valley deep, 310 That was not there a moment before, Suck rattling down between you and a heap Of toppling billow, whose instant fall Must sink the whole island once for all, Or watch the silenter, stealthier seas Feeling their way to you more and more; If they once should clutch you high as the knees, They would whirl you down like a sprig of kelp, Beyond all reach of hope or help;— And such in a storm is Appledore. 320

VI

'Tis the sight of a lifetime to behold The great shorn sun as you see it now, Across eight miles of undulant gold That widens landward, weltered and rolled, With freaks of shadow and crimson stains; To see the solid mountain brow As it notches the disk, and gains and gains, Until there comes, you scarce know when, A tremble of fire o'er the parted lips Of cloud and mountain, which vanishes; then 330 From the body of day the sun-soul slips And the face of earth darkens; but now the strips Of western vapor, straight and thin, From which the horizon's swervings win A grace of contrast, take fire and burn Like splinters of touchwood, whose edges a mould Of ashes o'er feathers; northward turn For an instant, and let your eye grow cold On Agamenticus, and when once more You look, 'tis as if the land-breeze, growing, 340 From the smouldering brands the film were blowing, And brightening them down to the very core; Yet, they momently cool and dampen and deaden, The crimson turns golden, the gold turns leaden, Hardening into one black bar O'er which, from the hollow heaven afar, Shoots a splinter of light like diamond, Half seen, half fancied; by and by Beyond whatever is most beyond In the uttermost waste of desert sky, 350 Grows a star; And over it, visible spirit of dew,— Ah, stir not, speak not, hold your breath, Or surely the miracle vanisheth,— The new moon, tranced in unspeakable blue! No frail illusion; this were true, Rather, to call it the canoe Hollowed out of a single pearl, That floats us from the Present's whirl Back to those beings which were ours, 360 When wishes were winged things like powers! Call it not light, that mystery tender, Which broods upon the brooding ocean, That flush of ecstasied surrender To indefinable emotion, That glory, mellower than a mist Of pearl dissolved with amethyst, Which rims Square Rock, like what they paint Of mitigated heavenly splendor Round the stern forehead of a Saint! 370

No more a vision, reddened, largened, The moon dips toward her mountain nest, And, fringing it with palest argent, Slow sheathes herself behind the margent Of that long cloud-bar in the West, Whose nether edge, erelong, you see The silvery chrism in turn anoint, And then the tiniest rosy point Touched doubtfully and timidly Into the dark blue's chilly strip, As some mute, wondering thing below, 381 Awakened by the thrilling glow, Might, looking up, see Dian dip One lucent foot's delaying tip In Latmian fountains long ago.

Knew you what silence was before? Here is no startle of dreaming bird That sings in his sleep, or strives to sing; Here is no sough of branches stirred, Nor noise of any living thing, 390 Such as one hears by night on shore; Only, now and then, a sigh, With fickle intervals between, Sometimes far, and sometimes nigh, Such as Andromeda might have heard, And fancied the huge sea-beast unseen Turning in sleep; it is the sea That welters and wavers uneasily. Round the lonely reefs of Appledore.



THE WIND-HARP

I treasure in secret some long, fine hair Of tenderest brown, but so inwardly golden I half used to fancy the sunshine there, So shy, so shifting, so waywardly rare, Was only caught for the moment and holden While I could say Dearest! and kiss it, and then In pity let go to the summer again.

I twisted this magic in gossamer strings Over a wind-harp's Delphian hollow; Then called to the idle breeze that swings All day in the pine-tops, and clings, and sings 'Mid the musical leaves, and said, 'Oh, follow The will of those tears that deepen my words, And fly to my window to waken these chords.'

So they trembled to life, and, doubtfully Feeling their way to my sense, sang, 'Say whether They sit all day by the greenwood tree, The lover and loved, as it wont to be, When we—' But grief conquered, and all together They swelled such weird murmur as haunts a shore Of some planet dispeopled,—'Nevermore!'

Then from deep in the past, as seemed to me, The strings gathered sorrow and sang forsaken, 'One lover still waits 'neath the greenwood tree, But 'tis dark,' and they shuddered, 'where lieth she, Dark and cold! Forever must one be taken?' But I groaned, 'O harp of all ruth bereft, This Scripture is sadder,—"the other left"!'

There murmured, as if one strove to speak, And tears came instead; then the sad tones wandered And faltered among the uncertain chords In a troubled doubt between sorrow and words; At last with themselves they questioned and pondered, 'Hereafter?—who knoweth?' and so they sighed Down the long steps that lead to silence and died.



AUF WIEDERSEHEN

SUMMER

The little gate was reached at last, Half hid in lilacs down the lane; She pushed it wide, and, as she past, A wistful look she backward cast, And said,—'Auf wiedersehen!'

With hand on latch, a vision white Lingered reluctant, and again Half doubting if she did aright, Soft as the dews that fell that night, She said,—'Auf wiedersehen!'

The lamp's clear gleam flits up the stair; I linger in delicious pain; Ah, in that chamber, whose rich air To breathe in thought I scarcely dare, Thinks she,—'Auf wiedersehen?' ...

'Tis thirteen years; once more I press The turf that silences the lane; I hear the rustle of her dress, I smell the lilacs, and—ah, yes, I hear 'Auf wiedersehen!'

Sweet piece of bashful maiden art! The English words had seemed too fain, But these—they drew us heart to heart, Yet held us tenderly apart; She said, 'Auf wiedersehen!'



PALINODE

AUTUMN

Still thirteen years: 'tis autumn now On field and hill, in heart and brain; The naked trees at evening sough; The leaf to the forsaken bough Sighs not,—'Auf wiedersehen!'

Two watched yon oriole's pendent dome, That now is void, and dank with rain, And one,—oh, hope more frail than foam! The bird to his deserted home Sings not,—'Auf wiedersehen!'

The loath gate swings with rusty creak; Once, parting there, we played at pain: There came a parting, when the weak And fading lips essayed to speak Vainly,—'Auf wiedersehen!'

Somewhere is comfort, somewhere faith, Though thou in outer dark remain; One sweet sad voice ennobles death, And still, for eighteen centuries saith Softly,—'Auf wiedersehen!'

If earth another grave must bear, Yet heaven hath won a sweeter strain, And something whispers my despair, That, from an orient chamber there, Floats down, 'Auf wiedersehen!'



AFTER THE BURIAL

Yes, faith is a goodly anchor; When skies are sweet as a psalm, At the bows it lolls so stalwart, In its bluff, broad-shouldered calm.

And when over breakers to leeward The tattered surges are hurled, It may keep our head to the tempest, With its grip on the base of the world.

But, after the shipwreck, tell me What help in its iron thews, Still true to the broken hawser, Deep down among sea-weed and ooze?

In the breaking gulfs of sorrow, When the helpless feet stretch out And find in the deeps of darkness No footing so solid as doubt,

Then better one spar of Memory, One broken plank of the Past, That our human heart may cling to, Though hopeless of shore at last!

To the spirit its splendid conjectures, To the flesh its sweet despair, Its tears o'er the thin-worn locket With its anguish of deathless hair!

Immortal? I feel it and know it, Who doubts it of such as she? But that is the pang's very secret,— Immortal away from me.

There's a narrow ridge in the graveyard Would scarce stay a child in his race, But to me and my thought it is wider Than the star-sown vague of Space.

Your logic, my friend, is perfect, Your moral most drearily true; But, since the earth clashed on her coffin, I keep hearing that, and not you.

Console if you will, I can bear it; 'Tis a well-meant alms of breath; But not all the preaching since Adam Has made Death other than Death.

It is pagan; but wait till you feel it,— That jar of our earth, that dull shock When the ploughshare of deeper passion Tears down to our primitive rock.

Communion in spirit! Forgive me, But I, who am earthly and weak, Would give all my incomes from dreamland For a touch of her hand on my cheek. That little shoe in the corner, So worn and wrinkled and brown, With its emptiness confutes you, And argues your wisdom down.



THE DEAD HOUSE

Here once my step was quickened, Here beckoned the opening door, And welcome thrilled from the threshold To the foot it had known before.

A glow came forth to meet me From the flame that laughed in the grate, And shadows adance on the ceiling, Danced blither with mine for a mate.

'I claim you, old friend,' yawned the arm-chair, 'This corner, you know, is your seat;' 'Best your slippers on me,' beamed the fender, 'I brighten at touch of your feet.'

'We know the practised finger,' Said the books, 'that seems like brain;' And the shy page rustled the secret It had kept till I came again.

Sang the pillow, 'My down once quivered On nightingales' throats that flew Through moonlit gardens of Hafiz To gather quaint dreams for you.'

Ah me, where the Past sowed heart's-ease. The Present plucks rue for us men! I come back: that scar unhealing Was not in the churchyard then.

But, I think, the house is unaltered, I will go and beg to look At the rooms that were once familiar To my life as its bed to a brook.

Unaltered! Alas for the sameness That makes the change but more! 'Tis a dead man I see in the mirrors, 'Tis his tread that chills the floor!

To learn such a simple lesson, Need I go to Paris and Rome, That the many make the household, But only one the home?

'Twas just a womanly presence, An influence unexprest, But a rose she had worn, on my gravesod Were more than long life with the rest!

'Twas a smile, 'twas a garment's rustle, 'Twas nothing that I can phrase. But the whole dumb dwelling grew conscious, And put on her looks and ways.

Were it mine I would close the shutters, Like lids when the life is fled, And the funeral fire should wind it, This corpse of a home that is dead.

For it died that autumn morning When she, its soul, was borne To lie all dark on the hillside That looks over woodland and corn.



A MOOD

I go to the ridge in the forest I haunted in days gone by, But thou, O Memory, pourest No magical drop in mine eye, Nor the gleam of the secret restorest That hath faded from earth and sky: A Presence autumnal and sober Invests every rock and tree, And the aureole of October Lights the maples, but darkens me.

Pine in the distance, Patient through sun or rain, Meeting with graceful persistence, With yielding but rooted resistance, The northwind's wrench and strain, No memory of past existence Brings thee pain; Right for the zenith heading, Friendly with heat or cold, Thine arms to the influence spreading Of the heavens, just from of old, Thou only aspirest the more, Unregretful the old leaves shedding That fringed thee with music before, And deeper thy roots embedding In the grace and the beauty of yore; Thou sigh'st not, 'Alas, I am older, The green of last summer is sear!' But loftier, hopefuller, bolder, Winnest broader horizons each year.

To me 'tis not cheer thou art singing: There's a sound of the sea, O mournful tree, In thy boughs forever clinging, And the far-off roar Of waves on the shore A shattered vessel flinging.

As thou musest still of the ocean On which thou must float at last, And seem'st to foreknow The shipwreck's woe And the sailor wrenched from the broken mast, Do I, in this vague emotion, This sadness that will not pass, Though the air throb with wings, And the field laughs and sings, Do I forebode, alas! The ship-building longer and wearier, The voyage's struggle and strife, And then the darker and drearier Wreck of a broken life?



THE VOYAGE TO VINLAND

I

BIOeRN'S BECKONERS

Now Bioern, the son of Heriulf, had ill days Because the heart within him seethed with blood That would not be allayed with any toil, Whether of war or hunting or the oar, But was anhungered for some joy untried: For the brain grew not weary with the limbs, But, while they slept, still hammered like a Troll, Building all night a bridge of solid dream Between him and some purpose of his soul, Or will to find a purpose. With the dawn 10 The sleep-laid timbers, crumbled to soft mist, Denied all foothold. But the dream remained, And every night with yellow-bearded kings His sleep was haunted,—mighty men of old, Once young as he, now ancient like the gods, And safe as stars in all men's memories. Strange sagas read he in their sea-blue eyes Cold as the sea, grandly compassionless; Like life, they made him eager and then mocked. Nay, broad awake, they would not let him be; 20 They shaped themselves gigantic in the mist, They rose far-beckoning in the lamps of heaven, They whispered invitation in the winds, And breath came from them, mightier than the wind, To strain the lagging sails of his resolve, Till that grew passion which before was wish, And youth seemed all too costly to be staked On the soiled cards wherewith men played their game, Letting Time pocket up the larger life, Lost with base gain of raiment, food, and roof. 30 'What helpeth lightness of the feet?' they said, 'Oblivion runs with swifter foot than they; Or strength of sinew? New men come as strong, And those sleep nameless; or renown in war? Swords grave no name on the long-memoried rock But moss shall hide it; they alone who wring Some secret purpose from the unwilling gods Survive in song for yet a little while To vex, like us, the dreams of later men, Ourselves a dream, and dreamlike all we did.' 40