Fleetly hath past the year. The seasons came
Duly as they are wont—the gentle Spring,
And the delicious Summer, and the cool,
Rich Autumn, with the nodding of the grain,
And Winter, like an old and hoary man,
Frosty and stiff—and so are chronicled.
We have read gladness in the new green leaf,
And in the first blown violets; we have drunk
Cool water from the rock, and in the shade
Sunk to the noon-tide slumber;—we have eat
The mellow fruitage of the bending tree,
And girded to our pleasant wanderings
When the cool wind came freshly from the hills;
And when the tinting of the Autumn leaves
Had faded from its glory, we have sat
By the good fires of Winter, and rejoiced
Over the fulness of the gathered sheaf.
"God hath been very good!" 'Tis He whose hand
Moulded the sunny hills, and hollowed out
The shelter of the valleys, and doth keep
The fountains in their secret places cool;
And it is He who leadeth up the sun,
And ordereth the starry influences,
And tempereth the keenness of the frost—
And therefore, in the plenty of the feast,
And in the lifting of the cup, let HIM
Have praises for the well-completed year.
Duly as they are wont—the gentle Spring,
And the delicious Summer, and the cool,
Rich Autumn, with the nodding of the grain,
And Winter, like an old and hoary man,
Frosty and stiff—and so are chronicled.
We have read gladness in the new green leaf,
And in the first blown violets; we have drunk
Cool water from the rock, and in the shade
Sunk to the noon-tide slumber;—we have eat
The mellow fruitage of the bending tree,
And girded to our pleasant wanderings
When the cool wind came freshly from the hills;
And when the tinting of the Autumn leaves
Had faded from its glory, we have sat
By the good fires of Winter, and rejoiced
Over the fulness of the gathered sheaf.
"God hath been very good!" 'Tis He whose hand
Moulded the sunny hills, and hollowed out
The shelter of the valleys, and doth keep
The fountains in their secret places cool;
And it is He who leadeth up the sun,
And ordereth the starry influences,
And tempereth the keenness of the frost—
And therefore, in the plenty of the feast,
And in the lifting of the cup, let HIM
Have praises for the well-completed year.
JANUARY 1, 1829.
Winter is come again. The sweet south west
Is a forgotten wind, and the strong earth
Has laid aside its mantle to be bound
By the frost fetter. There is not a sound
Save of the skaiter's heel, and there is laid
An icy finger on the lip of streams,
And the clear icicle hangs cold and still,
And the snow-fall is noiseless as a thought.
Spring has a rushing sound, and Summer sends
Many sweet voices with its odors out,
And Autumn rustleth its decaying robe
With a complaining whisper. Winter's dumb!
God made his ministry a silent one,
And he has given him a foot of steel
And an unlovely aspect, and a breath
Sharp to the senses—and we know that He
Tempereth well, and hath a meaning hid
Under the shadow of his hand. Look up!
And it shall be interpreted—Your home
Hath a temptation now. There is no voice
Of waters with beguiling for your ear,
And the cool forest and the meadows green
Witch not your feet away; and in the dells
There are no violets, and upon the hills
There are no sunny places to lie down.
You must go in, and by your cheerful fire
Wait for the offices of love, and hear
Accents of human tenderness, and feast
Your eye upon the beauty of the young.
It is a season for the quiet thought,
And the still reckoning with thyself. The year
Gives back the spirits of its dead, and time
Whispers the history of its vanished hours;
And the heart, calling its affections up,
Counteth its wasted ingots. Life stands still
And settles like a fountain, and the eye
Sees clearly through its depths, and noteth all
That stirred its troubled waters. It is well
That Winter with the dying year should come!
Is a forgotten wind, and the strong earth
Has laid aside its mantle to be bound
By the frost fetter. There is not a sound
Save of the skaiter's heel, and there is laid
An icy finger on the lip of streams,
And the clear icicle hangs cold and still,
And the snow-fall is noiseless as a thought.
Spring has a rushing sound, and Summer sends
Many sweet voices with its odors out,
And Autumn rustleth its decaying robe
With a complaining whisper. Winter's dumb!
God made his ministry a silent one,
And he has given him a foot of steel
And an unlovely aspect, and a breath
Sharp to the senses—and we know that He
Tempereth well, and hath a meaning hid
Under the shadow of his hand. Look up!
And it shall be interpreted—Your home
Hath a temptation now. There is no voice
Of waters with beguiling for your ear,
And the cool forest and the meadows green
Witch not your feet away; and in the dells
There are no violets, and upon the hills
There are no sunny places to lie down.
You must go in, and by your cheerful fire
Wait for the offices of love, and hear
Accents of human tenderness, and feast
Your eye upon the beauty of the young.
It is a season for the quiet thought,
And the still reckoning with thyself. The year
Gives back the spirits of its dead, and time
Whispers the history of its vanished hours;
And the heart, calling its affections up,
Counteth its wasted ingots. Life stands still
And settles like a fountain, and the eye
Sees clearly through its depths, and noteth all
That stirred its troubled waters. It is well
That Winter with the dying year should come!
PSYCHE,
BEFORE THE TRIBUNAL OF VENUS.
Lift up thine eyes, sweet Psyche! What is she
That those soft fringes timidly should fall
Before her, and thy spiritual brow
Be shadowed as her presence were a cloud?
A loftier gift is thine than she can give—
That queen of beauty. She may mould the brow
To perfectness, and give unto the form
A beautiful proportion; she may stain
The eye with a celestial blue—the cheek
With carmine of the sunset; she may breathe
Grace into every motion, like the play
Of the least visible tissue of a cloud;
She may give all that is within her own
Bright cestus—and one silent look of thine,
Like stronger magic, will outcharm it all.
That those soft fringes timidly should fall
Before her, and thy spiritual brow
Be shadowed as her presence were a cloud?
A loftier gift is thine than she can give—
That queen of beauty. She may mould the brow
To perfectness, and give unto the form
A beautiful proportion; she may stain
The eye with a celestial blue—the cheek
With carmine of the sunset; she may breathe
Grace into every motion, like the play
Of the least visible tissue of a cloud;
She may give all that is within her own
Bright cestus—and one silent look of thine,
Like stronger magic, will outcharm it all.
Ay, for the soul is better than its frame,
The spirit than its temple. What's the brow,
Or the eye's lustre, or the step of air,
Or color, but the beautiful links that chain
The mind from its rare element? There lies
A talisman in intellect which yields
Celestial music, when the master hand
Touches it cunningly. It sleeps beneath
The outward semblance, and to common sight
Is an invisible and hidden thing;
But when the lip is faded, and the cheek
Robbed of its daintiness, and when the form
Witches the sense no more, and human love
Falters in its idolatry, this spell
Will hold its strength unbroken, and go on
Stealing anew the affections.
Marvel not
That Love leans sadly on his bended bow.
He hath found out the loveliness of mind,
And he is spoilt for beauty. So 'twill be
Ever—the glory of the human form
Is but a perishing thing, and Love will droop
When its brief grace hath faded; but the mind
Perisheth not, and when the outward charm
Hath had its brief existence, it awakes,
And is the lovelier that it slept so long—
Like wells that by the wasting of their flow
Have had their deeper fountains broken up.
The spirit than its temple. What's the brow,
Or the eye's lustre, or the step of air,
Or color, but the beautiful links that chain
The mind from its rare element? There lies
A talisman in intellect which yields
Celestial music, when the master hand
Touches it cunningly. It sleeps beneath
The outward semblance, and to common sight
Is an invisible and hidden thing;
But when the lip is faded, and the cheek
Robbed of its daintiness, and when the form
Witches the sense no more, and human love
Falters in its idolatry, this spell
Will hold its strength unbroken, and go on
Stealing anew the affections.
Marvel not
That Love leans sadly on his bended bow.
He hath found out the loveliness of mind,
And he is spoilt for beauty. So 'twill be
Ever—the glory of the human form
Is but a perishing thing, and Love will droop
When its brief grace hath faded; but the mind
Perisheth not, and when the outward charm
Hath had its brief existence, it awakes,
And is the lovelier that it slept so long—
Like wells that by the wasting of their flow
Have had their deeper fountains broken up.
ON SEEING A BEAUTIFUL BOY AT PLAY.
Down the green slope he bounded. Raven curls
From his white shoulders by the winds were swept,
And the clear color of his sunny cheek
Was bright with motion. Through his open lips
Shone visibly a delicate line of pearl,
Like a white vein within a rosy shell,
And his dark eye's clear brilliance, as it lay
Beneath his lashes, like a drop of dew
Hid in the moss, stole out as covertly
As starlight from the edging of a cloud.
I never saw a boy so beautiful.
His step was like the stooping of a bird,
And his limbs melted into grace like things
Shaped by the wind of summer. He was like
A painter's fine conception—such an one
As he would have of Ganymede, and weep
Upon his pallet that he could not win
The vision to his easel. Who could paint
The young and shadowless spirit? Who could chain
The visible gladness of a heart that lives,
Like a glad fountain, in the eye of light,
With an unbreathing pencil? Nature's gift
Has nothing that is like it. Sun and stream,
And the new leaves of June, and the young lark
That flees away into the depths of heaven,
Lost in his own wild music, and the breath
Of springtime, and the summer eve, and noon
In the cool autumn, are like fingers swept
Over sweet-toned affections—but the joy
That enters to the spirit of a child
Is deep as his young heart: his very breath,
The simple sense of being, is enough
To ravish him, and like a thrilling touch
He feels each moment of his life go by.
From his white shoulders by the winds were swept,
And the clear color of his sunny cheek
Was bright with motion. Through his open lips
Shone visibly a delicate line of pearl,
Like a white vein within a rosy shell,
And his dark eye's clear brilliance, as it lay
Beneath his lashes, like a drop of dew
Hid in the moss, stole out as covertly
As starlight from the edging of a cloud.
I never saw a boy so beautiful.
His step was like the stooping of a bird,
And his limbs melted into grace like things
Shaped by the wind of summer. He was like
A painter's fine conception—such an one
As he would have of Ganymede, and weep
Upon his pallet that he could not win
The vision to his easel. Who could paint
The young and shadowless spirit? Who could chain
The visible gladness of a heart that lives,
Like a glad fountain, in the eye of light,
With an unbreathing pencil? Nature's gift
Has nothing that is like it. Sun and stream,
And the new leaves of June, and the young lark
That flees away into the depths of heaven,
Lost in his own wild music, and the breath
Of springtime, and the summer eve, and noon
In the cool autumn, are like fingers swept
Over sweet-toned affections—but the joy
That enters to the spirit of a child
Is deep as his young heart: his very breath,
The simple sense of being, is enough
To ravish him, and like a thrilling touch
He feels each moment of his life go by.
Beautiful, beautiful childhood! with a joy
That like a robe is palpable, and flung
Out by your every motion! delicate bud
Of the immortal flower that will unfold
And come to its maturity in heaven!
I weep your earthly glory. 'Tis a light
Lent to the new born spirit that goes out
With the first idle wind. It is the leaf
Fresh flung upon the river, that will dance
Upon the wave that stealeth out its life,
Then sink of its own heaviness. The face
Of the delightful earth will to your eye
Grow dim; the fragrance of the many flowers
Be noticed not, and the beguiling voice
Of nature in her gentleness will be
To manhood's senseless ear inaudible.
I sigh to look upon thy face, young boy!
That like a robe is palpable, and flung
Out by your every motion! delicate bud
Of the immortal flower that will unfold
And come to its maturity in heaven!
I weep your earthly glory. 'Tis a light
Lent to the new born spirit that goes out
With the first idle wind. It is the leaf
Fresh flung upon the river, that will dance
Upon the wave that stealeth out its life,
Then sink of its own heaviness. The face
Of the delightful earth will to your eye
Grow dim; the fragrance of the many flowers
Be noticed not, and the beguiling voice
Of nature in her gentleness will be
To manhood's senseless ear inaudible.
I sigh to look upon thy face, young boy!
A CHILD'S FIRST IMPRESSION OF A STAR.
She had been told that God made all the stars
That twinkled up in heaven, and now she stood
Watching the coming of the twilight on,
As if it were a new and perfect world,
And this were its first eve. How beautiful
Must be the work of nature to a child
In its first fresh impression! Laura stood
By the low window, with the silken lash
Of her soft eye upraised, and her sweet mouth
Half parted with the new and strange delight
Of beauty that she could not comprehend,
And had not seen before. The purple folds
Of the low sunset clouds, and the blue sky
That look'd so still and delicate above,
Fill'd her young heart with gladness, and the eve
Stole on with its deep shadows, and she still
Stood looking at the west with that half smile,
As if a pleasant thought were at her heart.
Presently, in the edge of the last tint
Of sunset, where the blue was melted in
To the faint golden mellowness, a star
Stood suddenly. A laugh of wild delight
Burst from her lips, and putting up her hands,
Her simple thought broke forth expressively—
"Father! dear Father! God has made a star!"
That twinkled up in heaven, and now she stood
Watching the coming of the twilight on,
As if it were a new and perfect world,
And this were its first eve. How beautiful
Must be the work of nature to a child
In its first fresh impression! Laura stood
By the low window, with the silken lash
Of her soft eye upraised, and her sweet mouth
Half parted with the new and strange delight
Of beauty that she could not comprehend,
And had not seen before. The purple folds
Of the low sunset clouds, and the blue sky
That look'd so still and delicate above,
Fill'd her young heart with gladness, and the eve
Stole on with its deep shadows, and she still
Stood looking at the west with that half smile,
As if a pleasant thought were at her heart.
Presently, in the edge of the last tint
Of sunset, where the blue was melted in
To the faint golden mellowness, a star
Stood suddenly. A laugh of wild delight
Burst from her lips, and putting up her hands,
Her simple thought broke forth expressively—
"Father! dear Father! God has made a star!"
DEDICATION HYMN.
The perfect world by Adam trod,
Was the first temple—built by God—
His fiat laid the corner stone,
And heav'd its pillars, one by one.
Was the first temple—built by God—
His fiat laid the corner stone,
And heav'd its pillars, one by one.
He hung its starry roof on high—
The broad illimitable sky;
He spread its pavement, green and bright,
And curtain'd it with morning light.
The broad illimitable sky;
He spread its pavement, green and bright,
And curtain'd it with morning light.
The mountains in their places stood—
The sea—the sky—and "all was good;"
And, when its first pure praises rang,
The "morning stars together sang."
The sea—the sky—and "all was good;"
And, when its first pure praises rang,
The "morning stars together sang."
Lord! 'tis not ours to make the sea
And earth and sky a house for thee;
But in thy sight our off'ring stands—
A humbler temple, "made with hands."
And earth and sky a house for thee;
But in thy sight our off'ring stands—
A humbler temple, "made with hands."
THE BAPTISM.
She stood up in the meekness of a heart
Resting on God, and held her fair young child
Upon her bosom, with its gentle eyes
Folded in sleep, as if its soul had gone
To whisper the baptismal vow in Heaven.
The prayer went up devoutly, and the lips
Of the good man glowed fervently with faith
That it would be, even as he had pray'd,
And the sweet child be gather'd to the fold
Of Jesus. As the holy words went on
Her lips mov'd silently, and tears, fast tears
Stole from beneath her lashes, and upon
The forehead of the beautiful child lay soft
With the baptismal water. Then I thought
That, to the eye of God, that mother's tears
Would be a deeper covenant, which sin
And the temptations of the world, and death
Would leave unbroken, and that she would know
In the clear light of heaven, how very strong
The prayer which press'd them from her heart had been
In leading its young spirit up to God.
Resting on God, and held her fair young child
Upon her bosom, with its gentle eyes
Folded in sleep, as if its soul had gone
To whisper the baptismal vow in Heaven.
The prayer went up devoutly, and the lips
Of the good man glowed fervently with faith
That it would be, even as he had pray'd,
And the sweet child be gather'd to the fold
Of Jesus. As the holy words went on
Her lips mov'd silently, and tears, fast tears
Stole from beneath her lashes, and upon
The forehead of the beautiful child lay soft
With the baptismal water. Then I thought
That, to the eye of God, that mother's tears
Would be a deeper covenant, which sin
And the temptations of the world, and death
Would leave unbroken, and that she would know
In the clear light of heaven, how very strong
The prayer which press'd them from her heart had been
In leading its young spirit up to God.
THE TABLE OF EMERALD.
Deep, it is said, under yonder pyramid, has for ages lain concealed the Table of Emerald, on which the thrice-great Hermes engraved, before the flood, the secret of Alchemy that gives gold at will.
Epicurean.
That 'Emerald Green of the Pyramid'—
Were I where it is laid,
I'd ask no king for his heavy crown,
As its hidden words were said.
The pomp and the glitter of worldly pride
Should fetter my moments not,
And the natural thought of an open mind,
Should govern alone my lot.
Were I where it is laid,
I'd ask no king for his heavy crown,
As its hidden words were said.
The pomp and the glitter of worldly pride
Should fetter my moments not,
And the natural thought of an open mind,
Should govern alone my lot.
Would I feast all day? revel all night?
Laugh with a weary heart?
Would I sleep away the breezy morn?
And wake till the stars depart?
Would I gain no knowledge, and search no deep
For the wisdom that sages knew?
Would I run to waste with a human mind—
To its noble trust untrue?
Laugh with a weary heart?
Would I sleep away the breezy morn?
And wake till the stars depart?
Would I gain no knowledge, and search no deep
For the wisdom that sages knew?
Would I run to waste with a human mind—
To its noble trust untrue?
Oh! knew I the depth of that 'Emerald Green,'
And knew I the spell of gold,
I would never poison a fresh young heart
With the taint of customs old.
I would bind no wreath to my forehead free
In whose shadow a thought would die,
Nor drink from the cup of revelry,
The ruin my gold would buy.
And knew I the spell of gold,
I would never poison a fresh young heart
With the taint of customs old.
I would bind no wreath to my forehead free
In whose shadow a thought would die,
Nor drink from the cup of revelry,
The ruin my gold would buy.
But I'd break the fetters of care worn things,
And be spirit and fancy free,
My mind should go up where it longs to go,
And the limitless wind outflee.
I'd climb to the eyries of eagle men
Till the stars became a scroll;
And pour right on, like the even sea,
In the strength of a governed soul.
And be spirit and fancy free,
My mind should go up where it longs to go,
And the limitless wind outflee.
I'd climb to the eyries of eagle men
Till the stars became a scroll;
And pour right on, like the even sea,
In the strength of a governed soul.
Ambition! Ambition! I've laughed to scorn
Thy robe and thy gleaming sword;
I would follow sooner a woman's eye,
Or the spell of a gentle word;
But come with the glory of human mind,
And the light of the scholar's brow,
And my heart shall be taught forgetfulness,
And alone at thy altar bow.
Thy robe and thy gleaming sword;
I would follow sooner a woman's eye,
Or the spell of a gentle word;
But come with the glory of human mind,
And the light of the scholar's brow,
And my heart shall be taught forgetfulness,
And alone at thy altar bow.
There was one dark eye—it hath passed away!
There was one deep tone—'tis not!
Could I see it now—could I hear it now,
Ye were all too well forgot.
My heart brought up, from its chambers deep,
The sum of its earthly love;
But it might not—could not—buy like Heaven,
And she stole to her rest above.
There was one deep tone—'tis not!
Could I see it now—could I hear it now,
Ye were all too well forgot.
My heart brought up, from its chambers deep,
The sum of its earthly love;
But it might not—could not—buy like Heaven,
And she stole to her rest above.
That first deep love I have taken back,
In my rayless heart to hide;
With the tear it brought for a burning seal,
'Twill there forever bide.
I may stretch on now to a nobler ken,
I may live in my thoughts of flame—
The tie is broken that kept me back,
And my spirit is on, for fame!
In my rayless heart to hide;
With the tear it brought for a burning seal,
'Twill there forever bide.
I may stretch on now to a nobler ken,
I may live in my thoughts of flame—
The tie is broken that kept me back,
And my spirit is on, for fame!
But alas! I am dreaming as if I knew
The spell of the tablet green;
I forgot how like to a broken reed,
Is the lot on which I lean.
There is nothing true of my idle dream,
But the wreck of my early love;
And my mind is coined for my daily bread,
And how can it soar above?
The spell of the tablet green;
I forgot how like to a broken reed,
Is the lot on which I lean.
There is nothing true of my idle dream,
But the wreck of my early love;
And my mind is coined for my daily bread,
And how can it soar above?
THE ANNOYER.
Sogna il guerriér le schiere,
Le sel ve il cacciatór;
E sogna il pescatór;
Le reti, e l' amo. Metastatio.
Love knoweth every form of air,
And every shape of earth,
And comes, unbidden, everywhere,
Like thought's mysterious birth.
The moonlight sea and the sunset sky
Are written with Love's words,
And you hear his voice unceasingly,
Like song in the time of birds.
And every shape of earth,
And comes, unbidden, everywhere,
Like thought's mysterious birth.
The moonlight sea and the sunset sky
Are written with Love's words,
And you hear his voice unceasingly,
Like song in the time of birds.
He peeps into the warrior's heart
From the tip of a stooping plume,
And the serried spears, and the many men
May not deny him room.
He'll come to his tent in the weary night,
And be busy in his dream;
And he'll float to his eye in morning light
Like a fay on a silver beam.
From the tip of a stooping plume,
And the serried spears, and the many men
May not deny him room.
He'll come to his tent in the weary night,
And be busy in his dream;
And he'll float to his eye in morning light
Like a fay on a silver beam.
He hears the sound of the hunter's gun,
And rides on the echo back,
And sighs in his ear like a stirring leaf,
And flits in his woodland track.
The shade of the wood, and the sheen of the river,
The cloud, and the open sky—
He will haunt them all with his subtle quiver,
Like the light of your very eye.
And rides on the echo back,
And sighs in his ear like a stirring leaf,
And flits in his woodland track.
The shade of the wood, and the sheen of the river,
The cloud, and the open sky—
He will haunt them all with his subtle quiver,
Like the light of your very eye.
The fisher hangs over the leaning boat,
And ponders the silver sea,
For Love is under the surface hid,
And a spell of thought has he.
He heaves the wave like a bosom sweet,
And speaks in the ripple low,
Till the bait is gone from the crafty line,
And the hook hangs bare below.
And ponders the silver sea,
For Love is under the surface hid,
And a spell of thought has he.
He heaves the wave like a bosom sweet,
And speaks in the ripple low,
Till the bait is gone from the crafty line,
And the hook hangs bare below.
He blurs the print of the scholar's book,
And intrudes in the maiden's prayer.
And profanes the cell of the holy man,
In the shape of a lady fair.
In the darkest night, and the bright daylight,
In earth, and sea, and sky,
In every home of human thought,
Will Love be lurking nigh.
And intrudes in the maiden's prayer.
And profanes the cell of the holy man,
In the shape of a lady fair.
In the darkest night, and the bright daylight,
In earth, and sea, and sky,
In every home of human thought,
Will Love be lurking nigh.
STARLIGHT.
The evening star will twinkle presently.
The last small bird is silent, and the bee
Has gone into his hive, and the shut flowers
Are bending as if sleeping on the stem,
And all sweet living things are slumbering
In the deep hush of nature's resting time.
The faded West looks deep, as if its blue
Were searchable, and even as I look,
The twilight hath stole over it, and made
Its liquid eye apparent, and above
To the far-stretching zenith, and around,
As if they waited on her like a queen,
Have stole out the innumerable stars
To twinkle like intelligence in heaven.
Is it not beautiful, my fair Adel?
Fit for the young affections to come out
And bathe in like an element! How well
The night is made for tenderness—so still
That the low whisper, scarcely audible,
Is heard like music, and so deeply pure
That the fond thought is chastened as it springs
And on the lip made holy. I have won
Thy heart, my gentle girl! but it hath been
When that soft eye was on me, and the love
I told beneath the evening influence
Shall be as constant as its gentle star.
The last small bird is silent, and the bee
Has gone into his hive, and the shut flowers
Are bending as if sleeping on the stem,
And all sweet living things are slumbering
In the deep hush of nature's resting time.
The faded West looks deep, as if its blue
Were searchable, and even as I look,
The twilight hath stole over it, and made
Its liquid eye apparent, and above
To the far-stretching zenith, and around,
As if they waited on her like a queen,
Have stole out the innumerable stars
To twinkle like intelligence in heaven.
Is it not beautiful, my fair Adel?
Fit for the young affections to come out
And bathe in like an element! How well
The night is made for tenderness—so still
That the low whisper, scarcely audible,
Is heard like music, and so deeply pure
That the fond thought is chastened as it springs
And on the lip made holy. I have won
Thy heart, my gentle girl! but it hath been
When that soft eye was on me, and the love
I told beneath the evening influence
Shall be as constant as its gentle star.
LASSITUDE.
I will throw by my book. The weariness
Of too much study presses on my brain,
And thought's close fetter binds upon my brow
Like a distraction, and I must give o'er.
Morning hath seen me here, and noon, and eve;
And midnight with its deep and solemn hush
Has look'd upon my labors, and the dawn,
With its sweet voices, and its tempting breath
Has driven me to rest—and I can bear
The burden of such weariness no more.
I have foregone society, and fled
From a sweet sister's fondness, and from all
A home's alluring blandishments, and now
When I am thirsting for them, and my heart
Would leap at the approaches of their kind
And gentle offices, they are not here,
And I must feel that I am all alone.
Oh, for the fame of this forgetful world
How much we suffer! Were it all for this—
Were nothing but the empty praise of men
The guerdon of this sedentary toil—
Were this world's perishable honors all—
I'd bound from its confinement as a hart
Leaps from its hunters—but I know, that when
My name shall be forgotten, and my frame
Rests from its labors, I shall find above
A work for the capacities I win,
And, as I discipline my spirit here,
My lyre shall have a nobler sweep in Heaven.
Of too much study presses on my brain,
And thought's close fetter binds upon my brow
Like a distraction, and I must give o'er.
Morning hath seen me here, and noon, and eve;
And midnight with its deep and solemn hush
Has look'd upon my labors, and the dawn,
With its sweet voices, and its tempting breath
Has driven me to rest—and I can bear
The burden of such weariness no more.
I have foregone society, and fled
From a sweet sister's fondness, and from all
A home's alluring blandishments, and now
When I am thirsting for them, and my heart
Would leap at the approaches of their kind
And gentle offices, they are not here,
And I must feel that I am all alone.
Oh, for the fame of this forgetful world
How much we suffer! Were it all for this—
Were nothing but the empty praise of men
The guerdon of this sedentary toil—
Were this world's perishable honors all—
I'd bound from its confinement as a hart
Leaps from its hunters—but I know, that when
My name shall be forgotten, and my frame
Rests from its labors, I shall find above
A work for the capacities I win,
And, as I discipline my spirit here,
My lyre shall have a nobler sweep in Heaven.
"ROARING BROOK:"—Cheshire, Con.
It was a mountain stream that with the leap
Of its impatient waters had worn out
A channel in the rock, and wash'd away
The earth that had upheld the tall old trees,
Till it was darken'd with the shadowy arch
Of the o'er-leaning branches. Here and there
It loiter'd in a broad and limpid pool
That circled round demurely, and anon
Sprung violently over where the rock
Fell suddenly, and bore its bubbles on,
Till they were broken by the hanging moss,
As anger with a gentle word grows calm.
In spring-time, when the snows were coming down,
And in the flooding of the Autumn rains,
No foot might enter there—but in the hot
And thirsty summer, when the fountains slept,
You could go its channel in the shade,
To the far sources, with a brow as cool
As in the grotto of the anchorite.
Here when an idle student have I come,
And in a hollow of the rock lain down
And mus'd until the eventide, or read
Some fine old Poet till my nook became
A haunt of faery, or the busy flow
Of water to my spell-bewilder'd ear
Seem'd like the din of some gay tournament.
Pleasant have been such hours, and tho' the wise
Have said that I was indolent, and they
Who taught me have reprov'd me that I play'd
The truant in the leafy month of June,
I deem it true philosophy in him
Whose spirit must be temper'd of the world,
To loiter with these wayside comforters.
Of its impatient waters had worn out
A channel in the rock, and wash'd away
The earth that had upheld the tall old trees,
Till it was darken'd with the shadowy arch
Of the o'er-leaning branches. Here and there
It loiter'd in a broad and limpid pool
That circled round demurely, and anon
Sprung violently over where the rock
Fell suddenly, and bore its bubbles on,
Till they were broken by the hanging moss,
As anger with a gentle word grows calm.
In spring-time, when the snows were coming down,
And in the flooding of the Autumn rains,
No foot might enter there—but in the hot
And thirsty summer, when the fountains slept,
You could go its channel in the shade,
To the far sources, with a brow as cool
As in the grotto of the anchorite.
Here when an idle student have I come,
And in a hollow of the rock lain down
And mus'd until the eventide, or read
Some fine old Poet till my nook became
A haunt of faery, or the busy flow
Of water to my spell-bewilder'd ear
Seem'd like the din of some gay tournament.
Pleasant have been such hours, and tho' the wise
Have said that I was indolent, and they
Who taught me have reprov'd me that I play'd
The truant in the leafy month of June,
I deem it true philosophy in him
Whose spirit must be temper'd of the world,
To loiter with these wayside comforters.
THE DECLARATION.
'Twas late, and the gay company was gone,
And light lay soft on the deserted room
From alabaster vases, and a scent
Of orange leaves, and sweet verbena came
Through the unshutter'd window on the air,
And the rich pictures with their dark old tints
Hung like a twilight landscape, and all things
Seem'd hush'd into a slumber. Isabel,
The dark eyed, spiritual Isabel
Was leaning on her harp, and I had staid
To whisper what I could not when the crowd
Hung on her look like worshippers. I knelt,
And with the fervor of a lip unused
To the cool breath of reason, told my love.
There was no answer, and I took the hand
That rested on the strings, and pressed a kiss
Upon it unforbidden—and again
Besought her, that this silent evidence
That I was not indifferent to her heart,
Might have the seal of one sweet syllable.
I kissed the small white fingers as I spoke,
And she withdrew them gently, and upraised
Her forehead from its resting place, and looked
Earnestly on me—She had been asleep!
And light lay soft on the deserted room
From alabaster vases, and a scent
Of orange leaves, and sweet verbena came
Through the unshutter'd window on the air,
And the rich pictures with their dark old tints
Hung like a twilight landscape, and all things
Seem'd hush'd into a slumber. Isabel,
The dark eyed, spiritual Isabel
Was leaning on her harp, and I had staid
To whisper what I could not when the crowd
Hung on her look like worshippers. I knelt,
And with the fervor of a lip unused
To the cool breath of reason, told my love.
There was no answer, and I took the hand
That rested on the strings, and pressed a kiss
Upon it unforbidden—and again
Besought her, that this silent evidence
That I was not indifferent to her heart,
Might have the seal of one sweet syllable.
I kissed the small white fingers as I spoke,
And she withdrew them gently, and upraised
Her forehead from its resting place, and looked
Earnestly on me—She had been asleep!
ISABEL.
They said that I was strange. I could not bear
Confinement, and I lov'd to feel the wind
Blowing upon my forehead, and when morn
Came like an inspiration from the East,
And the cool earth, awaking like a star
In a new element, sent out its voice,
And tempted me with music, and the breath
Of a delicious perfume, and the dye
Of the rich forests and the pastures green,
To come out and be glad—I would not stay
To bind my gushing spirit with a book.
Confinement, and I lov'd to feel the wind
Blowing upon my forehead, and when morn
Came like an inspiration from the East,
And the cool earth, awaking like a star
In a new element, sent out its voice,
And tempted me with music, and the breath
Of a delicious perfume, and the dye
Of the rich forests and the pastures green,
To come out and be glad—I would not stay
To bind my gushing spirit with a book.
Fourteen bright summers—and my heart had grown
Impatient in its loneliness, and yearn'd
For something that was like itself, to love.
She came—the stately Isabel—as proud
And beautiful, and gentle as my dream;
And with my wealth of feeling, lov'd I her.
Older by years, and wiser of the world,
She was in thought my equal, and we rang'd
The pleasant wood together, and sat down
Impassion'd with the same delicious sweep
Of water, and I pour'd into her ear
My passion and my hoarded thoughts like one,
Till I forgot that there was any world
But Isabel and nature. She was pleas'd
And flatter'd with my wild and earnest love,
And suffer'd my delirious words to burn
Upon my lip unchided. It was new
To be so worshipped like a deity
By a pure heart from nature, and she gave
Her tenderness its way, and when I kiss'd
Her fingers till I thought I was in Heaven,
She gaz'd upon me silently, and wept.
Impatient in its loneliness, and yearn'd
For something that was like itself, to love.
She came—the stately Isabel—as proud
And beautiful, and gentle as my dream;
And with my wealth of feeling, lov'd I her.
Older by years, and wiser of the world,
She was in thought my equal, and we rang'd
The pleasant wood together, and sat down
Impassion'd with the same delicious sweep
Of water, and I pour'd into her ear
My passion and my hoarded thoughts like one,
Till I forgot that there was any world
But Isabel and nature. She was pleas'd
And flatter'd with my wild and earnest love,
And suffer'd my delirious words to burn
Upon my lip unchided. It was new
To be so worshipped like a deity
By a pure heart from nature, and she gave
Her tenderness its way, and when I kiss'd
Her fingers till I thought I was in Heaven,
She gaz'd upon me silently, and wept.
I have seen eighteen summers—and the child
Of stately Isabel hath learn'd to come
And win me from my sadness. I have school'd
My feelings to affection for that child,
And I can see his father fondle him,
And give him to his mother with a kiss
Upon her holy forehead—and be calm!
Of stately Isabel hath learn'd to come
And win me from my sadness. I have school'd
My feelings to affection for that child,
And I can see his father fondle him,
And give him to his mother with a kiss
Upon her holy forehead—and be calm!
MERE ACCIDENT.
It was a shady nook that I had found
Deep in the greenwood. A delicious stream
Ran softly by it on a bed of grass,
And to the border leant a sloping bank
Of moss as delicate as Tempe e'er
Spread for the sleep of Io. Overhead
The spreading larch was woven with the fir,
And as the summer wind stole listlessly,
And dallied with the tree tops, they would part
And let in sprinklings of the sunny light,
Studding the moss like silver; and again
Returning to their places, there would come
A murmur from the touched and stirring leaves,
That like a far-off instrument, beguiled
Your mood into the idleness of sleep.
Deep in the greenwood. A delicious stream
Ran softly by it on a bed of grass,
And to the border leant a sloping bank
Of moss as delicate as Tempe e'er
Spread for the sleep of Io. Overhead
The spreading larch was woven with the fir,
And as the summer wind stole listlessly,
And dallied with the tree tops, they would part
And let in sprinklings of the sunny light,
Studding the moss like silver; and again
Returning to their places, there would come
A murmur from the touched and stirring leaves,
That like a far-off instrument, beguiled
Your mood into the idleness of sleep.
Here did I win thee, Viola! We came—
Thou knowest how carelessly—and never thought
Love lived in such a wilderness; and thou—
I had a cousin's kindness for thy lip,
And in the meshes of thy chesnut hair
I loved to hide my fingers—that was all!
And when I saw thy figure on the grass,
And thy straw bonnet flung aside, I thought
A fairy would be pretty, painted so
Upon a ground of green—but that was all!
Thou knowest how carelessly—and never thought
Love lived in such a wilderness; and thou—
I had a cousin's kindness for thy lip,
And in the meshes of thy chesnut hair
I loved to hide my fingers—that was all!
And when I saw thy figure on the grass,
And thy straw bonnet flung aside, I thought
A fairy would be pretty, painted so
Upon a ground of green—but that was all!
And when thou playfully wouldst bathe thy foot,
And the clear water of the stream ran off
And left the white skin polished, why, I thought
It looked like ivory—but that was all!
And when thou wouldst be serious, and I
Was serious too, and thy mere fairy's hand
Lay carelessly in mine, and just for thought
I mused upon thy innocence and gaz'd
Upon the pure transparence of thy brow—
I pressed thy fingers half unconsciously,
And fell in love. Was that all, Viola?
And the clear water of the stream ran off
And left the white skin polished, why, I thought
It looked like ivory—but that was all!
And when thou wouldst be serious, and I
Was serious too, and thy mere fairy's hand
Lay carelessly in mine, and just for thought
I mused upon thy innocence and gaz'd
Upon the pure transparence of thy brow—
I pressed thy fingers half unconsciously,
And fell in love. Was that all, Viola?
THE EARL'S MINSTREL.
I had a passion when I was a child
For a most pleasant idleness. In June,
When the thick masses of the leaves were stirr'd
With a just audible murmur, and the streams
Fainted in their cool places to a low
Unnotic'd tinkle, and the reapers hung
Their sickles in the trees and went to sleep,
Then might you find me in an antique chair
Cushion'd with cunning luxury, which stood
In the old study corner, by a nook
Crowded with volumes of the old romance;
And there, the long and quiet summer day,
Lay I with half clos'd eyelids, turning o'er
Leaf after leaf, until the twilight blurr'd
Their singular and time-stain'd characters.
'Twas a forgetful lore, and it is blent
With dreams that in my fitful slumber came,
And is remember'd faintly. But to-day
With the strange waywardness of human thought,
A story has come back to me which I
Had long forgotten, and I tell it now
Because it hath a savour that I find
But seldom in the temper of the world.
For a most pleasant idleness. In June,
When the thick masses of the leaves were stirr'd
With a just audible murmur, and the streams
Fainted in their cool places to a low
Unnotic'd tinkle, and the reapers hung
Their sickles in the trees and went to sleep,
Then might you find me in an antique chair
Cushion'd with cunning luxury, which stood
In the old study corner, by a nook
Crowded with volumes of the old romance;
And there, the long and quiet summer day,
Lay I with half clos'd eyelids, turning o'er
Leaf after leaf, until the twilight blurr'd
Their singular and time-stain'd characters.
'Twas a forgetful lore, and it is blent
With dreams that in my fitful slumber came,
And is remember'd faintly. But to-day
With the strange waywardness of human thought,
A story has come back to me which I
Had long forgotten, and I tell it now
Because it hath a savour that I find
But seldom in the temper of the world.
Angelo turn'd away. He was a poor
Unhonor'd minstrel, and he might not breathe
Love to the daughter of an Earl. She rais'd
Proudly her beautiful head, and shook away
From her clear temples the luxuriant hair,
And told him it would ever please her well
To listen to his minstrelsy, but love
Was for a loftier lip—and then the tear
Stole to her flashing eye, for as she spoke
There rose up a remembrance of his keen,
Unstooping spirit, and his noble heart
Given her like a sacrifice, and she held
Her hand for him to kiss, and said, "Farewell!
Think of me, Angelo!" and so pass'd on.
Unhonor'd minstrel, and he might not breathe
Love to the daughter of an Earl. She rais'd
Proudly her beautiful head, and shook away
From her clear temples the luxuriant hair,
And told him it would ever please her well
To listen to his minstrelsy, but love
Was for a loftier lip—and then the tear
Stole to her flashing eye, for as she spoke
There rose up a remembrance of his keen,
Unstooping spirit, and his noble heart
Given her like a sacrifice, and she held
Her hand for him to kiss, and said, "Farewell!
Think of me, Angelo!" and so pass'd on.
The color to his forehead mounted high,
And his thin lip curl'd haughtily, and then
As if his mood had chang'd, he bow'd his head
Low on his bosom, and remain'd awhile
Lost in his bitter thoughts—and then again
He lifted to its height his slender form,
And his moist eye grew clear, and his hand pass'd
Rapidly o'er his instrument while thus
He gave his spirit voice:—
And his thin lip curl'd haughtily, and then
As if his mood had chang'd, he bow'd his head
Low on his bosom, and remain'd awhile
Lost in his bitter thoughts—and then again
He lifted to its height his slender form,
And his moist eye grew clear, and his hand pass'd
Rapidly o'er his instrument while thus
He gave his spirit voice:—
It did not need that alter'd look,
Nor that uplifted brow—
I had not ask'd thy haughty love,
Were I as proud as now.
My love was like a beating heart—
Unbidden and unstayed;
And had I known but half its power,
It had not been betray'd.
Nor that uplifted brow—
I had not ask'd thy haughty love,
Were I as proud as now.
My love was like a beating heart—
Unbidden and unstayed;
And had I known but half its power,
It had not been betray'd.
I did not seek thy titled hand;
I thought not of thy name;
I only granted utterance
To one wild thought of flame.
I did not dream thou couldst be mine,
Or I a thought to thee—
I only knew my lip must let
Some burning thought go free.
I thought not of thy name;
I only granted utterance
To one wild thought of flame.
I did not dream thou couldst be mine,
Or I a thought to thee—
I only knew my lip must let
Some burning thought go free.
I lov'd thee for thy high born grace,
Thy deep and lustrous eye,
For the sweet meaning of thy brow,
And for thy bearing high;
I lov'd thee for thy stainless truth,
Thy thirst for higher things;
For all that to our common lot
A better temper brings—
Thy deep and lustrous eye,
For the sweet meaning of thy brow,
And for thy bearing high;
I lov'd thee for thy stainless truth,
Thy thirst for higher things;
For all that to our common lot
A better temper brings—
And are they not all thine? still thine?
Is not thy heart as true?
Holds not thy step its noble grace—
Thy cheek its dainty hue?
And have I not an ear to hear—
A cloudless eye to see—
And a thirst for beautiful human thought,
That first was stirr'd with thee?
Is not thy heart as true?
Holds not thy step its noble grace—
Thy cheek its dainty hue?
And have I not an ear to hear—
A cloudless eye to see—
And a thirst for beautiful human thought,
That first was stirr'd with thee?
Then why should I turn from thee now?
Why should not I love on—
Dreaming of thee by night, by day,
As I have ever done?
My service shall be still as leal,
My love as quenchless burn
It shames me of my selfish thought
That dream'd of a return!
Why should not I love on—
Dreaming of thee by night, by day,
As I have ever done?
My service shall be still as leal,
My love as quenchless burn
It shames me of my selfish thought
That dream'd of a return!
He married her! Perhaps it spoils the tale—
But she had listen'd to his song, unseen,
And kept it in her heart, and, by and by,
When Angelo did service for his king,
And was prefer'd to honor, she betray'd
Her secret in some delicate way that I
Do not remember, and so ends the tale.
But she had listen'd to his song, unseen,
And kept it in her heart, and, by and by,
When Angelo did service for his king,
And was prefer'd to honor, she betray'd
Her secret in some delicate way that I
Do not remember, and so ends the tale.