A new-fledged eaglet spread his wings
To seek for prey;
Then flew the huntsman's dart and cut
The right wing's sinewy strength away.
Headlong he falls into a myrtle grove;
There three days long devoured his grief,
And writhed in pain
Three long, long nights, three days as weary.
At length he feels
The all-healing power
Of Nature's balsam.
Forth from the shady bush he creeps,
And tries his wing; but, ah!
The power to soar is gone!
He scarce can lift himself
Along the ground
In search of food to keep mere life awake;
Then rests, deep mourning,
On a low rock by the brook;
He looks up to the oak tree's top,
Far up to heaven,
And a tear glistens in his haughty eye.
Just then come by a pair of fondling doves,
Playfully rustling through the grove.
Cooing and toying, they go tripping
Over golden sand and brook;
And, turning here and there,
Their rose-tinged eyes descry
The inly-mourning bird.
The dove, with friendly curiosity,
Flutters to the next bush, and looks
With tender sweetness on the wounded king.
"Ah, why so sad?" he cooes;
"Be of good cheer, my friend!
Hast thou not all the means of tranquil bliss
Around thee here?
Canst thou not meet with swelling breast
The last rays of the setting sun
On the brook's mossy brink?
Canst wander 'mid the dewy flowers,
And, from the superfluous wealth
Of the wood-bushes, pluck at will
Wholesome and delicate food,
And at the silvery fountain quench thy thirst?
O friend! the spirit of content
Gives all that we can know of bliss;
And this sweet spirit of content
Finds every where its food."
"O, wise one!" said the eagle, deeper still
Into himself retiring;
"O wisdom, thou speakest as a dove!"
Content in purple lustre clad,
Kingly serene, and golden glad;
No demi hues of sad contrition,
No pallors of enforced submission;
Give me such content as this,
And keep a while the rosy bliss.
Foreseen, forespoken not foredone,—
Ere the race be well begun,
The prescient soul is at the goal,
One little moment binds the whole;
Happy they themselves who call
To risk much, and to conquer all;
Happy are they who many losses,
Sore defeat or frequent crosses,
Though these may the heart dismay,
Cannot the sure faith betray;
Who in beauty bless the Giver;
Seek ocean on the loveliest river;
Or on desert island tossed,
Seeing Heaven, think nought lost.
May thy genius bring to thee
Of this life experience free,
And the earth vine's mysterious cup,
Sweet and bitter yield thee up.
But should the now sparkling bowl
Chance to slip from thy control,
And much of the enchanted wine
Be spilt in sand, as 'twas with mine,
Let blessings lost being consecration,
Change the pledge to a libation.
For the Power to whom we bow
Has given his pledge, that, if not now,
They of pure and steadfast mind,
By faith exalted, truth refined,
Shall hear all music, loud and clear,
Whose first notes they ventured here.
Then fear not thou to wind the horn
Though elf and gnome thy courage scorn;
Ask for the castle's king and queen,
Though rabble rout may come between,
Beat thee, senseless, to the ground,
In the dark beset thee round;
Persist to ask, and they will come.
Seek not for rest a humbler home,
And thou wilt see what few have seen,
The palace home of king and queen.
There are who separate the eternal light
In forms of man and woman, day and night;
They cannot bear that God be essence quite.
Existence is as deep a verity:
Without the dual, where is unity?
And the "I am" cannot forbear to be;
But from its primal nature forced to frame
Mysteries, destinies of various name,
Is forced to give what it has taught to claim.
Thus love must answer to its own unrest;
The bad commands us to expect the best,
And hope of its own prospects is the test.
And dost thou seek to find the one in two?
Only upon the old can build the new;
The symbol which you seek is found in you.
The heart and mind, the wisdom and the will,
The man and woman, must be severed still,
And Christ must reconcile the good and ill.
There are to whom each symbol is a mask;
The life of love is a mysterious task;
They want no answer, for they would not ask.
A single thought transfuses every form;
The sunny day is changed into the storm,
For light is dark, hard soft, and cold is warm.
One presence fills and floods the whole serene;
Nothing can be, nothing has ever been,
Except the one truth that creates the scene.
Does the heart beat,—that is a seeming only;
You cannot be alone, though you are lonely;
The All is neutralized in the One only.
You ask a faith,—they are content with faith;
You ask to have,—but they reply, "It hath."
There is no end, and there need be no path.
The day wears heavily,—why, then, ignore it;
Peace is the soul's desire,—such thoughts restore it;
The truth thou art,—it needs not to implore it.
The Presence all thy fancies supersedes,
All that is done which thou wouldst seek in deeds,
The wealth obliterates all seeming needs.
Both these are true, and if they are at strife,
The mystery bears the one name of Life,
That, slowly spelled, will yet compose the strife.
The men of old say, "Live twelve thousand years,
And see the end of all that here appears,
And Moxen[45] shall absorb thy smiles and tears."
These later men say, "Live this little day.
Believe that human nature is the way,
And know both Son and Father while you pray;
And one in two, in three, and none alone,
Letting you know even as you are known,
Shall make the you and me eternal parts of one."
To me, our destinies seem flower and fruit
Born of an ever-generating root;
The other statement I cannot dispute.
But say that Love and Life eternal seem,
And if eternal ties be but a dream,
What is the meaning of that self-same seem?
Your nature craves Eternity for Truth;
Eternity of Love is prayer of youth;
How, without love, would have gone forth your truth?
I do not think we are deceived to grow,
But that the crudest fancy, slightest show,
Covers some separate truth that we may know.
In the one Truth, each separate fact is true;
Eternally in one I many view,
And destinies through destiny pursue.
This is my tendency; but can I say
That this my thought leads the true, only way?
I only know it constant leads, and I obey.
I only know one prayer—"Give me the truth,
Give me that colored whiteness, ancient youth,
Complex and simple, seen in joy and ruth.
Let me not by vain wishes bar my claim,
Nor soothe my hunger by an empty name,
Nor crucify the Son of man by hasty blame.
But in the earth and fire, water and air,
Live earnestly by turns without despair,
Nor seek a home till home be every where!"
Thoughts which come at a call
Are no better than if they came not at all;
Neither flower nor fruit,
Yielding no root
For plant, shrub, or tree.
Thus I have not for thee
One good word to say,
To-day,
Except that I prize thy gentle heart,
Free from ambition, falsehood, or art,
And thy good mind,
Daily refined,
By pure desire
To fan the heaven-seeking fire:
May it rise higher and higher;
Till in thee
Gentleness finds its dignity,
Life flowing tranquil, pure and free,
A mild, unbroken harmony.
If the same star our fates together bind,
Why are we thus divided, mind from mind?
If the same law one grief to both impart,
How couldst thou grieve a trusting mother's heart?
Our aspiration seeks a common aim;
Why were we tempered of such differing frame?
But 'tis too late to turn this wrong to right;
Too cold, too damp, too deep, has fallen the night.
And yet, the angel of my life replies,
Upon that night a morning star shall rise,
Fairer than that which ruled thy temporal birth,
Undimmed by vapors of the dreamy earth.
It says, that, where a heart thy claim denies,
Genius shall read its secret ere it flies;
The earthly form may vanish from thy side,
Pure love will make thee still the spirit's bride.
And thou, ungentle, yet much loving child,
Whose heart still shows the "untamed haggard wild,"
A heart which justly makes the highest claim,
Too easily is checked by transient blame.
Ere such an orb can ascertain its sphere,
The ordeal must be various and severe;
My prayer attend thee, though the feet may fly;
I hear thy music in the silent sky.
"Mark the perfect man, and behold the upright, for the end of that man is peace."—Psalms xxxvii. 37.
The man of heart and words sincere,
Who truth and justice follows still,
Pursues his way with conscience clear,
Unharmed by earthly care and ill.
His promises he never breaks,
But sacredly to each adheres;
Honor's straight path he ne'er forsakes,
Though danger in the way appears.
He never boasts, will ne'er deceive,
For vanity nor yet for gain;
All that he says you may believe;
For worlds he would not conscience stain.
If he desires what others do,
And they deserve it more than he,
He gives to them what is their due,
Happy in his humility.
Not to his friends alone he's kind,
But his foes too with candor sees;
Not to their good intentions blind,
Though hopeless their dislike t' appease.
His eyes are clear, his hands are pure,
To God it is his constant prayer
That, be he rich or be he poor,
He never may wrong actions dare.
If rich, he to the suffering gives
All he can spare, and thinks it just,
That, since he by God's bounty lives,
He should as steward hold his trust.
If poor, he envies not; he knows
How covetousness corrupts the heart,
Whatever a just God bestows
Receiving as his proper part.
O Father, such a man I'd be;
Like him would act, like him would pray:
Lead me in truth and purity
To win thy peace and see thy day.
Virgin Mother, Mary mild!
It was thine to see the child,
Gift of the Messiah dove,
Pure blossom of ideal love,
Break, upon the "guilty cross,"
The seeming promise of his life;
Of faith, of hope, of love, a loss,
Deepened all thy, bosom's strife,
Brow down-bent, and heart-strings torn,
Fainting, by frail arms upborne.
All those startled figures show,
That they did not apprehend
The thought of Him who there lies low,
On whom those sorrowing eyes they bend.
They do not feel this holiest hour;
Their hearts soar not to read the power,
Which this deepest of distress
Alone could give to save and bless.
Soul of that fair, now ruined form,
Thou who hadst force to bide the storm,
Must again descend to tell
Of thy life the hidden spell;
Though their hearts within them burned,
The flame rose not till he returned.
Just so all our dead ones lie;
Just so call our thoughts on high;
Thus we linger on the earth,
And dully miss death's heavenly birth.
On the boundless plain careering,
By an unseen compass steering,
Wildly flying, reappearing,—
With untamed fire their broad eyes glowing,
In every step a grand pride showing,
Of no servile moment knowing,—
Happy as the trees and flowers,
In their instinct cradled hours,
Happier in fuller powers,—
See the wild herd nobly ranging,
Nature varying, not changing,
Lawful in their lawless ranging.
But hark! what boding crouches near?
On the horizon now appear
Centaur-forms of force and fear.
On their enslaved brethren borne,
With bit and whip of tyrant scorn,
To make new captives, as forlorn.
Wildly snort the astonished throng,
Stamp, and wheel, and fly along,
Those centaur-powers they know are strong.
But the lasso, skilful cast,
Holds one only captive fast,
Youngest, weakest—left the last.
How thou trembledst then, Konick!
Thy full breath came short and thick,
Thy heart to bursting beat so quick;
Thy strange brethren peering round,
By those tyrants held and bound,
Tyrants fell,—whom falls confound!
With rage and pity fill thy heart;
Death shall be thy chosen part,
Ere such slavery tame thy heart.
But strange, unexpected joy!
They seem to mean thee no annoy—
Gallop off both man and boy.
Let the wild horse freely go!
Almost he shames it should be so;
So lightly prized himself to know.
All deception 'tis, O steed!
Ne'er again upon the mead
Shalt thou a free wild horse feed.
The mark of man doth blot thy side,
The fear of man doth dull thy pride,
Thy master soon shall on thee ride.
Thy brethren of the free plain,
Joyful speeding back again,
With proud career and flowing mane,
Find thee branded, left alone,
And their hearts are turned to stone—
They keep thee in their midst alone.
Cruel the intervening years,
Seeming freedom stained by fears,
Till the captor reappears;
Finds thee with thy broken pride.
Amid thy peers still left aside,
Unbeloved and unallied;
Finds thee ready for thy fate;
For joy and hope 'tis all too late—
Thou'rt wedded to thy sad estate.
———
Wouldst have the princely spirit bowed?
Whisper only, speak not loud,
Mark and leave him in the crowd.
Thou need'st not spies nor jailers have;
The free will serve thee like the slave,
Coward shrinking from the brave.
And thy cohorts, when they come
To take the weary captive home,
Need only beat the retreating drum.
No Essex here!—unblest—they give no sign.
And shall such live, while earth's best nobleness
Departs and leaves her barren? Now too late
Weakness and cunning both are exorcised.
How could I trust thee whom I knew so well?
Am I not like the fool of fable? He
Who in his bosom warmed the frozen viper,
And fancied man might hope for gratitude
From the betrayer's seed? Away! begone!
No breath, no sound shall here insult my anguish.
Essex is dumb, and they shall all be so;
No human presence shall control my mood.
Begone, I say! The queen would be alone!
(They all go out.)
Alone and still! This day the cup of woe
Is full; and while I drain its bitter dregs,
Calm, queenlike, stern, I would review the past.
Well it becomes the favorite of fortune,
The royal arbitress of others' weal,
The world's desire, and England's deity,
Self-poised, self-governed, clear and firm to gaze
Where others close their aching eyes, to dream.
Who feels imperial courage glow within
Fears not the mines which lie beneath his throne;
Bold he ascends, though knowing well his peril—
Majestical and fearless holds the sceptre.
The golden circlet of enormous weight
He wears with brow serene and smiling air,
As though a myrtle chaplet graced his temples.
And thus didst thou. The far removed thy power
Attracted and subjected to thy will,
The hates and fears which oft beset thy way
Were seen, were met, and conquered by thy courage.
Thy tyrant father's wrath, thy mother's hopeless fate,
Thy sister's harshness,—all were cast behind;
And to a soul like thine, bonds and harsh usage
Taught fortitude, prudence, and self-command,
To act, or to endure. Fate did the rest.
One brilliant day thou heard'st, "Long live the Queen!"
A queen thou wert; and in the heart's despite,
Despite the foes without, within, who ceaseless
Have threatened war and death,—a queen thou art,
And wilt be, while a spark of life remains.
But this last deadly blow—I feel it here!
Yet the low, prying world shall ne'er perceive it.
"Actress" they call me,—'tis a queen's vocation!
The people stare and whisper—what would they
But acting, to amuse them? Is deceit
Unknown, except in regal palaces?
The child at play already is an actor.
Still to thyself, let weal or woe betide,
Elizabeth! be true and steadfast ever!
Maintain thy fixed reserve: 'tis just; what heart
Can sympathize with a queen's agony?
The false, false world,—it wooes me for my treasures,
My favors, and the place my smile confers;
And if for love I offer mutual love,
My minion, not content, must have the crown.
'Twas thus with Essex; yet to thee, O heart!
I dare to say it, thy all died with him!
Man must experience—be he who he may—
Of bliss a last, irrevocable day.
Each owns this true, but cannot bear to live
And feel the last has come, the last has gone;
That never eye again in earnest tenderness
Shall turn to him,—no heart shall thickly beat
When his footfall is heard,—no speaking blush
Tell the soul's wild delight at meeting,—never
Rapture in presence, hope in absence more,
Be his,—no sun of love illume his landscape!
Yet thus it is with me. Throughout this heart
Deep night, without a star! What all the host
To me,—my Essex fallen from the heavens!
To me he was the centre of the world,
The ornament of time. Wood, lawn, or hall,
The busy mart, the verdant solitude,
To me were but the fame of one bright image;
That face is dust,—those lustrous eyes are closed,
And the frame mocks me with its empty centre.
How nobly free, how gallantly he bore him,
The charms of youth combined with manhood's vigor!
How sage his counsel, and how warm his valor,—
The glowing fire and the aspiring flame!
Even in his presumption he was kingly!
But ah! does memory cheat me? What was all,
Since Truth was wanting, and the man I loved
Could court his death to vent his anger on me,
And I must punish him, or live degraded.
I chose the first; but in his death I died.
Land, sea, church, people, throne,—all, all are nought,
I live a living death, and call it royalty.
Yet, wretched ruler o'er these empty gauds,
A part remains to play, and I will play it.
A purple mantle hides my empty heart,
The kingly crown adorns my aching brow,
And pride conceals my anguish from the world.
But in the still and ghostly midnight hour,
From each intruding eye and ear set free,
I still may shed the bitter, hopeless tear,
Nor fear the babbling of the earless walls.
I to myself may say, "I die! I die!
Elizabeth, unfriended and alone,
So die as thou hast lived,—alone, but queenlike!"
"And his mother said unto him, Son, why hast thou thus dealt with us?
Behold, thy father and I have sought thee sorrowing.
"And he said unto them, How is it that ye sought me? Wist ye not
that I must be about my Father's business? "—Luke ii. 48, 49
I.
Thus early was Christ's course begun,
Thus radiant dawned celestial day;
And those who such a race would run,
As early should be on the way.
II.
His Father's business was his care,
Yet in man's favor still he grew:
O, might we learn, by thought and prayer,
Like him a work of love to do!
III.
Wisdom and virtue still he sought,
Nor ignorant nor vile despised:
True was each action, pure each thought,
And each pure hope he realized.
IV.
The empires of this world, in vain,
Offered their sceptres to his hand;
Fearless he trod the stormy main,
Fearless 'mid throngs of foes could stand.
V.
Yet with his courage and his power
Combined such sweetness and such love,
He could revere the simplest flower,
The vilest sinners firm reprove.
VI.
For all mankind he came, nor yet
An infant's visit would deny;
Nor friend nor mother did forget
In his last hour of agony.
VII.
O, children, ask him to impart
That spirit clear and temper mild,
Which made the mother in her heart
Keep all the sayings of her child.
VIII.
Bless him who said, of such as you
His Father's kingdom is, and still,
His yoke to bear, his work to do,
Study his life to learn his will.
With my lamenting touched, the lofty trees
Incline their graceful heads without a breeze;
The listening birds forego their joyous song,
For soft and mournful strains, which echoes faint prolong.
Lions and bears resign the charms of sleep
To hear my lonely plaint, and see me weep;
At my approaching death e'en stones relent.
Yet though yourself the fatal cause you know,
Not once on me those lovely eyes are bent:
Flow freely, tears! 'tis meet that you should flow!
Although for my relief thou wilt not come,
Leave not the place where once thou loved'st to roam!
Here thou mayst rove secure from meeting me;
With a torn heart forever hence I flee.
Come, if 'twere this alone thy footsteps stayed,
Here the soft meadow, the delightful shade,
The roses now in flower, the waters clear,
Invite thee to the valley once so dear.
Come, and bring with thee thy late-chosen love;
Each object shall thy perfidy reprove;
Since to another thou hast given thy heart,
From this sweet scene forever I depart.
And soon kind Death my sorrows shall remove,
The bitter ending of my faithful love.
I.
O, blesséd be this sweet May day,
The fairest of the year;
The birds are heard from every spray,
And the blue sky shines so clear!
White blossoms deck the apple tree,
Blue violets the plain;
Their fragrance tells the wand'ring bee
That Spring is come again.
We'll cull the blossoms from the bough
Where robins gayly sing,
We'll wreathe them for our queen's pure brow,
We'll wreathe them for our king.
II.
The winter wind is bleak and sad,
And chill the winter rain;
But these May gales blow warm and glad,
And charm the heart from pain.
The sick, the poor rejoice once more,
Pale cheeks resume their glow,
And those who thought their day was o'er
New life to May suns owe.
And we, in youth and health so gay,
Sheltered by love and care,
How should we joy in blooming May,
And bless its balmy air!
III.
We are the children of the Spring;
Our home is always green;
Green be the garland of our king,
The livery of our queen.
The gardener's care the seed has strown,
To deck our home with flowers;
Our Father's love from high has shone,
And sent the needed showers.
Barren indeed the plants must be,
If they should not disclose,
Tended and cherished with such toil,
The lily and the rose.
IV.
Meanwhile through the wild wood we'll rove,
Where earliest flowerets grow,
And greet each simple bud with love,
Which tells us what to do—
That, though untended, we may bloom
And smile on all around,
And one day rise from earth's low tomb,
To live where light is found.
A modest violet be our queen,
Still fragrant, though alone,
Our king a laurel—evergreen—
To which no blight is known.
V.
So let us bless the sweet May day,
And pray the coming year
May see us walk the upward way—
Minds earnest, conscience clear;
That fruit Spring's amplest hope may crown,
And every wingéd day
Make to our hearts more dear, more known,
The hope, the peace of May!
So cull the blossoms from the bough
Where birds so gayly sing;
We'll wreathe them for our queen's pure brow,
We'll wreathe them for our king.
Let not the heart o'erladen hither fly,
Hoping in tears to vent its misery:
She soars not like the lark with eager cry,
Not hers the robin's notes of love and joy;
Nor, like the nightingale's love-descant, tells
Her song the truths of the heart's hidden wells.
Come, if thy soul be tranquil, and her voice
Shall bid the tranquil lake laugh and rejoice;
Shall lightly warble, flutter, hover, dance,
And charm thee by its sportive elegance.
A finished style the highest art has given,
And a fine organ she received from heaven:
But genius casts not here one living ray;
Thou shalt approve, admire, not weep, to-day.
IN ANSWER TO STANZAS CONTAINING SEVERAL PASSAGES OF DISTINGUISHED BEAUTY, ADDRESSED TO ME BY——.
As by the wayside the worn traveller lies,
And finds no pillow for his aching brow,
Except the pack beneath whose weight he dies,—
If loving breezes from the far west blow,
Laden with perfume from those blissful bowers
Where gentle youth and hope once gilded all his hours,
As fans that loving breeze, tears spring again,
And cool the fever of his wearied brain.
Even so to me the soft romantic dream
Of one who still may sit at fancy's feet,
Where love and beauty yet are all the theme,
Where spheral concords find an echo meet.
To the ideal my vexed spirit turns,
But often for communion vainly burns.
Blest is that hour when breeze of poesy
From far the ancient fragrance wafts to me;
This time thrice blest, because it came unsought,
"Sweet suppliance," and dear, because unbought.
The sun, the moon, the waters, and the air,
The hopeful, holy, terrible, and fair;
Flower-alphabets, love-letters from the wave,
All mysteries which flutter, blow, skim, lave;
All that is ever-speaking, never spoken,
Spells that are ever breaking, never broken,—
Have played upon my soul, and every string
Confessed the touch which once could make it sing
Triumphal notes; and still, though changed the tone,
Though damp and jarring fall the lyre hath known,
It would, if fitly played, and all its deep notes wove
Into one tissue of belief and love,
Yield melodies for angel-audience meet,
And pæans fit creative power to greet.
O, injured lyre! thy golden frame is marred;
No garlands deck thee; no libations poured
Tell to the earth the triumphs of thy song;
No princely halls echo thy strains along;
But still the strings are there; and if at last they break,
Even in death some melody will make.
Mightst thou once more be strung, might yet the power be given,
To tell in numbers all thou hast of heaven!
But no! thy fragments scattered by the way,
To children given, help the childish play.
Be it thy pride to feel thy latest sigh
Could not forget the law of harmony,
Thou couldst not live for bliss—but thou for truth couldst die!
A graceful fiction of the olden day
Tells us that, by a mighty master's sway,
A city rose, obedient to the lyre;
That his sweet strains rude matter could inspire
With zeal his harmony to emulate;
Thus to the spot where that sweet singer sat
The rocks advanced, in symmetry combined,
To form the palace and the temple joined.
The arts are sisters, and united all,
So architecture answered music's call.
In modern days such feats no more we see,
And matter dares 'gainst mind a rebel be;
The faith is gone such miracles which wrought;
Masons and carpenters must aid our thought;
The harp and voice in vain would try their skill
To raise a city on our hard-bound soil;
The rocks have lain asleep so many a year,
Nothing but gunpowder will make them stir;
I doubt if even for your voice would come
The smallest pebble from its sandy home;
But, if the minstrel can no more create,
For building, if he live a little late,
He wields a power of not inferior kind,
No longer rules o'er matter, but o'er mind.
And when a voice like yours its song doth pour,
If it can raise palace and tower no more,
It can each ugly fabric melt away,
Bidding the fancy fairer scenes portray;
Its soft and brilliant tones our thoughts can wing
To climes whence they congenial magic bring;
As by the sweet Italian voice is given
Dream of the radiance of Italia's heaven.
Whether in round, low notes the strain may swell,
As if some tale of woe or wrong to tell,
Or swift and light the upward notes are heard,
With the full carolling clearness of a bird,
The stream of sound untroubled flows along,
And no obstruction mars your finished song.
No stifled notes, no gasp, no ill-taught graces,
No vulgar trills in worst-selected places,
None of the miseries which haunt a land
Where all would learn what so few understand,
Afflict in hearing you; in you we find
The finest organ, and informed by mind.
And as, in that same fable I have quoted,
It is of that town-making artist noted,
That, where he leaned his lyre upon a stone,
The stone stole somewhat of that lovely tone,
And afterwards each untaught passer-by,
By touching it, could rouse the melody,—
Even thus a heart once by your music thrilled,
An ear which your delightful voice has filled,
In memory a talisman have found
To repel many a dull, harsh, after-sound;
And, as the music lingered in the stone,
After the minstrel and the lyre were gone,
Even so my thoughts and wishes, turned to sweetness,
Lend to the heavy hours unwonted fleetness;
And common objects, calling up the tone,
I caught from you, wake beauty not their own.
Triune, shaping, restless power,
Life-flow from life's natal hour,
No music chords are in thy sound;
By some thou'rt but a rattle found;
Yet, without thy ceaseless motion,
To ice would turn their dead devotion.
Life-flow of my natal hour,
I will not weary of thy power,
Till in the changes of thy sound
A chord's three parts distinct are found.
I will faithful move with thee,
God-ordered, self-fed energy.
Nature in eternity.
The peasant boy watches the midnight sky;
He sees the meteor dropping from on high;
He hastens whither the bright guest hath flown,
And finds—a mass of black, unseemly stone.
Disdainful, disappointed, turns he home.
If a philosopher that way had come,
He would have seized the waif with great delight,
And honored it as an aerolite.
But truly it would need a Cuvier's mind
High meaning in my meteors to find.
Well, in my museum there is room to spare—
I'll let them stay till Cuvier goes there!
Lonely lady, tell me why
That abandonment of eye?
Life is full, and nature fair;
How canst thou dream of dull despair?
Life is full and nature fair;
A dull folly is despair;
But the heart lies still and tame
For want of what it may not claim.
Lady, chide that foolish heart,
And bid it act a nobler part;
The love thou couldst be bid resign
Never could be worthy thine.
O, I know, and knew it well,
How unworthy was the spell
In its silken band to bind
My heaven-born, heaven-seeking mind.
Thou lonely moon, thou knowest well
Why I yielded to the spell;
Just so thou didst condescend
Thy own precept to offend.
When wondering nymphs thee questioned why
That abandonment of eye,
Crying, "Dian,[49] heaven's queen,
What can that trembling eyelash mean?"
Waning, over ocean's breast,
Thou didst strive to hide unrest
From the question of their eyes,
Unseeing in their dull surprise.
Thy Endymion had grown old;
Thy only love was marred with cold;
No longer to the secret cave
Thy ray could pierce, and answer have.
No more to thee, no more, no more,
Till thy circling life be o'er,
A mutual heart shall be a home,
Of weary wishes happy tomb.
No more, no more—O words which sever
Hearts from their hopes, to part forever!
They can believe it never!
Some names there are at sight of which will rise
Visions of triumph to the dullest eyes;
They breathe of garlands from a grateful race,
They tell of victory o'er all that's base;
To write them eagles might their plumage give,
And granite rocks should yield, that they may live.
Others there are at sight of which will rise
Visions of beauty to all loving eyes,
Of radiant sweetness, or of gentle grace,
The poesy of manner or of face,
Spell of intense, if not of widest power;
The strong the ages rule; the fair, the hour.
And there are names at sight of which will rise
Visions of goodness to the mourner's eyes;
They tell of generosity untired,
Which gave to others all the heart desired;
Of Virtue's uncomplaining sacrifice,
And holy hopes which sought their native skies.
If I could hope that at my name would rise
Visions like these, before those gentle eyes,
How gladly would I place it in the shrine
Where many honored names are linked with thine,
And know, if lone and far my pathway lies,
My name is living 'mid the good and wise.
It must not be, for now I know too well
That those to whom my name has aught to tell
O'er baffled efforts would lament or blame.
Who heeds a breaking reed?—a sinking flame?
Best wishes and kind thoughts I give to thee,
But mine, indeed, an empty name would be.
Our friend has likened thee to the sweet fern,
Which with no flower salutes the ardent day,
Yet, as the wanderer pursues his way,
While the dews fall, and hues of sunset burn,
Sheds forth a fragrance from the deep green brake,
Sweeter than the rich scents that gardens make.
Like thee, the fern loves well the hallowed shade
Of trees that quietly aspire on high;
Amid such groves was consecration made
Of vestals, tranquil as the vestal sky.
Like thee, the fern doth better love to hide
Beneath the leaf the treasure of its seed,
Than to display it, with an idle pride,
To any but the careful gatherer's heed—
A treasure known to philosophic ken,
Garnered in nature, asking nought of men;
Nay, can invisible the wearer make,
Who would unnoted in life's game partake.
But I will liken thee to the sweet bay,
Which I first learned, in the Cohasset woods,
To name upon a sweet and pensive day
Passed in their ministering solitudes.
I had grown weary of the anthem high
Of the full waves, cheering the patient rocks;
I had grown weary of the sob and sigh
Of the dull ebb, after emotion's shocks;
My eye was weary of the glittering blue
And the unbroken horizontal line;
My mind was weary, tempted to pursue
The circling waters in their wide design,
Like snowy sea-gulls stooping to the wave,
Or rising buoyant to the utmost air,
To dart, to circle, airily to lave,
Or wave-like float in foam-born lightness fair:
I had swept onward like the wave so full,
Like sea weed now left on the shore so dull.
I turned my steps to the retreating hills,
Rejected sand from that great haughty sea,
Watered by nature with consoling rills,
And gradual dressed with grass, and shrub, and tree;
They seemed to welcome me with timid smile,
That said, "We'd like to soothe you for a while;
You seem to have been treated by the sea
In the same way that long ago were we."
They had not much to boast, those gentle slopes,
For the wild gambols of the sea-sent breeze
Had mocked at many of their quiet hopes,
And bent and dwarfed their fondly cherished trees;
Yet even in those marks of by-past wind,
There was a tender stilling for my mind.
Hiding within a small but thick-set wood,
I soon forgot the haughty, chiding flood.
The sheep bell's tinkle on the drowsy ear,
With the bird's chirp, so short, and light, and clear,
Composed a melody that filled my heart
With flower-like growths of childish, artless art,
And of the tender, tranquil life I lived apart.
It was an hour of pure tranquillity,
Like to the autumn sweetness of thine eye,
Which pries not, seeks not, and yet clearly sees—
Which wooes not, beams not, yet is sure to please.
Hours passed, and sunset called me to return
Where its sad glories on the cold wave burn.
Rising from my kind bed of thick-strewn leaves,
A fragrance the astonished sense receives,
Ambrosial, searching, yet retiring, mild:
Of that soft scene the soul was it? or child?
'Twas the sweet bay I had unwitting spread,
A pillow for my senseless, throbbing head,
And which, like all the sweetest things, demands,
To make it speak, the grasp of alien hands.
All that this scene did in that moment tell,
I since have read, O wise, mild friend! in thee.
Pardon the rude grasp, its sincerity,
And feel that I, at least, have known thee well.
Grudge not the green leaves ravished from thy stem,
Their music, should I live, muse-like to tell;
Thou wilt, in fresher green forgetting them,
Send others to console me for farewell.
Thou wilt see why the dim word of regret
Was made the one to rhyme with Margaret.
But to the Oriental parent tongue,
Sunrise of Nature, does my chosen name,
My name of Leila, as a spell, belong,
Teaching the meaning of each temporal blame;
I chose it by the sound, not knowing why;
But since I know that Leila stands for night,
I own that sable mantle of the sky,
Through which pierce, gem-like, points of distant light;
As sorrow truths, so night brings out her stars;
O, add not, bard! that those stars shine too late!
While earth grows green amid the ocean jars,
And trumpets yet shall wake the slain of her long century-wars.
As late we lived upon the gentle stream,
Nature refused us smiles and kindly airs;
The sun but rarely deigned a pallid gleam;
Then clouds came instantly, like glooms and tears,
Upon the timid flickerings of our hope;
The moon, amid the thick mists of the night,
Had scarcely power her gentle eye to ope,
And climb the heavenly steeps. A moment bright
Shimmered the hectic leaves, then rudely torn
By winds that sobbed to see the wreck they made,
Upon the amber waves were thickly borne
Adonis' gardens for the realms of shade,
While thoughts of beauty past all wish for livelier life forbade.
So sped the many days of tranquil life,
And on the stream, or by the mill's bright fire,
The wailing winds had told of distant strife,
Still bade us for the moment yield desire
To think, to feel, the moment gave,—we needed not aspire!
Returning here, no harvest fields I see,
Nor russet beauty of the thoughtful year.
Where is the honey of the city bee?
No leaves upon this muddy stream appear.
The housekeeper is getting in his coal,
The lecturer his showiest thoughts is selling;
I hear of Major Somebody, the Pole,
And Mr. Lyell, how rocks grow, is telling;
But not a breath of thoughtful poesy
Does any social impulse bring to me;
But many cares, sad thoughts of men unwise,
Base yieldings, and unransomed destinies,
Hopes uninstructed, and unhallowed ties.
Yet here the sun smiles sweet as heavenly love,
Upon the eve of earthly severance;
The youthfulest tender clouds float all above,
And earth lies steeped in odors like a trance.
The moon looks down as though she ne'er could leave us,
And these last trembling leaves sigh, "Must they too deceive us?"
Surely some life is living in this light,
Truer than mine some soul received last night;
I cannot freely greet this beauteous day,
But does not thy heart swell to hail the genial ray?
I would not nature these last loving words in vain should say.
Dost thou remember that fair summer's day,
As, sick and weary on my couch I lay,
Thou broughtst this little book, and didst diffuse
O'er my dark hour the light of Herbert's muse?
The "Elixir," and "True Hymn," were then thy choice,
And the high strain gained sweetness from thy voice.
The book, before that day to me unknown,
I took to heart at once, and made my own.
Three winters and three summers since have passed,
And bitter griefs the hearts of both have tried;
Thy sympathy is lost to me at last;
A dearer love has torn thee from my side;
Scenes, friends, to me unknown, now claim thy care;
No more thy joys or griefs I soothe or share;
No more thy lovely form my eye shall bless;
The gentle smile, the timid, mute caress,
No more shall break the icy chains which may my heart oppress.
New duties claim us both; indulgent Heaven
Ten years of mutual love to us had given;
The plants from early youth together grew,
Together all youth's sun and tempests knew.
At age mature arrived, thou, graceful vine!
Didst seek a sheltering tree round which to twine;
While I, like northern fir, must be content
To clasp the rock which gave my youth its scanty nourishment.
The world for which we sighed is with us now;
No longer musing on the why or how,
What really does exist we now must meet;
Life's dusty highway is beneath our feet;
Life's fainting pilgrims claim our ministry,
And the whole scene speaks stern reality.
Say, in the tasks reality has brought,
Keepst thou the plan that pleased thy childish thought?
Does Herbert's "Hymn" in thy heart echo now?
Herbert's "Elixir" in thy bosom glow?
In Herbert's "Temper" dost thou strive to be?
Does Herbert's "Pearl" seem the true pearl to thee?
O, if 'tis so, I have not prayed in vain!—
My friend, my sister, we shall meet again.
I dare not say that I am always true
To the vocation which my young thought knew;
But the Great Spirit blesses me, and still,
Though clouds may darken o'er the heavenly will,
Upon the hidden sun my thoughts can rest,
And oft the rainbow glitters in the west.
This earth no more seems all the world to me;
Before me shines a far eternity,
Whose laws to me, when thought is calmly poised,
Suffice, as they to angels have sufficed.
I know the thunder has not ceased to roll,
Not all the iron yet has pierced my soul;
I know no earthly honors wait for me,
No earthly love my heart shall satisfy.
Tears, of these eyes still oft the guests must be,
Long hours be borne, of chilling apathy;
Still harder teachings come to make me wise,
And life's best blood must seal the sacrifice.
But He who still seems nearer and more bright,
Nor from my seeking eye withholds his light,
Will not forsake me, for his pledge is given;
Virtue shall teach the soul its way to heaven.
O, pray for me, and I for thee will pray;
And more than loving words we used to say
Shall this avail. But little more we meet
In life—ah, how the years begin to fleet!
Ask—pray that I may seek beauty and truth,
In their high sphere we shall renew our youth.
On wings of steadfast faith there mayst thou soar,
And my soul fret at barriers no more!
MARGARET FULLER'S WORKS AND MEMOIRS.
WOMAN IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY, and kindred papers relating to the Sphere, Condition, and Duties of Woman. Edited by her brother, Arthur B. Fuller, with an Introduction by Horace Greeley. In 1 vol. 16mo. $1.50.
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Margaret Fuller will be remembered as one of the "Great Conversers," the "Prophet of the Woman Movement" in this country, and her Memoirs will be read with delight as among the tenderest specimens of biographical writing in our language. She was never an extremist. She considered woman neither man's rival nor his foe, but his complement. As she herself said, she believed that the development of one could not be affected without that of the other. Her words, so noble in tone, so moderate in spirit, so eloquent in utterance, should not be forgotten by her sisters. Horace Greeley, in his introduction to her "Woman in the Nineteenth Century," says: "She was one of the earliest, as well as ablest, among American women to demand for her sex equality before the law with her titular lord and master. Her writings on this subject have the force that springs from the ripening of profound reflection into assured conviction. It is due to her memory, as well as to the great and living cause of which she was so eminent and so fearless an advocate, that what she thought and said with regard to the position of her sex and its limitations should be fully and fairly placed before the public." No woman who wishes to understand the full scope of what is called the woman's movement should fail to read these pages, and see in them how one woman proved her right to a position in literature hitherto occupied by men, by filling it nobly.
The Story of this rich, sad, striving, unsatisfied life, with its depths of emotion and its surface sparkling and glowing, is told tenderly and reverently by her biographers. Their praise is eulogy, and their words often seem extravagant, but they knew her well, they spoke as they felt. The character that could awaken such interest and love surely is a rare one.
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"Already ten volumes in this library are published; namely, George Eliot, Emily Brontë, George Sand, Mary Lamb, Margaret Fuller, Maria Edgeworth, Elizabeth Fry, The Countess of Albany, Mary Wollstonecraft, and the present volume. Surely a galaxy of wit and wealth of no mean order! Miss M. will rank with any of them in womanliness or gifts or grace. At home or abroad, in public or private. She was noble and true, and her life stands confessed a success. True, she was literary, but she was a home lover and home builder. She never lost the higher aims and ends of life, no matter how flattering her success. This whole series ought to be read by the young ladies of to-day. More of such biography would prove highly beneficial."—Troy Telegram.
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"This life was worth writing, for all records of weakness conquered, of pain patiently borne, of success won from difficulty, of cheerfulness in sorrow and affliction, make the world better. Mrs. Gilchrist's biography is unaffected and simple. She has told the sweet and melancholy story with judicious sympathy, showing always the light shining through darkness."—Philadelphia Press.
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| The following typographical errors were corrected by the etext transcriber: |
|---|
| No less pedantic is the style in which the grown-up, in stature at least, undertake to become acquainted with Dante.=> No less pedantic is the style in which the grown-up, in stature at least, undertakes to become acquainted with Dante. |
| Even the proem shows how large is his nature=>Even the poem shows how large is his nature |
| There is a little poem in the Schnellpost, by Mority Hartmann=>There is a little poem in the Schnellpost, by Moritz Hartmann |
| If a character be uncorrrpted=>If a character be uncorrupted |
| of a noble dscription=>of a noble description |
| law with her titluar lord and master=>law with her titular lord and master |