1852.



PICTURES

I.

Light, warmth, and sprouting greenness, and o'er all Blue, stainless, steel-bright ether, raining down Tranquillity upon the deep-hushed town, The freshening meadows, and the hillsides brown; Voice of the west-wind from the hills of pine, And the brimmed river from its distant fall, Low hum of bees, and joyous interlude Of bird-songs in the streamlet-skirting wood,— Heralds and prophecies of sound and sight, Blessed forerunners of the warmth and light, Attendant angels to the house of prayer, With reverent footsteps keeping pace with mine,— Once more, through God's great love, with you I share A morn of resurrection sweet and fair As that which saw, of old, in Palestine, Immortal Love uprising in fresh bloom From the dark night and winter of the tomb!

2d, 5th mo., 1852.

II.

White with its sun-bleached dust, the pathway winds Before me; dust is on the shrunken grass, And on the trees beneath whose boughs I pass; Frail screen against the Hunter of the sky, Who, glaring on me with his lidless eye, While mounting with his dog-star high and higher Ambushed in light intolerable, unbinds The burnished quiver of his shafts of fire. Between me and the hot fields of his South A tremulous glow, as from a furnace-mouth, Glimmers and swims before my dazzled sight, As if the burning arrows of his ire Broke as they fell, and shattered into light; Yet on my cheek I feel the western wind, And hear it telling to the orchard trees, And to the faint and flower-forsaken bees, Tales of fair meadows, green with constant streams, And mountains rising blue and cool behind, Where in moist dells the purple orchis gleams, And starred with white the virgin's bower is twined. So the o'erwearied pilgrim, as he fares Along life's summer waste, at times is fanned, Even at noontide, by the cool, sweet airs Of a serener and a holier land, Fresh as the morn, and as the dewfall bland. Breath of the blessed Heaven for which we pray, Blow from the eternal hills! make glad our earthly way!

8th mo., 1852.



SUMMER BY THE LAKESIDE

LAKE WINNIPESAUKEE.

I. NOON.

White clouds, whose shadows haunt the deep, Light mists, whose soft embraces keep The sunshine on the hills asleep!

O isles of calm! O dark, still wood! And stiller skies that overbrood Your rest with deeper quietude!

O shapes and hues, dim beckoning, through Yon mountain gaps, my longing view Beyond the purple and the blue,

To stiller sea and greener land, And softer lights and airs more bland, And skies,—the hollow of God's hand!

Transfused through you, O mountain friends! With mine your solemn spirit blends, And life no more hath separate ends.

I read each misty mountain sign, I know the voice of wave and pine, And I am yours, and ye are mine.

Life's burdens fall, its discords cease, I lapse into the glad release Of Nature's own exceeding peace.

O welcome calm of heart and mind! As falls yon fir-tree's loosened rind To leave a tenderer growth behind,

So fall the weary years away; A child again, my head I lay Upon the lap of this sweet day.

This western wind hath Lethean powers, Yon noonday cloud nepenthe showers, The lake is white with lotus-flowers!

Even Duty's voice is faint and low, And slumberous Conscience, waking slow, Forgets her blotted scroll to show.

The Shadow which pursues us all, Whose ever-nearing steps appall, Whose voice we hear behind us call,—

That Shadow blends with mountain gray, It speaks but what the light waves say,— Death walks apart from Fear to-day!

Rocked on her breast, these pines and I Alike on Nature's love rely; And equal seems to live or die.

Assured that He whose presence fills With light the spaces of these hills No evil to His creatures wills,

The simple faith remains, that He Will do, whatever that may be, The best alike for man and tree.

What mosses over one shall grow, What light and life the other know, Unanxious, leaving Him to show.

II. EVENING.

Yon mountain's side is black with night, While, broad-orhed, o'er its gleaming crown The moon, slow-rounding into sight, On the hushed inland sea looks down.

How start to light the clustering isles, Each silver-hemmed! How sharply show The shadows of their rocky piles, And tree-tops in the wave below!

How far and strange the mountains seem, Dim-looming through the pale, still light The vague, vast grouping of a dream, They stretch into the solemn night.

Beneath, lake, wood, and peopled vale, Hushed by that presence grand and grave, Are silent, save the cricket's wail, And low response of leaf and wave.

Fair scenes! whereto the Day and Night Make rival love, I leave ye soon, What time before the eastern light The pale ghost of the setting moon

Shall hide behind yon rocky spines, And the young archer, Morn, shall break His arrows on the mountain pines, And, golden-sandalled, walk the lake!

Farewell! around this smiling bay Gay-hearted Health, and Life in bloom, With lighter steps than mine, may stray In radiant summers yet to come.

But none shall more regretful leave These waters and these hills than I Or, distant, fonder dream how eve Or dawn is painting wave and sky;

How rising moons shine sad and mild On wooded isle and silvering bay; Or setting suns beyond the piled And purple mountains lead the day;

Nor laughing girl, nor bearding boy, Nor full-pulsed manhood, lingering here, Shall add, to life's abounding joy, The charmed repose to suffering dear.

Still waits kind Nature to impart Her choicest gifts to such as gain An entrance to her loving heart Through the sharp discipline of pain.

Forever from the Hand that takes One blessing from us others fall; And, soon or late, our Father makes His perfect recompense to all!

Oh, watched by Silence and the Night, And folded in the strong embrace Of the great mountains, with the light Of the sweet heavens upon thy face,

Lake of the Northland! keep thy dower Of beauty still, and while above Thy solemn mountains speak of power, Be thou the mirror of God's love.

1853.



THE FRUIT-GIFT.

Last night, just as the tints of autumn's sky Of sunset faded from our hills and streams, I sat, vague listening, lapped in twilight dreams, To the leaf's rustle, and the cricket's cry.

Then, like that basket, flush with summer fruit, Dropped by the angels at the Prophet's foot, Came, unannounced, a gift of clustered sweetness, Full-orbed, and glowing with the prisoned beams Of summery suns, and rounded to completeness By kisses of the south-wind and the dew. Thrilled with a glad surprise, methought I knew The pleasure of the homeward-turning Jew, When Eshcol's clusters on his shoulders lay, Dropping their sweetness on his desert way.

I said, "This fruit beseems no world of sin. Its parent vine, rooted in Paradise, O'ercrept the wall, and never paid the price Of the great mischief,—an ambrosial tree, Eden's exotic, somehow smuggled in, To keep the thorns and thistles company." Perchance our frail, sad mother plucked in haste A single vine-slip as she passed the gate, Where the dread sword alternate paled and burned, And the stern angel, pitying her fate, Forgave the lovely trespasser, and turned Aside his face of fire; and thus the waste And fallen world hath yet its annual taste Of primal good, to prove of sin the cost, And show by one gleaned ear the mighty harvest lost.

1854.



FLOWERS IN WINTER

PAINTED UPON A PORTE LIVRE.

How strange to greet, this frosty morn, In graceful counterfeit of flowers, These children of the meadows, born Of sunshine and of showers!

How well the conscious wood retains The pictures of its flower-sown home, The lights and shades, the purple stains, And golden hues of bloom!

It was a happy thought to bring To the dark season's frost and rime This painted memory of spring, This dream of summer-time.

Our hearts are lighter for its sake, Our fancy's age renews its youth, And dim-remembered fictions take The guise of—present truth.

A wizard of the Merrimac,— So old ancestral legends say, Could call green leaf and blossom back To frosted stem and spray.

The dry logs of the cottage wall, Beneath his touch, put out their leaves The clay-bound swallow, at his call, Played round the icy eaves.

The settler saw his oaken flail Take bud, and bloom before his eyes; From frozen pools he saw the pale, Sweet summer lilies rise.

To their old homes, by man profaned, Came the sad dryads, exiled long, And through their leafy tongues complained Of household use and wrong.

The beechen platter sprouted wild, The pipkin wore its old-time green The cradle o'er the sleeping child Became a leafy screen.

Haply our gentle friend hath met, While wandering in her sylvan quest, Haunting his native woodlands yet, That Druid of the West;

And, while the dew on leaf and flower Glistened in moonlight clear and still, Learned the dusk wizard's spell of power, And caught his trick of skill.

But welcome, be it new or old, The gift which makes the day more bright, And paints, upon the ground of cold And darkness, warmth and light.

Without is neither gold nor green; Within, for birds, the birch-logs sing; Yet, summer-like, we sit between The autumn and the spring.

The one, with bridal blush of rose, And sweetest breath of woodland balm, And one whose matron lips unclose In smiles of saintly calm.

Fill soft and deep, O winter snow! The sweet azalea's oaken dells, And hide the bank where roses blow, And swing the azure bells!

O'erlay the amber violet's leaves, The purple aster's brookside home, Guard all the flowers her pencil gives A life beyond their bloom.

And she, when spring comes round again, By greening slope and singing flood Shall wander, seeking, not in vain, Her darlings of the wood.

1855.



THE MAYFLOWERS

The trailing arbutus, or mayflower, grows abundantly in the vicinity of Plymouth, and was the first flower that greeted the Pilgrims after their fearful winter. The name mayflower was familiar in England, as the application of it to the historic vessel shows, but it was applied by the English, and still is, to the hawthorn. Its use in New England in connection with Epigma repens dates from a very early day, some claiming that the first Pilgrims so used it, in affectionate memory of the vessel and its English flower association.

Sad Mayflower! watched by winter stars, And nursed by winter gales, With petals of the sleeted spars, And leaves of frozen sails!

What had she in those dreary hours, Within her ice-rimmed bay, In common with the wild-wood flowers, The first sweet smiles of May?

Yet, "God be praised!" the Pilgrim said, Who saw the blossoms peer Above the brown leaves, dry and dead, "Behold our Mayflower here!"

"God wills it: here our rest shall be, Our years of wandering o'er; For us the Mayflower of the sea Shall spread her sails no more."

O sacred flowers of faith and hope, As sweetly now as then Ye bloom on many a birchen slope, In many a pine-dark glen.

Behind the sea-wall's rugged length, Unchanged, your leaves unfold, Like love behind the manly strength Of the brave hearts of old.

So live the fathers in their sons, Their sturdy faith be ours, And ours the love that overruns Its rocky strength with flowers!

The Pilgrim's wild and wintry day Its shadow round us draws; The Mayflower of his stormy bay, Our Freedom's struggling cause.

But warmer suns erelong shall bring To life the frozen sod; And through dead leaves of hope shall spring Afresh the flowers of God!

1856.



THE LAST WALK IN AUTUMN.

I. O'er the bare woods, whose outstretched hands Plead with the leaden heavens in vain, I see, beyond the valley lands, The sea's long level dim with rain. Around me all things, stark and dumb, Seem praying for the snows to come, And, for the summer bloom and greenness gone, With winter's sunset lights and dazzling morn atone.

II. Along the river's summer walk, The withered tufts of asters nod; And trembles on its arid stalk The boar plume of the golden-rod. And on a ground of sombre fir, And azure-studded juniper, The silver birch its buds of purple shows, And scarlet berries tell where bloomed the sweet wild-rose!

III. With mingled sound of horns and bells, A far-heard clang, the wild geese fly, Storm-sent, from Arctic moors and fells, Like a great arrow through the sky, Two dusky lines converged in one, Chasing the southward-flying sun; While the brave snow-bird and the hardy jay Call to them from the pines, as if to bid them stay.

IV. I passed this way a year ago The wind blew south; the noon of day Was warm as June's; and save that snow Flecked the low mountains far away, And that the vernal-seeming breeze Mocked faded grass and leafless trees, I might have dreamed of summer as I lay, Watching the fallen leaves with the soft wind at play.

V. Since then, the winter blasts have piled The white pagodas of the snow On these rough slopes, and, strong and wild, Yon river, in its overflow Of spring-time rain and sun, set free, Crashed with its ices to the sea; And over these gray fields, then green and gold, The summer corn has waved, the thunder's organ rolled.

VI. Rich gift of God! A year of time What pomp of rise and shut of day, What hues wherewith our Northern clime Makes autumn's dropping woodlands gay, What airs outblown from ferny dells, And clover-bloom and sweetbrier smells, What songs of brooks and birds, what fruits and flowers, Green woods and moonlit snows, have in its round been ours!

VII. I know not how, in other lands, The changing seasons come and go; What splendors fall on Syrian sands, What purple lights on Alpine snow! Nor how the pomp of sunrise waits On Venice at her watery gates; A dream alone to me is Arno's vale, And the Alhambra's halls are but a traveller's tale.

VIII. Yet, on life's current, he who drifts Is one with him who rows or sails And he who wanders widest lifts No more of beauty's jealous veils Than he who from his doorway sees The miracle of flowers and trees, Feels the warm Orient in the noonday air, And from cloud minarets hears the sunset call to prayer!

IX. The eye may well be glad that looks Where Pharpar's fountains rise and fall; But he who sees his native brooks Laugh in the sun, has seen them all. The marble palaces of Ind Rise round him in the snow and wind; From his lone sweetbrier Persian Hafiz smiles, And Rome's cathedral awe is in his woodland aisles.

X. And thus it is my fancy blends The near at hand and far and rare; And while the same horizon bends Above the silver-sprinkled hair Which flashed the light of morning skies On childhood's wonder-lifted eyes, Within its round of sea and sky and field, Earth wheels with all her zones, the Kosmos stands revealed.

XI. And thus the sick man on his bed, The toiler to his task-work bound, Behold their prison-walls outspread, Their clipped horizon widen round! While freedom-giving fancy waits, Like Peter's angel at the gates, The power is theirs to baffle care and pain, To bring the lost world back, and make it theirs again!

XII. What lack of goodly company, When masters of the ancient lyre Obey my call, and trace for me Their words of mingled tears and fire! I talk with Bacon, grave and wise, I read the world with Pascal's eyes; And priest and sage, with solemn brows austere, And poets, garland-bound, the Lords of Thought, draw near.

XIII. Methinks, O friend, I hear thee say, "In vain the human heart we mock; Bring living guests who love the day, Not ghosts who fly at crow of cock! The herbs we share with flesh and blood Are better than ambrosial food With laurelled shades." I grant it, nothing loath, But doubly blest is he who can partake of both.

XIV. He who might Plato's banquet grace, Have I not seen before me sit, And watched his puritanic face, With more than Eastern wisdom lit? Shrewd mystic! who, upon the back Of his Poor Richard's Almanac, Writing the Sufi's song, the Gentoo's dream, Links Manu's age of thought to Fulton's age of steam!

XV. Here too, of answering love secure, Have I not welcomed to my hearth The gentle pilgrim troubadour, Whose songs have girdled half the earth; Whose pages, like the magic mat Whereon the Eastern lover sat, Have borne me over Rhine-land's purple vines, And Nubia's tawny sands, and Phrygia's mountain pines!

XVI. And he, who to the lettered wealth Of ages adds the lore unpriced, The wisdom and the moral health, The ethics of the school of Christ; The statesman to his holy trust, As the Athenian archon, just, Struck down, exiled like him for truth alone, Has he not graced my home with beauty all his own?

XVII. What greetings smile, what farewells wave, What loved ones enter and depart! The good, the beautiful, the brave, The Heaven-lent treasures of the heart! How conscious seems the frozen sod And beechen slope whereon they trod The oak-leaves rustle, and the dry grass bends Beneath the shadowy feet of lost or absent friends.

XVIII. Then ask not why to these bleak hills I cling, as clings the tufted moss, To bear the winter's lingering chills, The mocking spring's perpetual loss. I dream of lands where summer smiles, And soft winds blow from spicy isles, But scarce would Ceylon's breath of flowers be sweet, Could I not feel thy soil, New England, at my feet!

XIX. At times I long for gentler skies, And bathe in dreams of softer air, But homesick tears would fill the eyes That saw the Cross without the Bear. The pine must whisper to the palm, The north-wind break the tropic calm; And with the dreamy languor of the Line, The North's keen virtue blend, and strength to beauty join.

XX. Better to stem with heart and hand The roaring tide of life, than lie, Unmindful, on its flowery strand, Of God's occasions drifting by Better with naked nerve to bear The needles of this goading air, Than, in the lap of sensual ease, forego The godlike power to do, the godlike aim to know.

XXI. Home of my heart! to me more fair Than gay Versailles or Windsor's halls, The painted, shingly town-house where The freeman's vote for Freedom falls! The simple roof where prayer is made, Than Gothic groin and colonnade; The living temple of the heart of man, Than Rome's sky-mocking vault, or many-spired Milan!

XXII. More dear thy equal village schools, Where rich and poor the Bible read, Than classic halls where Priestcraft rules, And Learning wears the chains of Creed; Thy glad Thanksgiving, gathering in The scattered sheaves of home and kin, Than the mad license ushering Lenten pains, Or holidays of slaves who laugh and dance in chains.

XXIII. And sweet homes nestle in these dales, And perch along these wooded swells; And, blest beyond Arcadian vales, They hear the sound of Sabbath bells! Here dwells no perfect man sublime, Nor woman winged before her time, But with the faults and follies of the race, Old home-bred virtues hold their not unhonored place.

XXIV. Here manhood struggles for the sake Of mother, sister, daughter, wife, The graces and the loves which make The music of the march of life; And woman, in her daily round Of duty, walks on holy ground. No unpaid menial tills the soil, nor here Is the bad lesson learned at human rights to sneer.

XXV. Then let the icy north-wind blow The trumpets of the coming storm, To arrowy sleet and blinding snow Yon slanting lines of rain transform. Young hearts shall hail the drifted cold, As gayly as I did of old; And I, who watch them through the frosty pane, Unenvious, live in them my boyhood o'er again.

XXVI. And I will trust that He who heeds The life that hides in mead and wold, Who hangs yon alder's crimson beads, And stains these mosses green and gold, Will still, as He hath done, incline His gracious care to me and mine; Grant what we ask aright, from wrong debar, And, as the earth grows dark, make brighter every star!

XXVII. I have not seen, I may not see, My hopes for man take form in fact, But God will give the victory In due time; in that faith I act. And lie who sees the future sure, The baffling present may endure, And bless, meanwhile, the unseen Hand that leads The heart's desires beyond the halting step of deeds.

XXVIII. And thou, my song, I send thee forth, Where harsher songs of mine have flown; Go, find a place at home and hearth Where'er thy singer's name is known; Revive for him the kindly thought Of friends; and they who love him not, Touched by some strain of thine, perchance may take The hand he proffers all, and thank him for thy sake.

1857.



THE FIRST FLOWERS

For ages on our river borders, These tassels in their tawny bloom, And willowy studs of downy silver, Have prophesied of Spring to come.

For ages have the unbound waters Smiled on them from their pebbly hem, And the clear carol of the robin And song of bluebird welcomed them.

But never yet from smiling river, Or song of early bird, have they Been greeted with a gladder welcome Than whispers from my heart to-day.

They break the spell of cold and darkness, The weary watch of sleepless pain; And from my heart, as from the river, The ice of winter melts again.

Thanks, Mary! for this wild-wood token Of Freya's footsteps drawing near; Almost, as in the rune of Asgard, The growing of the grass I hear.

It is as if the pine-trees called me From ceiled room and silent books, To see the dance of woodland shadows, And hear the song of April brooks!

As in the old Teutonic ballad Of Odenwald live bird and tree, Together live in bloom and music, I blend in song thy flowers and thee.

Earth's rocky tablets bear forever The dint of rain and small bird's track Who knows but that my idle verses May leave some trace by Merrimac!

The bird that trod the mellow layers Of the young earth is sought in vain; The cloud is gone that wove the sandstone, From God's design, with threads of rain!

So, when this fluid age we live in Shall stiffen round my careless rhyme, Who made the vagrant tracks may puzzle The savants of the coming time;

And, following out their dim suggestions, Some idly-curious hand may draw My doubtful portraiture, as Cuvier Drew fish and bird from fin and claw.

And maidens in the far-off twilights, Singing my words to breeze and stream, Shall wonder if the old-time Mary Were real, or the rhymer's dream!

1st 3d mo., 1857.



THE OLD BURYING-GROUND.

Our vales are sweet with fern and rose, Our hills are maple-crowned; But not from them our fathers chose The village burying-ground.

The dreariest spot in all the land To Death they set apart; With scanty grace from Nature's hand, And none from that of Art.

A winding wall of mossy stone, Frost-flung and broken, lines A lonesome acre thinly grown With grass and wandering vines.

Without the wall a birch-tree shows Its drooped and tasselled head; Within, a stag-horned sumach grows, Fern-leafed, with spikes of red.

There, sheep that graze the neighboring plain Like white ghosts come and go, The farm-horse drags his fetlock chain, The cow-bell tinkles slow.

Low moans the river from its bed, The distant pines reply; Like mourners shrinking from the dead, They stand apart and sigh.

Unshaded smites the summer sun, Unchecked the winter blast; The school-girl learns the place to shun, With glances backward cast.

For thus our fathers testified, That he might read who ran, The emptiness of human pride, The nothingness of man.

They dared not plant the grave with flowers, Nor dress the funeral sod, Where, with a love as deep as ours, They left their dead with God.

The hard and thorny path they kept From beauty turned aside; Nor missed they over those who slept The grace to life denied.

Yet still the wilding flowers would blow, The golden leaves would fall, The seasons come, the seasons go, And God be good to all.

Above the graves the' blackberry hung In bloom and green its wreath, And harebells swung as if they rung The chimes of peace beneath.

The beauty Nature loves to share, The gifts she hath for all, The common light, the common air, O'ercrept the graveyard's wall.

It knew the glow of eventide, The sunrise and the noon, And glorified and sanctified It slept beneath the moon.

With flowers or snow-flakes for its sod, Around the seasons ran, And evermore the love of God Rebuked the fear of man.

We dwell with fears on either hand, Within a daily strife, And spectral problems waiting stand Before the gates of life.

The doubts we vainly seek to solve, The truths we know, are one; The known and nameless stars revolve Around the Central Sun.

And if we reap as we have sown, And take the dole we deal, The law of pain is love alone, The wounding is to heal.

Unharmed from change to change we glide, We fall as in our dreams; The far-off terror at our side A smiling angel seems.

Secure on God's all-tender heart Alike rest great and small; Why fear to lose our little part, When He is pledged for all?

O fearful heart and troubled brain Take hope and strength from this,— That Nature never hints in vain, Nor prophesies amiss.

Her wild birds sing the same sweet stave, Her lights and airs are given Alike to playground and the grave; And over both is Heaven.

1858



THE PALM-TREE.

Is it the palm, the cocoa-palm, On the Indian Sea, by the isles of balm? Or is it a ship in the breezeless calm?

A ship whose keel is of palm beneath, Whose ribs of palm have a palm-bark sheath, And a rudder of palm it steereth with.

Branches of palm are its spars and rails, Fibres of palm are its woven sails, And the rope is of palm that idly trails!

What does the good ship bear so well? The cocoa-nut with its stony shell, And the milky sap of its inner cell.

What are its jars, so smooth and fine, But hollowed nuts, filled with oil and wine, And the cabbage that ripens under the Line?

Who smokes his nargileh, cool and calm? The master, whose cunning and skill could charm Cargo and ship from the bounteous palm.

In the cabin he sits on a palm-mat soft, From a beaker of palm his drink is quaffed, And a palm-thatch shields from the sun aloft!

His dress is woven of palmy strands, And he holds a palm-leaf scroll in his hands, Traced with the Prophet's wise commands!

The turban folded about his head Was daintily wrought of the palm-leaf braid, And the fan that cools him of palm was made.

Of threads of palm was the carpet spun Whereon he kneels when the day is done, And the foreheads of Islam are bowed as one!

To him the palm is a gift divine, Wherein all uses of man combine,— House, and raiment, and food, and wine!

And, in the hour of his great release, His need of the palm shall only cease With the shroud wherein he lieth in peace.

"Allah il Allah!" he sings his psalm, On the Indian Sea, by the isles of balm; "Thanks to Allah who gives the palm!"

1858.



THE RIVER PATH.

No bird-song floated down the hill, The tangled bank below was still;

No rustle from the birchen stem, No ripple from the water's hem.

The dusk of twilight round us grew, We felt the falling of the dew;

For, from us, ere the day was done, The wooded hills shut out the sun.

But on the river's farther side We saw the hill-tops glorified,—

A tender glow, exceeding fair, A dream of day without its glare.

With us the damp, the chill, the gloom With them the sunset's rosy bloom;

While dark, through willowy vistas seen, The river rolled in shade between.

From out the darkness where we trod, We gazed upon those bills of God,

Whose light seemed not of moon or sun. We spake not, but our thought was one.

We paused, as if from that bright shore Beckoned our dear ones gone before;

And stilled our beating hearts to hear The voices lost to mortal ear!

Sudden our pathway turned from night; The hills swung open to the light;

Through their green gates the sunshine showed, A long, slant splendor downward flowed.

Down glade and glen and bank it rolled; It bridged the shaded stream with gold;

And, borne on piers of mist, allied The shadowy with the sunlit side!

"So," prayed we, "when our feet draw near The river dark, with mortal fear,

"And the night cometh chill with dew, O Father! let Thy light break through!

"So let the hills of doubt divide, So bridge with faith the sunless tide!

"So let the eyes that fail on earth On Thy eternal hills look forth;

"And in Thy beckoning angels know The dear ones whom we loved below!"

1880.



MOUNTAIN PICTURES.

I. FRANCONIA FROM THE PEMIGEWASSET

Once more, O Mountains of the North, unveil Your brows, and lay your cloudy mantles by And once more, ere the eyes that seek ye fail, Uplift against the blue walls of the sky Your mighty shapes, and let the sunshine weave Its golden net-work in your belting woods, Smile down in rainbows from your falling floods, And on your kingly brows at morn and eve Set crowns of fire! So shall my soul receive Haply the secret of your calm and strength, Your unforgotten beauty interfuse My common life, your glorious shapes and hues And sun-dropped splendors at my bidding come, Loom vast through dreams, and stretch in billowy length From the sea-level of my lowland home!

They rise before me! Last night's thunder-gust Roared not in vain: for where its lightnings thrust Their tongues of fire, the great peaks seem so near, Burned clean of mist, so starkly bold and clear, I almost pause the wind in the pines to hear, The loose rock's fall, the steps of browsing deer. The clouds that shattered on yon slide-worn walls And splintered on the rocks their spears of rain Have set in play a thousand waterfalls, Making the dusk and silence of the woods Glad with the laughter of the chasing floods, And luminous with blown spray and silver gleams, While, in the vales below, the dry-lipped streams Sing to the freshened meadow-lands again. So, let me hope, the battle-storm that beats The land with hail and fire may pass away With its spent thunders at the break of day, Like last night's clouds, and leave, as it retreats, A greener earth and fairer sky behind, Blown crystal-clear by Freedom's Northern wind!

II. MONADNOCK FROM WACHUSET.

I would I were a painter, for the sake Of a sweet picture, and of her who led, A fitting guide, with reverential tread, Into that mountain mystery. First a lake Tinted with sunset; next the wavy lines Of far receding hills; and yet more far, Monadnock lifting from his night of pines His rosy forehead to the evening star. Beside us, purple-zoned, Wachuset laid His head against the West, whose warm light made His aureole; and o'er him, sharp and clear, Like a shaft of lightning in mid-launching stayed, A single level cloud-line, shone upon By the fierce glances of the sunken sun, Menaced the darkness with its golden spear!

So twilight deepened round us. Still and black The great woods climbed the mountain at our back; And on their skirts, where yet the lingering day On the shorn greenness of the clearing lay, The brown old farm-house like a bird's-nest hung. With home-life sounds the desert air was stirred The bleat of sheep along the hill we heard, The bucket plashing in the cool, sweet well, The pasture-bars that clattered as they fell; Dogs barked, fowls fluttered, cattle lowed; the gate Of the barn-yard creaked beneath the merry weight Of sun-brown children, listening, while they swung, The welcome sound of supper-call to hear; And down the shadowy lane, in tinklings clear, The pastoral curfew of the cow-bell rung. Thus soothed and pleased, our backward path we took, Praising the farmer's home. He only spake, Looking into the sunset o'er the lake, Like one to whom the far-off is most near: "Yes, most folks think it has a pleasant look; I love it for my good old mother's sake, Who lived and died here in the peace of God!" The lesson of his words we pondered o'er, As silently we turned the eastern flank Of the mountain, where its shadow deepest sank, Doubling the night along our rugged road: We felt that man was more than his abode,— The inward life than Nature's raiment more; And the warm sky, the sundown-tinted hill, The forest and the lake, seemed dwarfed and dim Before the saintly soul, whose human will Meekly in the Eternal footsteps trod, Making her homely toil and household ways An earthly echo of the song of praise Swelling from angel lips and harps of seraphim.

1862.



THE VANISHERS.

Sweetest of all childlike dreams In the simple Indian lore Still to me the legend seems Of the shapes who flit before.

Flitting, passing, seen and gone, Never reached nor found at rest, Baffling search, but beckoning on To the Sunset of the Blest.

From the clefts of mountain rocks, Through the dark of lowland firs, Flash the eyes and flow the locks Of the mystic Vanishers!

And the fisher in his skiff, And the hunter on the moss, Hear their call from cape and cliff, See their hands the birch-leaves toss.

Wistful, longing, through the green Twilight of the clustered pines, In their faces rarely seen Beauty more than mortal shines.

Fringed with gold their mantles flow On the slopes of westering knolls; In the wind they whisper low Of the Sunset Land of Souls.

Doubt who may, O friend of mine! Thou and I have seen them too; On before with beck and sign Still they glide, and we pursue.

More than clouds of purple trail In the gold of setting day; More than gleams of wing or sail Beckon from the sea-mist gray.

Glimpses of immortal youth, Gleams and glories seen and flown, Far-heard voices sweet with truth, Airs from viewless Eden blown;

Beauty that eludes our grasp, Sweetness that transcends our taste, Loving hands we may not clasp, Shining feet that mock our haste;

Gentle eyes we closed below, Tender voices heard once more, Smile and call us, as they go On and onward, still before.

Guided thus, O friend of mine Let us walk our little way, Knowing by each beckoning sign That we are not quite astray.

Chase we still, with baffled feet, Smiling eye and waving hand, Sought and seeker soon shall meet, Lost and found, in Sunset Land.

1864.



THE PAGEANT.

A sound as if from bells of silver, Or elfin cymbals smitten clear, Through the frost-pictured panes I hear.

A brightness which outshines the morning, A splendor brooking no delay, Beckons and tempts my feet away.

I leave the trodden village highway For virgin snow-paths glimmering through A jewelled elm-tree avenue;

Where, keen against the walls of sapphire, The gleaming tree-bolls, ice-embossed, Hold up their chandeliers of frost.

I tread in Orient halls enchanted, I dream the Saga's dream of caves Gem-lit beneath the North Sea waves!

I walk the land of Eldorado, I touch its mimic garden bowers, Its silver leaves and diamond flowers!

The flora of the mystic mine-world Around me lifts on crystal stems The petals of its clustered gems!

What miracle of weird transforming In this wild work of frost and light, This glimpse of glory infinite!

This foregleam of the Holy City Like that to him of Patmos given, The white bride coming down from heaven!

How flash the ranked and mail-clad alders, Through what sharp-glancing spears of reeds The brook its muffled water leads!

Yon maple, like the bush of Horeb, Burns unconsumed: a white, cold fire Rays out from every grassy spire.

Each slender rush and spike of mullein, Low laurel shrub and drooping fern, Transfigured, blaze where'er I turn.

How yonder Ethiopian hemlock Crowned with his glistening circlet stands! What jewels light his swarthy hands!

Here, where the forest opens southward, Between its hospitable pines, As through a door, the warm sun shines.

The jewels loosen on the branches, And lightly, as the soft winds blow, Fall, tinkling, on the ice below.

And through the clashing of their cymbals I hear the old familiar fall Of water down the rocky wall,

Where, from its wintry prison breaking, In dark and silence hidden long, The brook repeats its summer song.

One instant flashing in the sunshine, Keen as a sabre from its sheath, Then lost again the ice beneath.

I hear the rabbit lightly leaping, The foolish screaming of the jay, The chopper's axe-stroke far away;

The clamor of some neighboring barn-yard, The lazy cock's belated crow, Or cattle-tramp in crispy snow.

And, as in some enchanted forest The lost knight hears his comrades sing, And, near at hand, their bridles ring,—

So welcome I these sounds and voices, These airs from far-off summer blown, This life that leaves me not alone.

For the white glory overawes me; The crystal terror of the seer Of Chebar's vision blinds me here.

Rebuke me not, O sapphire heaven! Thou stainless earth, lay not on me, Thy keen reproach of purity,

If, in this August presence-chamber, I sigh for summer's leaf-green gloom And warm airs thick with odorous bloom!

Let the strange frost-work sink and crumble, And let the loosened tree-boughs swing, Till all their bells of silver ring.

Shine warmly down, thou sun of noontime, On this chill pageant, melt and move The winter's frozen heart with love.

And, soft and low, thou wind south-blowing, Breathe through a veil of tenderest haze Thy prophecy of summer days.

Come with thy green relief of promise, And to this dead, cold splendor bring The living jewels of the spring!

1869.



THE PRESSED GENTIAN.

The time of gifts has come again, And, on my northern window-pane, Outlined against the day's brief light, A Christmas token hangs in sight.

The wayside travellers, as they pass, Mark the gray disk of clouded glass; And the dull blankness seems, perchance, Folly to their wise ignorance.

They cannot from their outlook see The perfect grace it hath for me; For there the flower, whose fringes through The frosty breath of autumn blew, Turns from without its face of bloom To the warm tropic of my room, As fair as when beside its brook The hue of bending skies it took.

So from the trodden ways of earth, Seem some sweet souls who veil their worth, And offer to the careless glance The clouding gray of circumstance. They blossom best where hearth-fires burn, To loving eyes alone they turn The flowers of inward grace, that hide Their beauty from the world outside.

But deeper meanings come to me, My half-immortal flower, from thee! Man judges from a partial view, None ever yet his brother knew; The Eternal Eye that sees the whole May better read the darkened soul, And find, to outward sense denied, The flower upon its inmost side

1872.



A MYSTERY.

The river hemmed with leaning trees Wound through its meadows green; A low, blue line of mountains showed The open pines between.

One sharp, tall peak above them all Clear into sunlight sprang I saw the river of my dreams, The mountains that I sang!

No clue of memory led me on, But well the ways I knew; A feeling of familiar things With every footstep grew.

Not otherwise above its crag Could lean the blasted pine; Not otherwise the maple hold Aloft its red ensign.

So up the long and shorn foot-hills The mountain road should creep; So, green and low, the meadow fold Its red-haired kine asleep.

The river wound as it should wind; Their place the mountains took; The white torn fringes of their clouds Wore no unwonted look.

Yet ne'er before that river's rim Was pressed by feet of mine, Never before mine eyes had crossed That broken mountain line.

A presence, strange at once and known, Walked with me as my guide; The skirts of some forgotten life Trailed noiseless at my side.

Was it a dim-remembered dream? Or glimpse through ions old? The secret which the mountains kept The river never told.

But from the vision ere it passed A tender hope I drew, And, pleasant as a dawn of spring, The thought within me grew,

That love would temper every change, And soften all surprise, And, misty with the dreams of earth, The hills of Heaven arise.

1873.



A SEA DREAM.

We saw the slow tides go and come, The curving surf-lines lightly drawn, The gray rocks touched with tender bloom Beneath the fresh-blown rose of dawn.

We saw in richer sunsets lost The sombre pomp of showery noons; And signalled spectral sails that crossed The weird, low light of rising moons.

On stormy eves from cliff and head We saw the white spray tossed and spurned; While over all, in gold and red, Its face of fire the lighthouse turned.

The rail-car brought its daily crowds, Half curious, half indifferent, Like passing sails or floating clouds, We saw them as they came and went.

But, one calm morning, as we lay And watched the mirage-lifted wall Of coast, across the dreamy bay, And heard afar the curlew call,

And nearer voices, wild or tame, Of airy flock and childish throng, Up from the water's edge there came Faint snatches of familiar song.

Careless we heard the singer's choice Of old and common airs; at last The tender pathos of his voice In one low chanson held us fast.

A song that mingled joy and pain, And memories old and sadly sweet; While, timing to its minor strain, The waves in lapsing cadence beat.

. . . . .

The waves are glad in breeze and sun; The rocks are fringed with foam; I walk once more a haunted shore, A stranger, yet at home, A land of dreams I roam.

Is this the wind, the soft sea wind That stirred thy locks of brown? Are these the rocks whose mosses knew The trail of thy light gown, Where boy and girl sat down?

I see the gray fort's broken wall, The boats that rock below; And, out at sea, the passing sails We saw so long ago Rose-red in morning's glow.

The freshness of the early time On every breeze is blown; As glad the sea, as blue the sky,— The change is ours alone; The saddest is my own.

A stranger now, a world-worn man, Is he who bears my name; But thou, methinks, whose mortal life Immortal youth became, Art evermore the same.

Thou art not here, thou art not there, Thy place I cannot see; I only know that where thou art The blessed angels be, And heaven is glad for thee.

Forgive me if the evil years Have left on me their sign; Wash out, O soul so beautiful, The many stains of mine In tears of love divine!

I could not look on thee and live, If thou wert by my side; The vision of a shining one, The white and heavenly bride, Is well to me denied.

But turn to me thy dear girl-face Without the angel's crown, The wedded roses of thy lips, Thy loose hair rippling down In waves of golden brown.

Look forth once more through space and time, And let thy sweet shade fall In tenderest grace of soul and form On memory's frescoed wall, A shadow, and yet all!

Draw near, more near, forever dear! Where'er I rest or roam, Or in the city's crowded streets, Or by the blown sea foam, The thought of thee is home!

. . . . .

At breakfast hour the singer read The city news, with comment wise, Like one who felt the pulse of trade Beneath his finger fall and rise.

His look, his air, his curt speech, told The man of action, not of books, To whom the corners made in gold And stocks were more than seaside nooks.

Of life beneath the life confessed His song had hinted unawares; Of flowers in traffic's ledgers pressed, Of human hearts in bulls and bears.

But eyes in vain were turned to watch That face so hard and shrewd and strong; And ears in vain grew sharp to catch The meaning of that morning song.

In vain some sweet-voiced querist sought To sound him, leaving as she came; Her baited album only caught A common, unromantic name.

No word betrayed the mystery fine, That trembled on the singer's tongue; He came and went, and left no sign Behind him save the song he sung.

1874.



HAZEL BLOSSOMS.

The summer warmth has left the sky, The summer songs have died away; And, withered, in the footpaths lie The fallen leaves, but yesterday With ruby and with topaz gay.

The grass is browning on the hills; No pale, belated flowers recall The astral fringes of the rills, And drearily the dead vines fall, Frost-blackened, from the roadside wall.

Yet through the gray and sombre wood, Against the dusk of fir and pine, Last of their floral sisterhood, The hazel's yellow blossoms shine, The tawny gold of Afric's mine!

Small beauty hath my unsung flower, For spring to own or summer hail; But, in the season's saddest hour, To skies that weep and winds that wail Its glad surprisals never fail.

O days grown cold! O life grown old No rose of June may bloom again; But, like the hazel's twisted gold, Through early frost and latter rain Shall hints of summer-time remain.

And as within the hazel's bough A gift of mystic virtue dwells, That points to golden ores below, And in dry desert places tells Where flow unseen the cool, sweet wells,

So, in the wise Diviner's hand, Be mine the hazel's grateful part To feel, beneath a thirsty land, The living waters thrill and start, The beating of the rivulet's heart!

Sufficeth me the gift to light With latest bloom the dark, cold days; To call some hidden spring to sight That, in these dry and dusty ways, Shall sing its pleasant song of praise.

O Love! the hazel-wand may fail, But thou canst lend the surer spell, That, passing over Baca's vale, Repeats the old-time miracle, And makes the desert-land a well.

1874.



SUNSET ON THE BEARCAMP.

A gold fringe on the purpling hem Of hills the river runs, As down its long, green valley falls The last of summer's suns.

Along its tawny gravel-bed Broad-flowing, swift, and still, As if its meadow levels felt The hurry of the hill, Noiseless between its banks of green From curve to curve it slips; The drowsy maple-shadows rest Like fingers on its lips.

A waif from Carroll's wildest hills, Unstoried and unknown; The ursine legend of its name Prowls on its banks alone. Yet flowers as fair its slopes adorn As ever Yarrow knew, Or, under rainy Irish skies, By Spenser's Mulla grew; And through the gaps of leaning trees Its mountain cradle shows The gold against the amethyst, The green against the rose.

Touched by a light that hath no name, A glory never sung, Aloft on sky and mountain wall Are God's great pictures hung. How changed the summits vast and old! No longer granite-browed, They melt in rosy mist; the rock Is softer than the cloud; The valley holds its breath; no leaf Of all its elms is twirled The silence of eternity Seems falling on the world.

The pause before the breaking seals Of mystery is this; Yon miracle-play of night and day Makes dumb its witnesses. What unseen altar crowns the hills That reach up stair on stair? What eyes look through, what white wings fan These purple veils of air? What Presence from the heavenly heights To those of earth stoops down? Not vainly Hellas dreamed of gods On Ida's snowy crown!

Slow fades the vision of the sky, The golden water pales, And over all the valley-land A gray-winged vapor sails. I go the common way of all; The sunset fires will burn, The flowers will blow, the river flow, When I no more return. No whisper from the mountain pine Nor lapsing stream shall tell The stranger, treading where I tread, Of him who loved them well.

But beauty seen is never lost, God's colors all are fast; The glory of this sunset heaven Into my soul has passed, A sense of gladness unconfined To mortal date or clime; As the soul liveth, it shall live Beyond the years of time. Beside the mystic asphodels Shall bloom the home-born flowers, And new horizons flush and glow With sunset hues of ours.

Farewell! these smiling hills must wear Too soon their wintry frown, And snow-cold winds from off them shake The maple's red leaves down. But I shall see a summer sun Still setting broad and low; The mountain slopes shall blush and bloom, The golden water flow. A lover's claim is mine on all I see to have and hold,— The rose-light of perpetual hills, And sunsets never cold!

1876



THE SEEKING OF THE WATERFALL.

They left their home of summer ease Beneath the lowland's sheltering trees, To seek, by ways unknown to all, The promise of the waterfall.

Some vague, faint rumor to the vale Had crept—perchance a hunter's tale— Of its wild mirth of waters lost On the dark woods through which it tossed.

Somewhere it laughed and sang; somewhere Whirled in mad dance its misty hair; But who had raised its veil, or seen The rainbow skirts of that Undine?

They sought it where the mountain brook Its swift way to the valley took; Along the rugged slope they clomb, Their guide a thread of sound and foam.

Height after height they slowly won; The fiery javelins of the sun Smote the bare ledge; the tangled shade With rock and vine their steps delayed.

But, through leaf-openings, now and then They saw the cheerful homes of men, And the great mountains with their wall Of misty purple girdling all.

The leaves through which the glad winds blew Shared the wild dance the waters knew; And where the shadows deepest fell The wood-thrush rang his silver bell.

Fringing the stream, at every turn Swung low the waving fronds of fern; From stony cleft and mossy sod Pale asters sprang, and golden-rod.

And still the water sang the sweet, Glad song that stirred its gliding feet, And found in rock and root the keys Of its beguiling melodies.

Beyond, above, its signals flew Of tossing foam the birch-trees through; Now seen, now lost, but baffling still The weary seekers' slackening will.

Each called to each: "Lo here! Lo there! Its white scarf flutters in the air!" They climbed anew; the vision fled, To beckon higher overhead.

So toiled they up the mountain-slope With faint and ever fainter hope; With faint and fainter voice the brook Still bade them listen, pause, and look.

Meanwhile below the day was done; Above the tall peaks saw the sun Sink, beam-shorn, to its misty set Behind the hills of violet.

"Here ends our quest!" the seekers cried, "The brook and rumor both have lied! The phantom of a waterfall Has led us at its beck and call."

But one, with years grown wiser, said "So, always baffled, not misled, We follow where before us runs The vision of the shining ones.

"Not where they seem their signals fly, Their voices while we listen die; We cannot keep, however fleet, The quick time of their winged feet.

"From youth to age unresting stray These kindly mockers in our way; Yet lead they not, the baffling elves, To something better than themselves?

"Here, though unreached the goal we sought, Its own reward our toil has brought: The winding water's sounding rush, The long note of the hermit thrush,

"The turquoise lakes, the glimpse of pond And river track, and, vast, beyond Broad meadows belted round with pines, The grand uplift of mountain lines!

"What matter though we seek with pain The garden of the gods in vain, If lured thereby we climb to greet Some wayside blossom Eden-sweet?

"To seek is better than to gain, The fond hope dies as we attain; Life's fairest things are those which seem, The best is that of which we dream.

"Then let us trust our waterfall Still flashes down its rocky wall, With rainbow crescent curved across Its sunlit spray from moss to moss.

"And we, forgetful of our pain, In thought shall seek it oft again; Shall see this aster-blossomed sod, This sunshine of the golden-rod,

"And haply gain, through parting boughs, Grand glimpses of great mountain brows Cloud-turbaned, and the sharp steel sheen Of lakes deep set in valleys green.

"So failure wins; the consequence Of loss becomes its recompense; And evermore the end shall tell The unreached ideal guided well.

"Our sweet illusions only die Fulfilling love's sure prophecy; And every wish for better things An undreamed beauty nearer brings.

"For fate is servitor of love; Desire and hope and longing prove The secret of immortal youth, And Nature cheats us into truth.

"O kind allurers, wisely sent, Beguiling with benign intent, Still move us, through divine unrest, To seek the loveliest and the best!

"Go with us when our souls go free, And, in the clear, white light to be, Add unto Heaven's beatitude The old delight of seeking good!"

1878.



THE TRAILING ARBUTUS

I wandered lonely where the pine-trees made Against the bitter East their barricade, And, guided by its sweet Perfume, I found, within a narrow dell, The trailing spring flower tinted like a shell Amid dry leaves and mosses at my feet.

From under dead boughs, for whose loss the pines Moaned ceaseless overhead, the blossoming vines Lifted their glad surprise, While yet the bluebird smoothed in leafless trees His feathers ruffled by the chill sea-breeze, And snow-drifts lingered under April skies.

As, pausing, o'er the lonely flower I bent, I thought of lives thus lowly, clogged and pent, Which yet find room, Through care and cumber, coldness and decay, To lend a sweetness to the ungenial day And make the sad earth happier for their bloom.

1879.



ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.

This name in some parts of Europe is given to the season we call Indian Summer, in honor of the good St. Martin. The title of the poem was suggested by the fact that the day it refers to was the exact date of that set apart to the Saint, the 11th of November.

Though flowers have perished at the touch Of Frost, the early comer, I hail the season loved so much, The good St. Martin's summer.

O gracious morn, with rose-red dawn, And thin moon curving o'er it! The old year's darling, latest born, More loved than all before it!

How flamed the sunrise through the pines! How stretched the birchen shadows, Braiding in long, wind-wavered lines The westward sloping meadows!

The sweet day, opening as a flower Unfolds its petals tender, Renews for us at noontide's hour The summer's tempered splendor.

The birds are hushed; alone the wind, That through the woodland searches, The red-oak's lingering leaves can find, And yellow plumes of larches.

But still the balsam-breathing pine Invites no thought of sorrow, No hint of loss from air like wine The earth's content can borrow.

The summer and the winter here Midway a truce are holding, A soft, consenting atmosphere Their tents of peace enfolding.

The silent woods, the lonely hills, Rise solemn in their gladness; The quiet that the valley fills Is scarcely joy or sadness.

How strange! The autumn yesterday In winter's grasp seemed dying; On whirling winds from skies of gray The early snow was flying.

And now, while over Nature's mood There steals a soft relenting, I will not mar the present good, Forecasting or lamenting.

My autumn time and Nature's hold A dreamy tryst together, And, both grown old, about us fold The golden-tissued weather.

I lean my heart against the day To feel its bland caressing; I will not let it pass away Before it leaves its blessing.

God's angels come not as of old The Syrian shepherds knew them; In reddening dawns, in sunset gold, And warm noon lights I view them.

Nor need there is, in times like this When heaven to earth draws nearer, Of wing or song as witnesses To make their presence clearer.

O stream of life, whose swifter flow Is of the end forewarning, Methinks thy sundown afterglow Seems less of night than morning!

Old cares grow light; aside I lay The doubts and fears that troubled; The quiet of the happy day Within my soul is doubled.

That clouds must veil this fair sunshine Not less a joy I find it; Nor less yon warm horizon line That winter lurks behind it.

The mystery of the untried days I close my eyes from reading; His will be done whose darkest ways To light and life are leading!

Less drear the winter night shall be, If memory cheer and hearten Its heavy hours with thoughts of thee, Sweet summer of St. Martin!

1880.



STORM ON LAKE ASQUAM.

A cloud, like that the old-time Hebrew saw On Carmel prophesying rain, began To lift itself o'er wooded Cardigan, Growing and blackening. Suddenly, a flaw

Of chill wind menaced; then a strong blast beat Down the long valley's murmuring pines, and woke The noon-dream of the sleeping lake, and broke Its smooth steel mirror at the mountains' feet.

Thunderous and vast, a fire-veined darkness swept Over the rough pine-bearded Asquam range; A wraith of tempest, wonderful and strange, From peak to peak the cloudy giant stepped.

One moment, as if challenging the storm, Chocorua's tall, defiant sentinel Looked from his watch-tower; then the shadow fell, And the wild rain-drift blotted out his form.

And over all the still unhidden sun, Weaving its light through slant-blown veils of rain, Smiled on the trouble, as hope smiles on pain; And, when the tumult and the strife were done,

With one foot on the lake and one on land, Framing within his crescent's tinted streak A far-off picture of the Melvin peak, Spent broken clouds the rainbow's angel spanned.

1882.



A SUMMER PILGRIMAGE.

To kneel before some saintly shrine, To breathe the health of airs divine, Or bathe where sacred rivers flow, The cowled and turbaned pilgrims go. I too, a palmer, take, as they With staff and scallop-shell, my way To feel, from burdening cares and ills, The strong uplifting of the hills.

The years are many since, at first, For dreamed-of wonders all athirst, I saw on Winnipesaukee fall The shadow of the mountain wall. Ah! where are they who sailed with me The beautiful island-studded sea? And am I he whose keen surprise Flashed out from such unclouded eyes?

Still, when the sun of summer burns, My longing for the hills returns; And northward, leaving at my back The warm vale of the Merrimac, I go to meet the winds of morn, Blown down the hill-gaps, mountain-born, Breathe scent of pines, and satisfy The hunger of a lowland eye.

Again I see the day decline Along a ridged horizon line; Touching the hill-tops, as a nun Her beaded rosary, sinks the sun. One lake lies golden, which shall soon Be silver in the rising moon; And one, the crimson of the skies And mountain purple multiplies.

With the untroubled quiet blends The distance-softened voice of friends; The girl's light laugh no discord brings To the low song the pine-tree sings; And, not unwelcome, comes the hail Of boyhood from his nearing sail. The human presence breaks no spell, And sunset still is miracle!

Calm as the hour, methinks I feel A sense of worship o'er me steal; Not that of satyr-charming Pan, No cult of Nature shaming man, Not Beauty's self, but that which lives And shines through all the veils it weaves,— Soul of the mountain, lake, and wood, Their witness to the Eternal Good!

And if, by fond illusion, here The earth to heaven seems drawing near, And yon outlying range invites To other and serener heights, Scarce hid behind its topmost swell, The shining Mounts Delectable A dream may hint of truth no less Than the sharp light of wakefulness.

As through her vale of incense smoke. Of old the spell-rapt priestess spoke, More than her heathen oracle, May not this trance of sunset tell That Nature's forms of loveliness Their heavenly archetypes confess, Fashioned like Israel's ark alone From patterns in the Mount made known?

A holier beauty overbroods These fair and faint similitudes; Yet not unblest is he who sees Shadows of God's realities, And knows beyond this masquerade Of shape and color, light and shade, And dawn and set, and wax and wane, Eternal verities remain.

O gems of sapphire, granite set! O hills that charmed horizons fret I know how fair your morns can break, In rosy light on isle and lake; How over wooded slopes can run The noonday play of cloud and sun, And evening droop her oriflamme Of gold and red in still Asquam.

The summer moons may round again, And careless feet these hills profane; These sunsets waste on vacant eyes The lavish splendor of the skies; Fashion and folly, misplaced here, Sigh for their natural atmosphere, And travelled pride the outlook scorn Of lesser heights than Matterhorn.

But let me dream that hill and sky Of unseen beauty prophesy; And in these tinted lakes behold The trailing of the raiment fold Of that which, still eluding gaze, Allures to upward-tending ways, Whose footprints make, wherever found, Our common earth a holy ground.

1883.



SWEET FERN.

The subtle power in perfume found Nor priest nor sibyl vainly learned; On Grecian shrine or Aztec mound No censer idly burned.

That power the old-time worships knew, The Corybantes' frenzied dance, The Pythian priestess swooning through The wonderland of trance.

And Nature holds, in wood and field, Her thousand sunlit censers still; To spells of flower and shrub we yield Against or with our will.

I climbed a hill path strange and new With slow feet, pausing at each turn; A sudden waft of west wind blew The breath of the sweet fern.

That fragrance from my vision swept The alien landscape; in its stead, Up fairer hills of youth I stepped, As light of heart as tread.

I saw my boyhood's lakelet shine Once more through rifts of woodland shade; I knew my river's winding line By morning mist betrayed.

With me June's freshness, lapsing brook, Murmurs of leaf and bee, the call Of birds, and one in voice and look In keeping with them all.

A fern beside the way we went She plucked, and, smiling, held it up, While from her hand the wild, sweet scent I drank as from a cup.

O potent witchery of smell! The dust-dry leaves to life return, And she who plucked them owns the spell And lifts her ghostly fern.

Or sense or spirit? Who shall say What touch the chord of memory thrills? It passed, and left the August day Ablaze on lonely hills.



THE WOOD GIANT

From Alton Bay to Sandwich Dome, From Mad to Saco river, For patriarchs of the primal wood We sought with vain endeavor.

And then we said: "The giants old Are lost beyond retrieval; This pygmy growth the axe has spared Is not the wood primeval.

"Look where we will o'er vale and hill, How idle are our searches For broad-girthed maples, wide-limbed oaks, Centennial pines and birches.

"Their tortured limbs the axe and saw Have changed to beams and trestles; They rest in walls, they float on seas, They rot in sunken vessels.

"This shorn and wasted mountain land Of underbrush and boulder,— Who thinks to see its full-grown tree Must live a century older."

At last to us a woodland path, To open sunset leading, Revealed the Anakim of pines Our wildest wish exceeding.

Alone, the level sun before; Below, the lake's green islands; Beyond, in misty distance dim, The rugged Northern Highlands.

Dark Titan on his Sunset Hill Of time and change defiant How dwarfed the common woodland seemed, Before the old-time giant!

What marvel that, in simpler days Of the world's early childhood, Men crowned with garlands, gifts, and praise Such monarchs of the wild-wood?

That Tyrian maids with flower and song Danced through the hill grove's spaces, And hoary-bearded Druids found In woods their holy places?

With somewhat of that Pagan awe With Christian reverence blending, We saw our pine-tree's mighty arms Above our heads extending.

We heard his needles' mystic rune, Now rising, and now dying, As erst Dodona's priestess heard The oak leaves prophesying.

Was it the half-unconscious moan Of one apart and mateless, The weariness of unshared power, The loneliness of greatness?

O dawns and sunsets, lend to him Your beauty and your wonder! Blithe sparrow, sing thy summer song His solemn shadow under!

Play lightly on his slender keys, O wind of summer, waking For hills like these the sound of seas On far-off beaches breaking,

And let the eagle and the crow Find shelter in his branches, When winds shake down his winter snow In silver avalanches.

The brave are braver for their cheer, The strongest need assurance, The sigh of longing makes not less The lesson of endurance.

1885.



A DAY.

Talk not of sad November, when a day Of warm, glad sunshine fills the sky of noon, And a wind, borrowed from some morn of June, Stirs the brown grasses and the leafless spray.

On the unfrosted pool the pillared pines Lay their long shafts of shadow: the small rill, Singing a pleasant song of summer still, A line of silver, down the hill-slope shines.

Hushed the bird-voices and the hum of bees, In the thin grass the crickets pipe no more; But still the squirrel hoards his winter store, And drops his nut-shells from the shag-bark trees.

Softly the dark green hemlocks whisper: high Above, the spires of yellowing larches show, Where the woodpecker and home-loving crow And jay and nut-hatch winter's threat defy.

O gracious beauty, ever new and old! O sights and sounds of nature, doubly dear When the low sunshine warns the closing year Of snow-blown fields and waves of Arctic cold!

Close to my heart I fold each lovely thing The sweet day yields; and, not disconsolate, With the calm patience of the woods I wait For leaf and blossom when God gives us Spring!

29th, Eleventh Month, 1886.



POEMS SUBJECTIVE AND REMINISCENT MEMORIES

A beautiful and happy girl, With step as light as summer air, Eyes glad with smiles, and brow of pearl, Shadowed by many a careless curl Of unconfined and flowing hair; A seeming child in everything, Save thoughtful brow and ripening charms, As Nature wears the smile of Spring When sinking into Summer's arms.

A mind rejoicing in the light Which melted through its graceful bower, Leaf after leaf, dew-moist and bright, And stainless in its holy white, Unfolding like a morning flower A heart, which, like a fine-toned lute, With every breath of feeling woke, And, even when the tongue was mute, From eye and lip in music spoke.

How thrills once more the lengthening chain Of memory, at the thought of thee! Old hopes which long in dust have lain Old dreams, come thronging back again, And boyhood lives again in me; I feel its glow upon my cheek, Its fulness of the heart is mine, As when I leaned to hear thee speak, Or raised my doubtful eye to thine.

I hear again thy low replies, I feel thy arm within my own, And timidly again uprise The fringed lids of hazel eyes, With soft brown tresses overblown. Ah! memories of sweet summer eves, Of moonlit wave and willowy way, Of stars and flowers, and dewy leaves, And smiles and tones more dear than they!

Ere this, thy quiet eye hath smiled My picture of thy youth to see, When, half a woman, half a child, Thy very artlessness beguiled, And folly's self seemed wise in thee; I too can smile, when o'er that hour The lights of memory backward stream, Yet feel the while that manhood's power Is vainer than my boyhood's dream.

Years have passed on, and left their trace, Of graver care and deeper thought; And unto me the calm, cold face Of manhood, and to thee the grace Of woman's pensive beauty brought. More wide, perchance, for blame than praise, The school-boy's humble name has flown; Thine, in the green and quiet ways Of unobtrusive goodness known.

And wider yet in thought and deed Diverge our pathways, one in youth; Thine the Genevan's sternest creed, While answers to my spirit's need The Derby dalesman's simple truth. For thee, the priestly rite and prayer, And holy day, and solemn psalm; For me, the silent reverence where My brethren gather, slow and calm.

Yet hath thy spirit left on me An impress Time has worn not out, And something of myself in thee, A shadow from the past, I see, Lingering, even yet, thy way about; Not wholly can the heart unlearn That lesson of its better hours, Not yet has Time's dull footstep worn To common dust that path of flowers.

Thus, while at times before our eyes The shadows melt, and fall apart, And, smiling through them, round us lies The warm light of our morning skies,— The Indian Summer of the heart! In secret sympathies of mind, In founts of feeling which retain Their pure, fresh flow, we yet may find Our early dreams not wholly vain

1841.



RAPHAEL.

Suggested by the portrait of Raphael, at the age of fifteen.

I shall not soon forget that sight The glow of Autumn's westering day, A hazy warmth, a dreamy light, On Raphael's picture lay.

It was a simple print I saw, The fair face of a musing boy; Yet, while I gazed, a sense of awe Seemed blending with my joy.

A simple print,—the graceful flow Of boyhood's soft and wavy hair, And fresh young lip and cheek, and brow Unmarked and clear, were there.

Yet through its sweet and calm repose I saw the inward spirit shine; It was as if before me rose The white veil of a shrine.

As if, as Gothland's sage has told, The hidden life, the man within, Dissevered from its frame and mould, By mortal eye were seen.

Was it the lifting of that eye, The waving of that pictured hand? Loose as a cloud-wreath on the sky, I saw the walls expand.

The narrow room had vanished,—space, Broad, luminous, remained alone, Through which all hues and shapes of grace And beauty looked or shone.

Around the mighty master came The marvels which his pencil wrought, Those miracles of power whose fame Is wide as human thought.

There drooped thy more than mortal face, O Mother, beautiful and mild Enfolding in one dear embrace Thy Saviour and thy Child!

The rapt brow of the Desert John; The awful glory of that day When all the Father's brightness shone Through manhood's veil of clay.

And, midst gray prophet forms, and wild Dark visions of the days of old, How sweetly woman's beauty smiled Through locks of brown and gold!

There Fornarina's fair young face Once more upon her lover shone, Whose model of an angel's grace He borrowed from her own.

Slow passed that vision from my view, But not the lesson which it taught; The soft, calm shadows which it threw Still rested on my thought:

The truth, that painter, bard, and sage, Even in Earth's cold and changeful clime, Plant for their deathless heritage The fruits and flowers of time.

We shape ourselves the joy or fear Of which the coming life is made, And fill our Future's atmosphere With sunshine or with shade.

The tissue of the Life to be We weave with colors all our own, And in the field of Destiny We reap as we have sown.

Still shall the soul around it call The shadows which it gathered here, And, painted on the eternal wall, The Past shall reappear.

Think ye the notes of holy song On Milton's tuneful ear have died? Think ye that Raphael's angel throng Has vanished from his side?

Oh no!—We live our life again; Or warmly touched, or coldly dim, The pictures of the Past remain,—- Man's works shall follow him!

1842.



EGO.

WRITTEN IN THE ALBUM OF A FRIEND.

On page of thine I cannot trace The cold and heartless commonplace, A statue's fixed and marble grace.

For ever as these lines I penned, Still with the thought of thee will blend That of some loved and common friend,

Who in life's desert track has made His pilgrim tent with mine, or strayed Beneath the same remembered shade.

And hence my pen unfettered moves In freedom which the heart approves, The negligence which friendship loves.

And wilt thou prize my poor gift less For simple air and rustic dress, And sign of haste and carelessness?

Oh, more than specious counterfeit Of sentiment or studied wit, A heart like thine should value it.

Yet half I fear my gift will be Unto thy book, if not to thee, Of more than doubtful courtesy.

A banished name from Fashion's sphere, A lay unheard of Beauty's ear, Forbid, disowned,—what do they here?

Upon my ear not all in vain Came the sad captive's clanking chain, The groaning from his bed of pain.

And sadder still, I saw the woe Which only wounded spirits know When Pride's strong footsteps o'er them go.

Spurned not alone in walks abroad, But from the temples of the Lord Thrust out apart, like things abhorred.

Deep as I felt, and stern and strong, In words which Prudence smothered long, My soul spoke out against the wrong;

Not mine alone the task to speak Of comfort to the poor and weak, And dry the tear on Sorrow's cheek;

But, mingled in the conflict warm, To pour the fiery breath of storm Through the harsh trumpet of Reform;

To brave Opinion's settled frown, From ermined robe and saintly gown, While wrestling reverenced Error down.

Founts gushed beside my pilgrim way, Cool shadows on the greensward lay, Flowers swung upon the bending spray.

And, broad and bright, on either hand, Stretched the green slopes of Fairy-land, With Hope's eternal sunbow spanned;

Whence voices called me like the flow, Which on the listener's ear will grow, Of forest streamlets soft and low.

And gentle eyes, which still retain Their picture on the heart and brain, Smiled, beckoning from that path of pain.

In vain! nor dream, nor rest, nor pause Remain for him who round him draws The battered mail of Freedom's cause.

From youthful hopes, from each green spot Of young Romance, and gentle Thought, Where storm and tumult enter not;

From each fair altar, where belong The offerings Love requires of Song In homage to her bright-eyed throng;

With soul and strength, with heart and hand, I turned to Freedom's struggling band, To the sad Helots of our land.

What marvel then that Fame should turn Her notes of praise to those of scorn; Her gifts reclaimed, her smiles withdrawn?

What matters it? a few years more, Life's surge so restless heretofore Shall break upon the unknown shore!

In that far land shall disappear The shadows which we follow here, The mist-wreaths of our atmosphere!

Before no work of mortal hand, Of human will or strength expand The pearl gates of the Better Land;

Alone in that great love which gave Life to the sleeper of the grave, Resteth the power to seek and save.

Yet, if the spirit gazing through The vista of the past can view One deed to Heaven and virtue true;

If through the wreck of wasted powers, Of garlands wreathed from Folly's bowers, Of idle aims and misspent hours,

The eye can note one sacred spot By Pride and Self profaned not, A green place in the waste of thought,

Where deed or word hath rendered less The sum of human wretchedness, And Gratitude looks forth to bless;

The simple burst of tenderest feeling From sad hearts worn by evil-dealing, For blessing on the hand of healing;

Better than Glory's pomp will be That green and blessed spot to me, A palm-shade in Eternity!

Something of Time which may invite The purified and spiritual sight To rest on with a calm delight.

And when the summer winds shall sweep With their light wings my place of sleep, And mosses round my headstone creep;

If still, as Freedom's rallying sign, Upon the young heart's altars shine The very fires they caught from mine;

If words my lips once uttered still, In the calm faith and steadfast will Of other hearts, their work fulfil;

Perchance with joy the soul may learn These tokens, and its eye discern The fires which on those altars burn;

A marvellous joy that even then, The spirit hath its life again, In the strong hearts of mortal men.

Take, lady, then, the gift I bring, No gay and graceful offering, No flower-smile of the laughing spring.

Midst the green buds of Youth's fresh May, With Fancy's leaf-enwoven bay, My sad and sombre gift I lay.

And if it deepens in thy mind A sense of suffering human-kind,— The outcast and the spirit-blind;

Oppressed and spoiled on every side, By Prejudice, and Scorn, and Pride, Life's common courtesies denied;

Sad mothers mourning o'er their trust, Children by want and misery nursed, Tasting life's bitter cup at first;

If to their strong appeals which come From fireless hearth, and crowded room, And the close alley's noisome gloom,—

Though dark the hands upraised to thee In mute beseeching agony, Thou lend'st thy woman's sympathy;

Not vainly on thy gentle shrine, Where Love, and Mirth, and Friendship twine Their varied gifts, I offer mine.

1843.



THE PUMPKIN.

Oh, greenly and fair in the lands of the sun, The vines of the gourd and the rich melon run, And the rock and the tree and the cottage enfold, With broad leaves all greenness and blossoms all gold, Like that which o'er Nineveh's prophet once grew, While he waited to know that his warning was true, And longed for the storm-cloud, and listened in vain For the rush of the whirlwind and red fire-rain.

On the banks of the Xenil the dark Spanish maiden Comes up with the fruit of the tangled vine laden; And the Creole of Cuba laughs out to behold Through orange-leaves shining the broad spheres of gold; Yet with dearer delight from his home in the North, On the fields of his harvest the Yankee looks forth, Where crook-necks are coiling and yellow fruit shines, And the sun of September melts down on his vines.

Ah! on Thanksgiving day, when from East and from West, From North and from South come the pilgrim and guest, When the gray-haired New-Englander sees round his board The old broken links of affection restored, When the care-wearied man seeks his mother once more, And the worn matron smiles where the girl smiled before, What moistens the lip and what brightens the eye? What calls back the past, like the rich Pumpkin pie?

Oh, fruit loved of boyhood! the old days recalling, When wood-grapes were purpling and brown nuts were falling! When wild, ugly faces we carved in its skin, Glaring out through the dark with a candle within! When we laughed round the corn-heap, with hearts all in tune, Our chair a broad pumpkin,—our lantern the moon, Telling tales of the fairy who travelled like steam, In a pumpkin-shell coach, with two rats for her team Then thanks for thy present! none sweeter or better E'er smoked from an oven or circled a platter! Fairer hands never wrought at a pastry more fine, Brighter eyes never watched o'er its baking, than thine! And the prayer, which my mouth is too full to express, Swells my heart that thy shadow may never be less, That the days of thy lot may be lengthened below, And the fame of thy worth like a pumpkin-vine grow, And thy life be as sweet, and its last sunset sky Golden-tinted and fair as thy own Pumpkin pie!

1844.



FORGIVENESS.

My heart was heavy, for its trust had been Abused, its kindness answered with foul wrong; So, turning gloomily from my fellow-men, One summer Sabbath day I strolled among The green mounds of the village burial-place; Where, pondering how all human love and hate Find one sad level; and how, soon or late, Wronged and wrongdoer, each with meekened face, And cold hands folded over a still heart, Pass the green threshold of our common grave, Whither all footsteps tend, whence none depart, Awed for myself, and pitying my race, Our common sorrow, like a nighty wave, Swept all my pride away, and trembling I forgave!

1846.



TO MY SISTER,

WITH A COPY OF "THE SUPERNATURALISM OF NEW ENGLAND."

The work referred to was a series of papers under this title, contributed to the Democratic Review and afterward collected into a volume, in which I noted some of the superstitions and folklore prevalent in New England. The volume has not been kept in print, but most of its contents are distributed in my Literary Recreations and Miscellanies.

Dear Sister! while the wise and sage Turn coldly from my playful page, And count it strange that ripened age Should stoop to boyhood's folly; I know that thou wilt judge aright Of all which makes the heart more light, Or lends one star-gleam to the night Of clouded Melancholy.

Away with weary cares and themes! Swing wide the moonlit gate of dreams! Leave free once more the land which teems With wonders and romances Where thou, with clear discerning eyes, Shalt rightly read the truth which lies Beneath the quaintly masking guise Of wild and wizard fancies.

Lo! once again our feet we set On still green wood-paths, twilight wet, By lonely brooks, whose waters fret The roots of spectral beeches; Again the hearth-fire glimmers o'er Home's whitewashed wall and painted floor, And young eyes widening to the lore Of faery-folks and witches.

Dear heart! the legend is not vain Which lights that holy hearth again, And calling back from care and pain, And death's funereal sadness, Draws round its old familiar blaze The clustering groups of happier days, And lends to sober manhood's gaze A glimpse of childish gladness.

And, knowing how my life hath been A weary work of tongue and pen, A long, harsh strife with strong-willed men, Thou wilt not chide my turning To con, at times, an idle rhyme, To pluck a flower from childhood's clime, Or listen, at Life's noonday chime, For the sweet bells of Morning!

1847.



MY THANKS,

ACCOMPANYING MANUSCRIPTS PRESENTED TO A FRIEND.

'T is said that in the Holy Land The angels of the place have blessed The pilgrim's bed of desert sand, Like Jacob's stone of rest.

That down the hush of Syrian skies Some sweet-voiced saint at twilight sings The song whose holy symphonies Are beat by unseen wings;

Till starting from his sandy bed, The wayworn wanderer looks to see The halo of an angel's head Shine through the tamarisk-tree.

So through the shadows of my way Thy smile hath fallen soft and clear, So at the weary close of day Hath seemed thy voice of cheer.

That pilgrim pressing to his goal May pause not for the vision's sake, Yet all fair things within his soul The thought of it shall wake:

The graceful palm-tree by the well, Seen on the far horizon's rim; The dark eyes of the fleet gazelle, Bent timidly on him;

Each pictured saint, whose golden hair Streams sunlike through the convent's gloom; Pale shrines of martyrs young and fair, And loving Mary's tomb;

And thus each tint or shade which falls, From sunset cloud or waving tree, Along my pilgrim path, recalls The pleasant thought of thee.

Of one in sun and shade the same, In weal and woe my steady friend, Whatever by that holy name The angels comprehend.

Not blind to faults and follies, thou Hast never failed the good to see, Nor judged by one unseemly bough The upward-struggling tree.

These light leaves at thy feet I lay,— Poor common thoughts on common things, Which time is shaking, day by day, Like feathers from his wings;

Chance shootings from a frail life-tree, To nurturing care but little known, Their good was partly learned of thee, Their folly is my own.

That tree still clasps the kindly mould, Its leaves still drink the twilight dew, And weaving its pale green with gold, Still shines the sunlight through.

There still the morning zephyrs play, And there at times the spring bird sings, And mossy trunk and fading spray Are flowered with glossy wings.

Yet, even in genial sun and rain, Root, branch, and leaflet fail and fade; The wanderer on its lonely plain Erelong shall miss its shade.

O friend beloved, whose curious skill Keeps bright the last year's leaves and flowers, With warm, glad, summer thoughts to fill The cold, dark, winter hours

Pressed on thy heart, the leaves I bring May well defy the wintry cold, Until, in Heaven's eternal spring, Life's fairer ones unfold.

1847.



REMEMBRANCE

WITH COPIES OF THE AUTHOR'S WRITINGS.

Friend of mine! whose lot was cast With me in the distant past; Where, like shadows flitting fast,

Fact and fancy, thought and theme, Word and work, begin to seem Like a half-remembered dream!

Touched by change have all things been, Yet I think of thee as when We had speech of lip and pen.

For the calm thy kindness lent To a path of discontent, Rough with trial and dissent;

Gentle words where such were few, Softening blame where blame was true, Praising where small praise was due;

For a waking dream made good, For an ideal understood, For thy Christian womanhood;

For thy marvellous gift to cull From our common life and dull Whatsoe'er is beautiful;

Thoughts and fancies, Hybla's bees Dropping sweetness; true heart's-ease Of congenial sympathies;—

Still for these I own my debt; Memory, with her eyelids wet, Fain would thank thee even yet!

And as one who scatters flowers Where the Queen of May's sweet hours Sits, o'ertwined with blossomed bowers,

In superfluous zeal bestowing Gifts where gifts are overflowing, So I pay the debt I'm owing.

To thy full thoughts, gay or sad, Sunny-hued or sober clad, Something of my own I add;

Well assured that thou wilt take Even the offering which I make Kindly for the giver's sake.

1851.



MY NAMESAKE.

Addressed to Francis Greenleaf Allison of Burlington, New Jersey.

You scarcely need my tardy thanks, Who, self-rewarded, nurse and tend— A green leaf on your own Green Banks— The memory of your friend.

For me, no wreath, bloom-woven, hides The sobered brow and lessening hair For aught I know, the myrtled sides Of Helicon are bare.

Their scallop-shells so many bring The fabled founts of song to try, They've drained, for aught I know, the spring Of Aganippe dry.

Ah well!—The wreath the Muses braid Proves often Folly's cap and bell; Methinks, my ample beaver's shade May serve my turn as well.

Let Love's and Friendship's tender debt Be paid by those I love in life. Why should the unborn critic whet For me his scalping-knife?

Why should the stranger peer and pry One's vacant house of life about, And drag for curious ear and eye His faults and follies out?—

Why stuff, for fools to gaze upon, With chaff of words, the garb he wore, As corn-husks when the ear is gone Are rustled all the more?

Let kindly Silence close again, The picture vanish from the eye, And on the dim and misty main Let the small ripple die.

Yet not the less I own your claim To grateful thanks, dear friends of mine. Hang, if it please you so, my name Upon your household line.

Let Fame from brazen lips blow wide Her chosen names, I envy none A mother's love, a father's pride, Shall keep alive my own!

Still shall that name as now recall The young leaf wet with morning dew, The glory where the sunbeams fall The breezy woodlands through.

That name shall be a household word, A spell to waken smile or sigh; In many an evening prayer be heard And cradle lullaby.

And thou, dear child, in riper days When asked the reason of thy name, Shalt answer: One 't were vain to praise Or censure bore the same.

"Some blamed him, some believed him good, The truth lay doubtless 'twixt the two; He reconciled as best he could Old faith and fancies new.

"In him the grave and playful mixed, And wisdom held with folly truce, And Nature compromised betwixt Good fellow and recluse.

"He loved his friends, forgave his foes; And, if his words were harsh at times, He spared his fellow-men,—his blows Fell only on their crimes.

"He loved the good and wise, but found His human heart to all akin Who met him on the common ground Of suffering and of sin.

"Whate'er his neighbors might endure Of pain or grief his own became; For all the ills he could not cure He held himself to blame.

"His good was mainly an intent, His evil not of forethought done; The work he wrought was rarely meant Or finished as begun.

"Ill served his tides of feeling strong To turn the common mills of use; And, over restless wings of song, His birthright garb hung loose!

"His eye was beauty's powerless slave, And his the ear which discord pains; Few guessed beneath his aspect grave What passions strove in chains.

"He had his share of care and pain, No holiday was life to him; Still in the heirloom cup we drain The bitter drop will swim.

"Yet Heaven was kind, and here a bird And there a flower beguiled his way; And, cool, in summer noons, he heard The fountains plash and play.

"On all his sad or restless moods The patient peace of Nature stole; The quiet of the fields and woods Sank deep into his soul.

"He worshipped as his fathers did, And kept the faith of childish days, And, howsoe'er he strayed or slid, He loved the good old ways.

"The simple tastes, the kindly traits, The tranquil air, and gentle speech, The silence of the soul that waits For more than man to teach.

"The cant of party, school, and sect, Provoked at times his honest scorn, And Folly, in its gray respect, He tossed on satire's horn.

"But still his heart was full of awe And reverence for all sacred things; And, brooding over form and law,' He saw the Spirit's wings!

"Life's mystery wrapt him like a cloud; He heard far voices mock his own, The sweep of wings unseen, the loud, Long roll of waves unknown.

"The arrows of his straining sight Fell quenched in darkness; priest and sage, Like lost guides calling left and right, Perplexed his doubtful age.

"Like childhood, listening for the sound Of its dropped pebbles in the well, All vainly down the dark profound His brief-lined plummet fell.

"So, scattering flowers with pious pains On old beliefs, of later creeds, Which claimed a place in Truth's domains, He asked the title-deeds.

"He saw the old-time's groves and shrines In the long distance fair and dim; And heard, like sound of far-off pines, The century-mellowed hymn!

"He dared not mock the Dervish whirl, The Brahmin's rite, the Lama's spell; God knew the heart; Devotion's pearl Might sanctify the shell.

"While others trod the altar stairs He faltered like the publican; And, while they praised as saints, his prayers Were those of sinful man.

"For, awed by Sinai's Mount of Law, The trembling faith alone sufficed, That, through its cloud and flame, he saw The sweet, sad face of Christ!

"And listening, with his forehead bowed, Heard the Divine compassion fill The pauses of the trump and cloud With whispers small and still.

"The words he spake, the thoughts he penned, Are mortal as his hand and brain, But, if they served the Master's end, He has not lived in vain!"

Heaven make thee better than thy name, Child of my friends!—For thee I crave What riches never bought, nor fame To mortal longing gave.

I pray the prayer of Plato old: God make thee beautiful within, And let thine eyes the good behold In everything save sin!

Imagination held in check To serve, not rule, thy poised mind; Thy Reason, at the frown or beck Of Conscience, loose or bind.

No dreamer thou, but real all,— Strong manhood crowning vigorous youth; Life made by duty epical And rhythmic with the truth.

So shall that life the fruitage yield Which trees of healing only give, And green-leafed in the Eternal field Of God, forever live!

1853.



A MEMORY

Here, while the loom of Winter weaves The shroud of flowers and fountains, I think of thee and summer eves Among the Northern mountains.

When thunder tolled the twilight's close, And winds the lake were rude on, And thou wert singing, Ca' the Yowes, The bonny yowes of Cluden!

When, close and closer, hushing breath, Our circle narrowed round thee, And smiles and tears made up the wreath Wherewith our silence crowned thee;

And, strangers all, we felt the ties Of sisters and of brothers; Ah! whose of all those kindly eyes Now smile upon another's?

The sport of Time, who still apart The waifs of life is flinging; Oh, nevermore shall heart to heart Draw nearer for that singing!

Yet when the panes are frosty-starred, And twilight's fire is gleaming, I hear the songs of Scotland's bard Sound softly through my dreaming!

A song that lends to winter snows The glow of summer weather,— Again I hear thee ca' the yowes To Cluden's hills of heather

1854.



MY DREAM.

In my dream, methought I trod, Yesternight, a mountain road; Narrow as Al Sirat's span, High as eagle's flight, it ran.

Overhead, a roof of cloud With its weight of thunder bowed; Underneath, to left and right, Blankness and abysmal night.