Summer hath come, led on by sunny May
The blue-eyed, round whose brow the first pure ray
That trembles from the opening gates of dawn
Still seems to circle, and the mossy lawn,
As they glide gently onward, ever breathes
A beauty and a fragrance, which enwreathes
Within the being until every thought
With a strange mystery of joy is fraught.
And where the hazel forms a leafy screen
Of verdant matting, the cuckoo, unseen,
Chaunts forth her woodnotes through the stilly air,
Whose silent motions far the accents bear.
And thou hast come, sweet Nightingale! once more
O'er our entrancëd spirits to outpour
Thy liquid warblings! 'Mid the flow'rets' scent
And summer's gladness rises interblent
Thy loving welcome! Not the bird that sighs
Her thrilling love-tale through the moonlit skies
Of Italy, as erst to Juliet's ear
From the pomegranate tree 'twas wafted near,
Seizes the soul with ravishment more sweet
Than thy soft tones, stealing unto the seat
Of passion, waking echoes in the breast
Of love, and purity, and quiet rest,
Murmuring through the windings of the soul,
Till interpenetrated is the whole
With holy harmonies, and blissful sense
Of joyance, and straightway is refted thence
All baser feeling, and all earthly leaven,
By the dear magic of that voice from heaven.
Fair Priestess of the Beautiful! that bringest
Missions of sweetness from above, and flingest
In a rich flood of song—now faint, yet clear
As Helicon's own murmurs to the ear,
Now swelling till around our being floats
In thrilling cadences thy bell-like notes,—
The poetry of poetry, the deep
Mysterious essences whose wavings steep
Life in the bliss of angels, and the real
In the ethereal hues of the ideal;
A welcome to thee! heartfelt as the lay
Hymn'd by the panting lark to the young day,
Joyous and loving as the sunny beam
That greets the early primrose, when the dream
Of flowery revels through the noontide hours
First steals upon it. Such a joy is ours
Now, as with falt'ring tones our spirits hail
Thy glad return, O sweetest Nightingale!

Over plain and over mountain, rocks their zeal cannot resist,
Up the rugged heights they clamber till they perish in the mist;

Down the precipital hollows blindly falling as they speed,
Calling still with dying accents on their fellows to take heed;

Over stream, and trackless ocean, with the storm-cloud hatching nigh,
Ever waiting there to thunder at the bidding of the sky;

Tossing on the angry billow, heart and soul beset with fear,
Yet with longing all unshaken, onward through the blast they steer;

Over marsh, and sandy desert, sinking 'neath the scorching sun,
Hopeless, weary, madly thirsting, slowly dying one by one;

Leaving many a bone to whiten by the wayside, and to tell
By mortality's drear tide-marks, how its surges rose and fell;

Through the spring, and through the summer, when the flowers are on the lea;
Through the Autumn when the blossoms fade and wither drearily;

Through the chill and ghostly Winter when the year is in its shroud,
And corruption preys on Nature, stooping fiercely from its cloud;

Through the light and through the darkness, through the rain and through the snow,
Striving onward without resting seeking it above, below,

In the earth, and in the water, in the rock, and in the clay,
Gathering up the sandy beaches, searching, sifting them away;

Never resting, but with spirits eager, breathless to attain,
Evermore they hurry forward to their purpose o'er life's plain,

With their garments waxen olden, and their sandals wearing out,
And the sinews growing weaker that once bore them up so stout,

With the vision ever dimmer to discern the cherish'd prize,
Till at length upon the highway, at each step some pilgrim dies,

His glazed eyes still feebly turning e'en in death unto the goal
That yet glimmers far beyond him, the life haven of his soul.

But a stalwart phalanx presseth onward still with hearts serene,
Strong in faith and stedfast courage, meeting toil with dauntless mien;

Working out their primal mission through the calm and through the blast,
Gath'ring fitness for the Future from the Present, and the Past.

Thus enduring, thus pursuing upheld by a mighty hand
Through all dangers of the travel, come they to the Golden Land,

Find the treasures they are seeking richly pour'd into their breast;
Toil and danger ever finish'd, now they sweetly take their rest,

With the light of glory shining from the Godhead on their souls,
Whilst above them the broad banner of Eternity unrolls.

Beautiful Spirit! Angel of the Earth!
That glidest through the storm-tost world,
And bearest
Blessings of peace and rest unto the weak,
Giddy and faint within its vortex whirled;
O! fairest,
Sweetest Pilot of the wavering soul
Through the wide-yawning gulfs and shoals of crime,
Whence issue siren-spells that seek
To sink the wayward in their noxious slime;
Emblem of Purity!
That like the star of Bethlehem dost lume
The wise of heart through this life's deepest gloom
To hope, and joy, and blessedness,
Hail to thee!
Thou art the Priestess of all Holiness!
Standing midway betwixt the earth and heaven,
Part shared of either,
Mortality inwrought with purer leaven,
Good sympathies, sweet thoughts, and stainless love,
That like distillëd perfume float above
To charm the breather!

O vision of soft eyes and flowing hair,
Mild gentle eyes that chasten as they glance,
And on their dewy brightness ever bear
The heart's warm language writ in radiance!
O blessed smiles! heaven's golden sunrays shed
On life's cold stream,
Renewëd summer when the old is fled
Like a dream!
O voice tinct with the spirit's sweetness,
Last tone of heaven's clear harmonies
Ere in the silence of wide space it dies,
Music's completeness!
O gentle laughters! rising from the crystal spring
Of joyance and free-hearted sympathy,
Pure rills to trickle sunnily
From eyes and rosy lips in liquid warbling,
Sweetly ye win us
To shrine the blest spirit of Beauty
Within us!

O tender heart! Love's everlasting dwelling,
Beautiful fountain of all generous thoughts,
From whose unsealëd fulness, ever welling,
Come to mankind their purest pleasure draughts;
O gentle heart! Grief's only sanctuary,
Safe refuge from the rude assaults of woe,
Throbbing with mild compassion constantly,
That never change nor withering can know;
From the pure spring of virgin slumbers
Peace falls upon the soul when thou art by,
Lulling it sweeter than Philomel's numbers,
Lapping it deep within felicity.
O brightest! dearest! still there floats to thee
The incense of pure minds eternally,
Thoughts sown of loveliness, that bud and bloom,
And through the summer-time of after years
Shed sweet perfume,
Love-imaginings that rise through tears
Like rainbows, and soft dreams
That are the heaven-gleams,
Caught from the deep
Of Elysian sleep!

So she hears with echoed rapture hopes that in his breast are swelling,
Of the glory and the honour that have sunned his poet's dream,
Charmed him by their bright illusion madly from his quiet dwelling
To immerse him in life's ocean, there to lose him like a stream.

Ay! look in her eyes, poor poet, kiss the tears that tremble brightly
On their fringes till thou deem'st them her pure soul distill'd for thee,
They are true ones, they are fond ones, and that vision, coming nightly,
May refresh thee like a fountain rising 'mid sterility.

Backward from her upturned beauty did he smooth the golden tresses,
That Madonna-like fell clust'ring round the softness of her cheek;
'Twas a frank one, and a fair one, with the grace that truth impresses
Beaming o'er it without shadow, so he gazed but did not speak.

Then he whispered, "Bright May, dear May, in the world where I am going,
Going, it may be unwisely, but some magic draws me on,
There to win the fame and honour with whose fire my soul is glowing,
Thou shalt be my guiding angel, thou shalt be my helicon.

I will paint thee in my verses, thee, so beautiful and tender,
Till that world shall thrill with pleasure, and pure hearts shall cherish thee;
Bright May, dear May, they will love thee, and thy gentleness shall render
Earth again a sunny Eden dedicate to Poesy.

They will crown me for thy beauty, they will love me for thy sweetness,
They will shrine my name in glory, hear it like a household thing,
They will feel the spell of beauty, think of heaven for thy meetness,
Thus I'll do the poet's mission, thou an angel's ministring."

So he went into the wide world with bright hopes around him playing,
Youth to make his footsteps buoyant, and firm trust to nerve his heart,
Fame and glory clear before him like a sun the path arraying,
Witless that the golden vision of his dreams could ere depart.

There are thousands in the highways buffeting the waves beside them,
Struggling onward without respite in pursuit of sandbuilt gain;
There are thousands sinking daily, but the selfish crowd deride them,
Only hurry on the swifter—there's no time to pity pain.

Ah! what hope for thee, poor poet! in the race that they are running,
When the jar of stormy passions makes thy temples wildly beat;
Can'st thou wrestle with the torrent, can'st thou stand against their cunning,
Who will crush thee without mercy, like a flower beneath their feet.

Wherefore did'st thou leave thy dwelling 'mid the calm and pleasant places,
Where no sorrow came to rouse thee from the heaven of thy dreams,
Where the wood-birds gave thee music, and the path the wild bee traces
For its sweetness thou could'st follow, or repose by gentle streams.

O poor world! immersed in folly, O dull world! that will not hearken
To the music of a Poet singing of the Beautiful,
Close your heart against its teaching, though it be so sweet, and darken
All the sunshine of the spirit by the coldness of your rule.

*       *       *       *       *       *       *       *       *       *       *       *       *       *       *      

Who would bid us draw the curtain that conceals the poet's sorrow,
Who would need to hear his anguish when they look upon his brow,—
It is written there in tracings far more true than tongue could borrow,
It is brimming in his glances, once so bright, so woeful now.

Gaze upon him! dost thou know him? to his long-left home returning,
For his step is very feeble, and his cheek is very pale,
And amid it like a sunset is the hectic plague-spot burning,
Ye who know no shatter'd hope-dreams, gaze upon him—there's the tale!

O the holy love of woman! O the gentle love of woman!
Breathing like a balmy zephyr on the fever'd brows of care,
Centrate sweetness of all sweetness, only in its sorrow human,
Joy without you were a phantom, grief without you were despair!

See! how tenderly she leads him with her arm around him pressing,
As to shield him from the rough world that had wrought him so much woe,
And his eyes are filled with moisture, scarcely can he breathe his blessing,
But she feels it in the throbbing of his full heart as they go.

Gaze again into her kind eyes, gaze into them, weary poet,
Fill thy soul with holy calmness from the fountain of her love,
If there's peace for thy poor spirit in this earth they will bestow it,
For she is a gentle angel sent to bless thee from above.

And she said, as she bent o'er him, half in language, half in glances,
For there is a hidden meaning far too deep for words to tell,
"We will dwell," she said, "with nature, nourishing all gentle fancies,
And the lark shall be our minstrel, and the flowers shall love us well."

So he smiled upon her gently with a glance more sad than weeping,
That a bitter thrill ran through her like a harp struck suddenly,
And she thought upon the summer with cold shadows o'er it creeping,
And she thought upon the flowers fading on the mossy lea.

But she turn'd her till the paleness, and the tears that would be flowing
Faded from her that they might not be the mirrors of his own;
Smiling comfort on him ever, evermore as they were going,
For she said "Ah! there are none to smile on him but I alone."

He is lying in the sunshine with the blithe birds round him singing,
There are flowers beside his pillow, there are flowers beneath his feet,
Summer pours her treasures round him, like a gentle maiden flinging
Fragrant blossoms from her bosom o'er a path to make it sweet.

She is kneeling in the sunshine with the radiant glory o'er her,
And his palm is on her tresses, her's are folded on her breast;
He were very calm and happy, only for the love he bore her,
Which was far too sweet a feeling to resign it e'en for rest.

"Bright May! dear May! draw still nearer, nearer, dear May! till my spirit
Sun itself within your brightness, as the lark doth in the day;
Soon the air will be so lumined that my weakness will not bear it,
So I'll gather new strength from thee to support me on my way.

"There are tears within your eyes, May, let me kiss them from your eyes, May,
They will taste as sweet to me as do the dews upon the rose;
Dear eyes how I love them! they oft tell me of the skies, May,
Tell me secrets of the Blessed more than mortal spirit knows.

"Ah! I knew not in the old time half the sweetness that doth linger
Round the simple things of Nature which the proud heart passes by,
Now I see there's not a wildflower but doth point with warning finger,
To the unobservant passer, truths of immortality.

"Bright May, thou shalt be my beadsman, and thy golden tresses drooping
Round thee shall be all the vesture that my loving soul shall seek;
Thou shalt be a meet confessor for a lowly poet stooping
To breathe forth his secret failings, and read pardon on thy cheek.

"Bright May! I have been a strayer from the narrow path that wanders
Through this world to lead the traveller to a glad eternity,
I have been an erring madman, for the blind heart never ponders
Till the fancied light it follows lead it from felicity.

"I have been most false and perjured, false to all a poet's duty,
Even whilst my heart was boasting proudly of a poet's creed,
I have loudly claimed the title of a worshipper of beauty,
Yet could gaze upon a flower till I thought it but a weed.

"Yes! I dwelt amid the woodlands with bright streamlets singing round me,
Sunny dells, moss-paven alleys, and cool shades to ramble in;
All was happy, all was peaceful, yet e'en there ambition found me,
Charm'd me forth into the rough world to engulph me in its din.

"Yes! I wearied of the woodlands, of the streams and sunny places
Where I lay me in the summer to dream all the noontide o'er,
Like the child of a sweet mother lapt within her fond embraces
Drawing fitness from her beauty to lisp forth in poet's lore.

But the time is drawing nigh; now, when my soul sublimed from folly
Shall see all things in their trueness, with no sun-veil drawn between;
Know that glory is mere weakness and that aim alone is holy
Which, wrought out in life with patience, fits man for a higher scene.

Tis the time when those who love us
Rise like stars in Fancy's sky,
Shining steadily above us,
Though afar, in seeming nigh.

Sure our life is but a gloaming
Deep'ning slowly unto Night,
To give rest unto the roaming,
To the sad, dreams of delight.

Should not life, then, be contentment,
Only dedicate to love,
Softened down from all resentment,
Holy as the light above.

Many a pleasure from the real
Hath our manly prime,
Though the mystic light is shaded,
And the rosy dreams have faded;
For our strengthen'd spirits see all
Things matured by Time,
Growing out of the ideal
Unto truth sublime;

Blossom unto fruitage golden,
Hope to certainty;
All things by divine transition
Keeping pace with life's ambition,
New joys springing from the olden
As we pass them by
Climbing still, by faith upholden,
Onward to the sky.

Many a pleasant recollection
Hath the heart of Age,
That life's tide hath staunchly breasted,
Wrought, achieved and nobly rested,
Musing with calm retrospection
Their past pilgrimage;
Many a sweet and wise reflection
Hath the heart of Age;

Looking forward, dreaming ever
Of the Better Land;
Waiting for the promised glory,
That shall bind their temples hoary
With a brightness fading never
On that holy strand,
Crowning life's devout Endeavour
With a bounteous hand.

A maiden dreaming of her lover
Like a star amid the night,
Felt the spirit bend above her,
In between her and the light;

And she quivered back in terror
From the spirit's offered kiss;
Ah! how often, thus, doth error
Backward fright our souls from bliss!

Then the spirit "Ah! thou dearest,
Wilt thou close thy heart from me?
Through the shadow that thou fearest
Heaven's own light will shine on thee.

"Like the streams that most refresh us
In the desert parch'd and drear,
Sorrow renders love more precious,
Makes the cherish'd one more dear."

On—the spirit circled gently,
Kindly round a Poet's heart,
Gazing through the veil intently
After life's diviner part;

And the poet bent to meet her,
For he said "The truth will be
Made through Sorrow ever sweeter,
Ever clearer unto me.

"We are blinded by the sunlight
From the heaven's unclouded blue,
But through mist we eye the One-light
Till we read it through and through."

To the beautiful the Spirit
Open'd wide her loving breast,
Wooed their souls to nestle near it
And from life's excitement rest,

Whispering, "Sleep on Sorrow's bosom,
Dear ones, and your souls will rise
With fresh sweetness on their blossom,
Richer perfume, brighter dyes."

Most shrunk from her, but some weeping
Yielded to her soft controul;
And whilst on that bosom sleeping
Heaven-dew fell upon each soul.

Young and old fled from her ever
Waving off her proffered grace,
Thwarting each divine endeavour,
Trembling still before her face;

And she said "Ah! ye are blinded,
Seeing not the things that are,
For unto the earnest-minded
Sorrow is life's guiding star;

"Not delusive, not unsparing,
Richer fraught with good than pain,
Unto life sweet blessings bearing
Though she scatter them in rain."