THE FORUM OF WOMAN.

   Woman, never judge man by his individual actions;
   But upon man as a whole, pass thy decisive decree.

        THE GLOVE.

        A TALE.

   Before his lion-court,
   Impatient for the sport,
    King Francis sat one day;
   The peers of his realm sat around,
   And in balcony high from the ground
    Sat the ladies in beauteous array.

   And when with his finger he beckoned,
   The gate opened wide in a second,—
   And in, with deliberate tread,
   Enters a lion dread,
   And looks around
   Yet utters no sound;
   Then long he yawns
    And shakes his mane,
   And, stretching each limb,
    Down lies he again.

   Again signs the king,—
    The next gate open flies,
   And, lo! with a wild spring,
    A tiger out hies.
   When the lion he sees, loudly roars he about,
   And a terrible circle his tail traces out.
   Protruding his tongue, past the lion he walks,
   And, snarling with rage, round him warily stalks:
   Then, growling anew,
   On one side lies down too.

   Again signs the king,—
    And two gates open fly,
   And, lo! with one spring,
    Two leopards out hie.
   On the tiger they rush, for the fight nothing loth,
   But he with his paws seizes hold of them both.
   And the lion, with roaring, gets up,—then all's still;
   The fierce beasts stalk around, madly thirsting to kill.

   From the balcony raised high above
   A fair hand lets fall down a glove
   Into the lists, where 'tis seen
   The lion and tiger between.

   To the knight, Sir Delorges, in tone of jest,
    Then speaks young Cunigund fair;
   "Sir Knight, if the love that thou feel'st in thy breast
    Is as warm as thou'rt wont at each moment to swear,
    Pick up, I pray thee, the glove that lies there!"

   And the knight, in a moment, with dauntless tread,
    Jumps into the lists, nor seeks to linger,
   And, from out the midst of those monsters dread,
    Picks up the glove with a daring finger.

   And the knights and ladies of high degree
   With wonder and horror the action see,
   While he quietly brings in his hand the glove,
    The praise of his courage each mouth employs;
   Meanwhile, with a tender look of love,
    The promise to him of coming joys,
   Fair Cunigund welcomes him back to his place.
   But he threw the glove point-blank in her face:
   "Lady, no thanks from thee I'll receive!"
   And that selfsame hour he took his leave.

        THE CIRCLE OF NATURE.

   All, thou gentle one, lies embraced in thy kingdom; the graybeard
   Back to the days of his youth, childish and child-like, returns.

        THE VEILED STATUE AT SAIS.

   A youth, impelled by a burning thirst for knowledge
   To roam to Sais, in fair Egypt's land,
   The priesthood's secret learning to explore,
   Had passed through many a grade with eager haste,
   And still was hurrying on with fond impatience.
   Scarce could the Hierophant impose a rein
   Upon his headlong efforts. "What avails
   A part without the whole?" the youth exclaimed;
   "Can there be here a lesser or a greater?
   The truth thou speak'st of, like mere earthly dross,
   Is't but a sum that can be held by man
   In larger or in smaller quantity?
   Surely 'tis changeless, indivisible;
   Deprive a harmony of but one note,
   Deprive the rainbow of one single color,
   And all that will remain is naught, so long
   As that one color, that one note, is wanting."

   While thus they converse held, they chanced to stand
   Within the precincts of a lonely temple,
   Where a veiled statue of gigantic size
   The youth's attention caught. In wonderment
   He turned him toward his guide, and asked him, saying,
   "What form is that concealed beneath yon veil?"
   "Truth!" was the answer. "What!" the young man cried,
   "When I am striving after truth alone,
   Seekest thou to hide that very truth from me?"

   "The Godhead's self alone can answer thee,"
   Replied the Hierophant. "'Let no rash mortal
   Disturb this veil,' said he, 'till raised by me;
   For he who dares with sacrilegious hand
   To move the sacred mystic covering,
   He'—said the Godhead—" "Well?"—"'will see the truth.'"
   "Strangely oracular, indeed! And thou
   Hast never ventured, then, to raise the veil?"
   "I? Truly not! I never even felt
   The least desire."—"Is't possible? If I
   Were severed from the truth by nothing else
   Than this thin gauze—" "And a divine decree,"
   His guide broke in. "Far heavier than thou thinkest
   Is this thin gauze, my son. Light to thy hand
   It may be—but most weighty to thy conscience."

   The youth now sought his home, absorbed in thought;
   His burning wish to solve the mystery
   Banished all sleep; upon his couch he lay,
   Tossing his feverish limbs. When midnight came,
   He rose, and toward the temple timidly,
   Led by a mighty impulse, bent his way.
   The walls he scaled, and soon one active spring
   Landed the daring boy beneath the dome.

   Behold him now, in utter solitude,
   Welcomed by naught save fearful, deathlike silence,—
   A silence which the echo of his steps
   Alone disturbs, as through the vaults he paces.
   Piercing an opening in the cupola,
   The moon cast down her pale and silvery beams,
   And, awful as a present deity,
   Glittering amid the darkness of the pile,
   In its long veil concealed, the statue stands.

   With hesitating step, he now draws near—
   His impious hand would fain remove the veil—
   Sudden a burning chill assails his bones
   And then an unseen arm repulses him.
   "Unhappy one, what wouldst thou do?" Thus cries
   A faithful voice within his trembling breast.
   "Wouldst thou profanely violate the All-Holy?"
   "'Tis true the oracle declared, 'Let none
   Venture to raise the veil till raised by me.'
   But did the oracle itself not add,
   That he who did so would behold the truth?
   Whate'er is hid behind, I'll raise the veil."
   And then he shouted: "Yes! I will behold it!"
             "Behold it!"
   Repeats in mocking tone the distant echo.

   He speaks, and, with the word, lifts up the veil.
   Would you inquire what form there met his eye?
   I know not,—but, when day appeared, the priests
   Found him extended senseless, pale as death,
   Before the pedestal of Isis' statue.
   What had been seen and heard by him when there
   He never would disclose, but from that hour
   His happiness in life had fled forever,
   And his deep sorrow soon conducted him
   To an untimely grave. "Woe to that man,"
   He warning said to every questioner,
   "Woe to that man who wins the truth by guilt,
   For truth so gained will ne'er reward its owner."

       THE DIVISION OF THE EARTH.

   "Take the world!" Zeus exclaimed from his throne in the skies
    To the children of man—"take the world I now give;
   It shall ever remain as your heirloom and prize,
    So divide it as brothers, and happily live."

   Then all who had hands sought their share to obtain,
    The young and the aged made haste to appear;
   The husbandman seized on the fruits of the plain,
    The youth through the forest pursued the fleet deer.

   The merchant took all that his warehouse could hold,
    The abbot selected the last year's best wine,
   The king barred the bridges,—the highways controlled,
    And said, "Now remember, the tithes shall be mine!"

   But when the division long-settled had been,
    The poet drew nigh from a far distant land;
   But alas! not a remnant was now to be seen,
    Each thing on the earth owned a master's command.

   "Alas! shall then I, of thy sons the most true,—
    Shall I, 'mongst them all, be forgotten alone?"
   Thus loudly he cried in his anguish, and threw
    Himself in despair before Jupiter's throne.

   "If thou in the region of dreams didst delay,
    Complain not of me," the Immortal replied;
   "When the world was apportioned, where then wert thou, pray?"
    "I was," said the poet, "I was—by thy side!"

   "Mine eye was then fixed on thy features so bright,
    Mine ear was entranced by thy harmony's power;
   Oh, pardon the spirit that, awed by thy light,
    All things of the earth could forget in that hour!"

   "What to do?" Zeus exclaimed,—"for the world has been given;
    The harvest, the market, the chase, are not free;
   But if thou with me wilt abide in my heaven,
    Whenever thou comest, 'twill be open to thee!"

        THE FAIREST APPARITION.

   If thou never hast gazed upon beauty in moments of sorrow,
    Thou canst with truth never boast that thou true beauty hast seen.
   If thou never hast gazed upon gladness in beauteous features,
    Thou canst with truth never boast that thou true gladness hast seen.

     THE IDEAL AND THE ACTUAL LIFE.

   Forever fair, forever calm and bright,
   Life flies on plumage, zephyr-light,
    For those who on the Olympian hill rejoice—
   Moons wane, and races wither to the tomb,
   And 'mid the universal ruin, bloom
    The rosy days of Gods—With man, the choice,
   Timid and anxious, hesitates between
    The sense's pleasure and the soul's content;
   While on celestial brows, aloft and sheen,
    The beams of both are blent.

   Seekest thou on earth the life of gods to share,
   Safe in the realm of death?—beware
    To pluck the fruits that glitter to thine eye;
   Content thyself with gazing on their glow—
   Short are the joys possession can bestow,
    And in possession sweet desire will die.
   'Twas not the ninefold chain of waves that bound
    Thy daughter, Ceres, to the Stygian river—
   She plucked the fruit of the unholy ground,
    And so—was hell's forever!
   The weavers of the web—the fates—but sway
   The matter and the things of clay;
    Safe from change that time to matter gives,
   Nature's blest playmate, free at will to stray
   With gods a god, amidst the fields of day,
    The form, the archetype 39, serenely lives.
   Would'st thou soar heavenward on its joyous wing?
    Cast from thee, earth, the bitter and the real,
   High from this cramped and dungeon being, spring
    Into the realm of the ideal!

   Here, bathed, perfection, in thy purest ray,
   Free from the clogs and taints of clay,
    Hovers divine the archetypal man!
   Dim as those phantom ghosts of life that gleam
   And wander voiceless by the Stygian stream,—
    Fair as it stands in fields Elysian,
   Ere down to flesh the immortal doth descend:—
    If doubtful ever in the actual life
   Each contest—here a victory crowns the end
    Of every nobler strife.

   Not from the strife itself to set thee free,
   But more to nerve—doth victory
    Wave her rich garland from the ideal clime.
   Whate'er thy wish, the earth has no repose—
   Life still must drag thee onward as it flows,
    Whirling thee down the dancing surge of time.
   But when the courage sinks beneath the dull
    Sense of its narrow limits—on the soul,
   Bright from the hill-tops of the beautiful,
    Bursts the attained goal!

   If worth thy while the glory and the strife
   Which fire the lists of actual life—
    The ardent rush to fortune or to fame,
   In the hot field where strength and valor are,
   And rolls the whirling thunder of the car,
    And the world, breathless, eyes the glorious game—
   Then dare and strive—the prize can but belong
    To him whose valor o'er his tribe prevails;
   In life the victory only crowns the strong—
    He who is feeble fails.

   But life, whose source, by crags around it piled,
   Chafed while confined, foams fierce and wild,
    Glides soft and smooth when once its streams expand,
   When its waves, glassing in their silver play,
   Aurora blent with Hesper's milder ray,
    Gain the still beautiful—that shadow-land!
   Here, contest grows but interchange of love,
    All curb is but the bondage of the grace;
   Gone is each foe,—peace folds her wings above
    Her native dwelling-place.

   When, through dead stone to breathe a soul of light,
   With the dull matter to unite
    The kindling genius, some great sculptor glows;
   Behold him straining, every nerve intent—
   Behold how, o'er the subject element,
    The stately thought its march laborious goes!
   For never, save to toil untiring, spoke
    The unwilling truth from her mysterious well—
   The statue only to the chisel's stroke
    Wakes from its marble cell.

   But onward to the sphere of beauty—go
   Onward, O child of art! and, lo!
    Out of the matter which thy pains control
   The statue springs!—not as with labor wrung
   From the hard block, but as from nothing sprung—
    Airy and light—the offspring of the soul!
   The pangs, the cares, the weary toils it cost
    Leave not a trace when once the work is done—
   The Artist's human frailty merged and lost
    In art's great victory won! 40
   If human sin confronts the rigid law
   Of perfect truth and virtue 41, awe
    Seizes and saddens thee to see how far
   Beyond thy reach, perfection;—if we test
   By the ideal of the good, the best,
    How mean our efforts and our actions are!
   This space between the ideal of man's soul
    And man's achievement, who hath ever past?
   An ocean spreads between us and that goal,
    Where anchor ne'er was cast!

   But fly the boundary of the senses—live
   The ideal life free thought can give;
    And, lo, the gulf shall vanish, and the chill
   Of the soul's impotent despair be gone!
   And with divinity thou sharest the throne,
    Let but divinity become thy will!
   Scorn not the law—permit its iron band
    The sense (it cannot chain the soul) to thrall.
   Let man no more the will of Jove withstand 42,
    And Jove the bolt lets fall!

   If, in the woes of actual human life—
   If thou could'st see the serpent strife
    Which the Greek art has made divine in stone—
   Could'st see the writhing limbs, the livid cheek,
   Note every pang, and hearken every shriek,
    Of some despairing lost Laocoon,
   The human nature would thyself subdue
    To share the human woe before thine eye—
   Thy cheek would pale, and all thy soul be true
    To man's great sympathy.

   But in the ideal realm, aloof and far,
   Where the calm art's pure dwellers are,
    Lo, the Laocoon writhes, but does not groan.
   Here, no sharp grief the high emotion knows—
   Here, suffering's self is made divine, and shows
    The brave resolve of the firm soul alone:
   Here, lovely as the rainbow on the dew
    Of the spent thunder-cloud, to art is given,
   Gleaming through grief's dark veil, the peaceful blue
    Of the sweet moral heaven.

   So, in the glorious parable, behold
   How, bowed to mortal bonds, of old
    Life's dreary path divine Alcides trod:
   The hydra and the lion were his prey,
   And to restore the friend he loved to-day,
    He went undaunted to the black-browed god;
   And all the torments and the labors sore
    Wroth Juno sent—the meek majestic one,
   With patient spirit and unquailing, bore,
    Until the course was run—

   Until the god cast down his garb of clay,
   And rent in hallowing flame away
    The mortal part from the divine—to soar
   To the empyreal air! Behold him spring
   Blithe in the pride of the unwonted wing,
    And the dull matter that confined before
   Sinks downward, downward, downward as a dream!
    Olympian hymns receive the escaping soul,
   And smiling Hebe, from the ambrosial stream,
    Fills for a god the bowl!

        GERMANY AND HER PRINCES.

   Thou hast produced mighty monarchs, of whom thou art not unworthy,
    For the obedient alone make him who governs them great.
   But, O Germany, try if thou for thy rulers canst make it
    Harder as kings to be great,—easier, though, to be men!

        DANGEROUS CONSEQUENCES.

   Deeper and bolder truths be careful, my friends, of avowing;
   For as soon as ye do all the world on ye will fall.

     THE MAIDEN FROM AFAR.

      (OR FROM ABROAD.)

   Within a vale, each infant year,
    When earliest larks first carol free,
   To humble shepherds cloth appear
    A wondrous maiden, fair to see.
   Not born within that lowly place—
    From whence she wandered, none could tell;
   Her parting footsteps left no trace,
    When once the maiden sighed farewell.

   And blessed was her presence there—
    Each heart, expanding, grew more gay;
   Yet something loftier still than fair
    Kept man's familiar looks away.
   From fairy gardens, known to none,
    She brought mysterious fruits and flowers—
   The things of some serener sun—
    Some Nature more benign than ours.

   With each her gifts the maiden shared—
    To some the fruits, the flowers to some;
   Alike the young, the aged fared;
    Each bore a blessing back to home.
   Though every guest was welcome there,
    Yet some the maiden held more dear,
   And culled her rarest sweets whene'er
    She saw two hearts that loved draw near. 43

         THE HONORABLE.

   Ever honor the whole; individuals only I honor;
   In individuals I always discover the whole.

     PARABLES AND RIDDLES.

          I.

   A bridge of pearls its form uprears
    High o'er a gray and misty sea;
   E'en in a moment it appears,
    And rises upwards giddily.

   Beneath its arch can find a road
    The loftiest vessel's mast most high,
   Itself hath never borne a load,
    And seems, when thou draw'st near, to fly.

   It comes first with the stream, and goes
    Soon as the watery flood is dried.
   Where may be found this bridge, disclose,
    And who its beauteous form supplied!

          II.

   It bears thee many a mile away,
    And yet its place it changes ne'er;
   It has no pinions to display,
    And yet conducts thee through the air.

   It is the bark of swiftest motion
    That every weary wanderer bore;
   With speed of thought the greatest ocean
    It carries thee in safety o'er;
    One moment wafts thee to the shore.

         III.

   Upon a spacious meadow play
    Thousands of sheep, of silvery hue;
   And as we see them move to-day,
    The man most aged saw them too.

   They ne'er grow old, and, from a rill
    That never dries, their life is drawn;
   A shepherd watches o'er them still,
    With curved and beauteous silver horn.

   He drives them out through gates of gold,
    And every night their number counts;
   Yet ne'er has lost, of all his fold,
    One lamb, though oft that path he mounts.

   A hound attends him faithfully,
    A nimble ram precedes the way;
   Canst thou point out that flock to me,
    And who the shepherd, canst thou say?

          IV.

   There stands a dwelling, vast and tall,
    On unseen columns fair;
   No wanderer treads or leaves its hall,
    And none can linger there.

   Its wondrous structure first was planned
    With art no mortal knows;
   It lights the lamps with its own hand
    'Mongst which it brightly glows.

   It has a roof, as crystal bright,
    Formed of one gem of dazzling light;
   Yet mortal eye has ne'er
    Seen Him who placed it there.

          V.

   Within a well two buckets lie,
    One mounts, and one descends;
   When one is full, and rises high,
    The other downward wends.

   They wander ever to and fro—
   Now empty are, now overflow.
   If to the mouth thou liftest this,
   That hangs within the dark abyss.
   In the same moment they can ne'er
   Refresh thee with their treasures fair.

           VI.

   Know'st thou the form on tender ground?
    It gives itself its glow, its light;
   And though each moment changing found.
    Is ever whole and ever bright.
   In narrow compass 'tis confined,
    Within the smallest frame it lies;
   Yet all things great that move thy mind,
    That form alone to thee supplies.

   And canst thou, too, the crystal name?
    No gem can equal it in worth;
   It gleams, yet kindles near to flame,
    It sucks in even all the earth.
   Within its bright and wondrous ring
    Is pictured forth the glow of heaven,
   And yet it mirrors back each thing
    Far fairer than to it 'twas given.

            VII.

   For ages an edifice here has been found,
    It is not a dwelling, it is not a Pane;
   A horseman for hundreds of days may ride round,
    Yet the end of his journey he ne'er can attain.

   Full many a century o'er it has passed,
    The might of the storm and of time it defies!
   Neath the rainbow of Heaven stands free to the last,—
    In the ocean it dips, and soars up to the skies.

   It was not vain glory that bade its erection,
   It serves as a refuge, a shield, a protection;
   Its like on the earth never yet has been known
   And yet by man's hand it is fashioned alone.

         VIII.

   Among all serpents there is one,
    Born of no earthly breed;
   In fury wild it stands alone,
    And in its matchless speed.

   With fearful voice and headlong force
    It rushes on its prey,
   And sweeps the rider and his horse
    In one fell swoop away.

   The highest point it loves to gain;
    And neither bar nor lock
   Its fiery onslaught can restrain;
    And arms—invite its shock.

   It tears in twain like tender grass,
    The strongest forest-trees;
   It grinds to dust the hardened brass,
    Though stout and firm it be.

   And yet this beast, that none can tame,
    Its threat ne'er twice fulfils;
   It dies in its self-kindled flame.
    And dies e'en when it kills.

          IX.

   We children six our being had
    From a most strange and wondrous pair,—
   Our mother ever grave and sad,
    Our father ever free from care.

   Our virtues we from both receive,—
    Meekness from her, from him our light;
   And so in endless youth we weave
    Round thee a circling figure bright.

   We ever shun the caverns black,
    And revel in the glowing day;
   'Tis we who light the world's dark track,
    With our life's clear and magic ray.

   Spring's joyful harbingers are we,
    And her inspiring streams we swell;
   And so the house of death we flee,
    For life alone must round us dwell.

   Without us is no perfect bliss,
    When man is glad, we, too, attend,
   And when a monarch worshipped is,
    To him our majesty attend.

          X.

   What is the thing esteemed by few?
    The monarch's hand it decks with pride,
   Yet it is made to injure too,
    And to the sword is most allied.

   No blood it sheds, yet many a wound
    Inflicts,—gives wealth, yet takes from none;
   Has vanquished e'en the earth's wide round,
    And makes life's current smoothly run.

   The greatest kingdoms it has framed,
    The oldest cities reared from dust,
   Yet war's fierce torch has ne'er inflamed;
    Happy are they who in it trust!

          XI.

   I live within a dwelling of stone,
    There buried in slumber I dally;
   Yet, armed with a weapon of iron alone,
    The foe to encounter I sally.
   At first I'm invisible, feeble, and mean,
    And o'er me thy breath has dominion;
   I'm easily drowned in a raindrop e'en,
    Yet in victory waxes my pinion.
   When my sister, all-powerful, gives me her hand,
   To the terrible lord of the world I expand.

         XII.

   Upon a disk my course I trace,
    There restlessly forever flit;
   Small is the circuit I embrace,
    Two hands suffice to cover it.
   Yet ere that field I traverse, I
    Full many a thousand mile must go,
   E'en though with tempest-speed I fly,
    Swifter than arrow from a bow.

         XIII.

   A bird it is, whose rapid motion
    With eagle's flight divides the air;
   A fish it is, and parts the ocean,
    That bore a greater monster ne'er;
   An elephant it is, whose rider
    On his broad back a tower has put:
   'Tis like the reptile base, the spider,
    Whenever it extends its foot;
   And when, with iron tooth projecting,
    It seeks its own life-blood to drain,
   On footing firm, itself erecting,
    It braves the raging hurricane.

        THE VIRTUE OF WOMAN.

   Man of virtue has need;-into life with boldness he plunges,
    Entering with fortune more sure into the hazardous strife;
   But to woman one virtue suffices; it is ever shining
    Lovingly forth to the heart; so let it shine to the eye!

             THE WALK.

Hail to thee, mountain beloved, with thy glittering purple-dyed summit!
  Hail to thee also, fair sun, looking so lovingly on!
Thee, too, I hail, thou smiling plain, and ye murmuring lindens,
  Ay, and the chorus so glad, cradled on yonder high boughs;
Thee, too, peaceably azure, in infinite measure extending
  Round the dusky-hued mount, over the forest so green,—
Round about me, who now from my chamber's confinement escaping,
  And from vain frivolous talk, gladly seek refuge with thee.
Through me to quicken me runs the balsamic stream of thy breezes,
  While the energetical light freshens the gaze as it thirsts.
Bright o'er the blooming meadow the changeable colors are gleaming,
  But the strife, full of charms, in its own grace melts away
Freely the plain receives me,—with carpet far away reaching,
  Over its friendly green wanders the pathway along.
Round me is humming the busy bee, and with pinion uncertain
  Hovers the butterfly gay over the trefoil's red flower.
Fiercely the darts of the sun fall on me,—the zephyr is silent,
  Only the song of the lark echoes athwart the clear air.
Now from the neighboring copse comes a roar, and the tops of the alders
  Bend low down,—in the wind dances the silvery grass;
Night ambrosial circles me round; in the coolness so fragrant
  Greets me a beauteous roof, formed by the beeches' sweet shade.
In the depths of the wood the landscape suddenly leaves me
  And a serpentine path guides up my footsteps on high.
Only by stealth can the light through the leafy trellis of branches
  Sparingly pierce, and the blue smilingly peeps through the boughs,
But in a moment the veil is rent, and the opening forest
  Suddenly gives back the day's glittering brightness to me!
Boundlessly seems the distance before my gaze to be stretching,
  And in a purple-tinged hill terminates sweetly the world.

Deep at the foot of the mountain, that under me falls away steeply,
  Wanders the greenish-hued stream, looking like glass as it flows.
Endlessly under me see I the ether, and endlessly o'er
  Giddily look I above, shudderingly look I below,
But between the infinite height and the infinite hollow
  Safely the wanderer moves over a well-guarded path.
Smilingly past me are flying the banks all teeming with riches,
  And the valley so bright boasts of its industry glad.
See how yonder hedgerows that sever the farmer's possessions
  Have by Demeter been worked into the tapestried plain!
Kindly decree of the law, of the Deity mortal-sustaining,
  Since from the brazen world love vanished forever away.
But in freer windings the measured pastures are traversed
  (Now swallowed up in the wood, now climbing up to the hills)
By a glimmering streak, the highway that knits lands together;
  Over the smooth-flowing stream, quietly glide on the rafts.

Ofttimes resound the bells of the flocks in the fields that seem living,
  And the shepherd's lone song wakens the echo again.
Joyous villages crown the stream, in the copse others vanish,
  While from the back of the mount, others plunge wildly below.
Man still lives with the land in neighborly friendship united,
  And round his sheltering roof calmly repose still his fields;
Trustingly climbs the vine high over the low-reaching window,
  While round the cottage the tree circles its far-stretching boughs.
Happy race of the plain! Not yet awakened to freedom,
  Thou and thy pastures with joy share in the limited law;
Bounded thy wishes all are by the harvest's peaceable circuit,
  And thy lifetime is spent e'en as the task of the day!

But what suddenly hides the beauteous view? A strange spirit
  Over the still-stranger plain spreads itself quickly afar—
Coyly separates now, what scarce had lovingly mingled,
  And 'tis the like that alone joins itself on to the like.
Orders I see depicted; the haughty tribes of the poplars
  Marshalled in regular pomp, stately and beauteous appear.
All gives token of rule and choice, and all has its meaning,—
  'Tis this uniform plan points out the Ruler to me.
Brightly the glittering domes in far-away distance proclaim him.
  Out of the kernel of rocks rises the city's high wall.
Into the desert without, the fauns of the forest are driven,
  But by devotion is lent life more sublime to the stone.
Man is brought into nearer union with man, and around him
  Closer, more actively wakes, swifter moves in him the world.
See! the emulous forces in fiery conflict are kindled,
  Much, they effect when they strive, more they effect when they join.
Thousands of hands by one spirit are moved, yet in thousands of bosoms
  Beats one heart all alone, by but one feeling inspired—
Beats for their native land, and glows for their ancestors' precepts;
  Here on the well-beloved spot, rest now time-honored bones.

Down from the heavens descends the blessed troop of immortals,
  In the bright circle divine making their festal abode;
Granting glorious gifts, they appear: and first of all, Ceres
  Offers the gift of the plough, Hermes the anchor brings next,
Bacchus the grape, and Minerva the verdant olive-tree's branches,
  Even his charger of war brings there Poseidon as well.
Mother Cybele yokes to the pole of her chariot the lions,
  And through the wide-open door comes as a citizen in.
Sacred stones! 'Tis from ye that proceed humanity's founders,
  Morals and arts ye sent forth, e'en to the ocean's far isles.
'Twas at these friendly gates that the law was spoken by sages;
  In their Penates' defence, heroes rushed out to the fray.
On the high walls appeared the mothers, embracing their infants,
  Looking after the march, till the distance 'twas lost.
Then in prayer they threw themselves down at the deities' altars,
  Praying for triumph and fame, praying for your safe return.
Honor and triumph were yours, but naught returned save your glory,
  And by a heart-touching stone, told are your valorous deeds.
"Traveller! when thou com'st to Sparta, proclaim to the people
  That thou hast seen us lie here, as by the law we were bid."
Slumber calmly, ye loved ones! for sprinkled o'er by your life-blood,
  Flourish the olive-trees there, joyously sprouts the good seed.
In its possessions exulting, industry gladly is kindled.
  And from the sedge of the stream smilingly signs the blue god.
Crushingly falls the axe on the tree, the Dryad sighs sadly;
  Down from the crest of the mount plunges the thundering load.
Winged by the lever, the stone from the rocky crevice is loosened;
  Into the mountain's abyss boldly the miner descends.
Mulciber's anvil resounds with the measured stroke of the hammer;
  Under the fist's nervous blow, spurt out the sparks of the steel.
Brilliantly twines the golden flax round the swift-whirling spindles,
  Through the strings of the yarn whizzes the shuttle away.

Far in the roads the pilot calls, and the vessels are waiting,
  That to the foreigner's land carry the produce of home;
Others gladly approach with the treasures of far-distant regions,
  High on the mast's lofty head flutters the garland of mirth.
See how yon markets, those centres of life and of gladness, are swarming!
  Strange confusion of tongues sounds in the wondering ear.
On to the pile the wealth of the earth is heaped by the merchant,
  All that the sun's scorching rays bring forth on Africa's soil,
All that Arabia prepares, that the uttermost Thule produces,
  High with heart-gladdening stores fills Amalthea her horn.
Fortune wedded to talent gives birth there to children immortal,
  Suckled in liberty's arms, flourish the arts there of joy.
With the image of life the eyes by the sculptor are ravished,
  And by the chisel inspired, speaks e'en the sensitive stone.
Skies artificial repose on slender Ionian columns,
  And a Pantheon includes all that Olympus contains.
Light as the rainbow's spring through the air, as the dart from
                          the bowstring,
  Leaps the yoke of the bridge over the boisterous stream.

But in his silent chamber the thoughtful sage is projecting
  Magical circles, and steals e'en on the spirit that forms,
Proves the force of matter, the hatreds and loves of the magnet,
  Follows the tune through the air, follows through ether the ray,
Seeks the familiar law in chance's miracles dreaded,
  Looks for the ne'er-changing pole in the phenomena's flight.
Bodies and voices are lent by writing to thought ever silent,
  Over the centuries' stream bears it the eloquent page.
Then to the wondering gaze dissolves the cloud of the fancy,
  And the vain phantoms of night yield to the dawning of day.
Man now breaks through his fetters, the happy one! Oh, let him never
  Break from the bridle of shame, when from fear's fetters he breaks
Freedom! is reason's cry,—ay, freedom! The wild raging passions
  Eagerly cast off the bonds Nature divine had imposed.

Ah! in the tempest the anchors break loose, that warningly held him
  On to the shore, and the stream tears him along in its flood,—
Into infinity whirls him,—the coasts soon vanish before him,
  High on the mountainous waves rocks all-dismasted the bark;
Under the clouds are hid the steadfast stars of the chariot,
  Naught now remains,—in the breast even the god goes astray.
Truth disappears from language, from life all faith and all honor
  Vanish, and even the oath is but a lie on the lips.
Into the heart's most trusty bond, and into love's secrets,
  Presses the sycophant base, tearing the friend from the friend.
Treason on innocence leers, with looks that seek to devour,
  And the fell slanderer's tooth kills with its poisonous bite.
In the dishonored bosom, thought is now venal, and love, too,
  Scatters abroad to the winds, feelings once god-like and free.
All thy holy symbols, O truth, deceit has adopted,
  And has e'en dared to pollute Nature's own voices so fair,
That the craving heart in the tumult of gladness discovers;
  True sensations are now mute and can scarcely be heard.
Justice boasts at the tribune, and harmony vaunts in the cottage,
  While the ghost of the law stands at the throne of the king.
Years together, ay, centuries long, may the mummy continue,
  And the deception endure, apeing the fulness of life.
Until Nature awakes, and with hands all-brazen and heavy
  'Gainst the hollow-formed pile time and necessity strikes.
Like a tigress, who, bursting the massive grating iron,
  Of her Numidian wood suddenly, fearfully thinks,—
So with the fury of crime and anguish, humanity rises
  Hoping nature, long-lost in the town's ashes, to find.
Oh then open, ye walls, and set the captive at freedom
  To the long desolate plains let him in safety return!

But where am I? The path is now hid, declivities rugged
  Bar, with their wide-yawning gulfs, progress before and behind.
Now far behind me is left the gardens' and hedges' sure escort,
  Every trace of man's hand also remains far behind.
Only the matter I see piled up, whence life has its issue,
  And the raw mass of basalt waits for a fashioning hand.
Down through its channel of rock the torrent roaringly rushes,
  Angrily forcing a path under the roots of the trees.
All is here wild and fearfully desolate. Naught but the eagle
  Hangs in the lone realms of air, knitting the world to the clouds.
Not one zephyr on soaring pinion conveys to my hearing
  Echoes, however remote, marking man's pleasures and pains.
Am I in truth, then, alone? Within thine arms, on thy bosom,
  Nature, I lie once again!—Ah, and 'twas only a dream
That assailed me with horrors so fearful; with life's dreaded phantom,
  And with the down-rushing vale, vanished the gloomy one too.
Purer my life I receive again from thine altar unsullied,—
  Purer receive the bright glow felt by my youth's hopeful days.
Ever the will is changing its aim and its rule, while forever,
  In a still varying form, actions revolve round themselves.
But in enduring youth, in beauty ever renewing.
  Kindly Nature, with grace thou dost revere the old law!
Ever the same, for the man in thy faithful hands thou preservest
  That which the child in its sport, that which the youth lent to thee;
At the same breast thou dost suckle the ceaselessly-varying ages;
  Under the same azure vault, over the same verdant earth,
Races, near and remote, in harmony wander together,
  See, even Homer's own sun looks on us, too, with a smile!

          THE LAY OF THE BELL.

   "Vivos voco—Mortuos plango—Fulgura frango." 44
     Fast, in its prison-walls of earth,
      Awaits the mould of baked clay.
     Up, comrades, up, and aid the birth
      The bell that shall be born to-day!
        Who would honor obtain,
        With the sweat and the pain,
   The praise that man gives to the master must buy.—
   But the blessing withal must descend from on high!

     And well an earnest word beseems
      The work the earnest hand prepares;
     Its load more light the labor deems,
      When sweet discourse the labor shares.
     So let us ponder—nor in vain—
      What strength can work when labor wills;
     For who would not the fool disdain
      Who ne'er designs what he fulfils?
     And well it stamps our human race,
      And hence the gift to understand,
     That man within the heart should trace
      Whate'er he fashions with the hand.

     From the fir the fagot take,
      Keep it, heap it hard and dry,
     That the gathered flame may break
      Through the furnace, wroth and high.
        When the copper within
        Seeths and simmers—the tin,
   Pour quick, that the fluid that feeds the bell
   May flow in the right course glib and well.

     Deep hid within this nether cell,
      What force with fire is moulding thus,
     In yonder airy tower shall dwell,
      And witness wide and far of us!
     It shall, in later days, unfailing,
      Rouse many an ear to rapt emotion;
     Its solemn voice with sorrow wailing,
      Or choral chiming to devotion.
     Whatever fate to man may bring,
      Whatever weal or woe befall,
     That metal tongue shall backward ring,
      The warning moral drawn from all.

     See the silvery bubbles spring!
      Good! the mass is melting now!
     Let the salts we duly bring
      Purge the flood, and speed the flow.
        From the dross and the scum,
        Pure, the fusion must come;
   For perfect and pure we the metal must keep,
   That its voice may be perfect, and pure, and deep.

     That voice, with merry music rife,
      The cherished child shall welcome in;
     What time the rosy dreams of life,
      In the first slumber's arms begin.
     As yet, in Time's dark womb unwarning,
      Repose the days, or foul or fair;
     And watchful o'er that golden morning,
      The mother-love's untiring care!
     And swift the years like arrows fly
     No more with girls content to play,
     Bounds the proud boy upon his way,
     Storms through loud life's tumultuous pleasures,
     With pilgrim staff the wide world measures;
     And, wearied with the wish to roam,
     Again seeks, stranger-like, the father-home.
     And, lo, as some sweet vision breaks
      Out from its native morning skies
     With rosy shame on downcast cheeks,
      The virgin stands before his eyes.

     A nameless longing seizes him!
      From all his wild compassions flown;
     Tears, strange till then, his eyes bedim;
      He wanders all alone.
     Blushing, he glides where'er she move;
      Her greeting can transport him;
     To every mead to deck his love,
      The happy wild flowers court him!
     Sweet hope—and tender longing—ye
      The growth of life's first age of gold;
     When the heart, swelling, seems to see
      The gates of heaven unfold!
   O love, the beautiful and brief! O prime,
   Glory, and verdure, of life's summer time!

     Browning o'er, the pipes are simmering,
      Dip this wand of clay 45 within;
     If like glass the wand be glimmering,
      Then the casting may begin.
        Brisk, brisk now, and see
        If the fusion flow free;
   If—(happy and welcome indeed were the sign!)
   If the hard and the ductile united combine.
   For still where the strong is betrothed to the weak,
   And the stern in sweet marriage is blent with the meek,
    Rings the concord harmonious, both tender and strong
   So be it with thee, if forever united,
   The heart to the heart flows in one, love-delighted;
    Illusion is brief, but repentance is long.

     Lovely, thither are they bringing.
      With the virgin wreath, the bride!
     To the love-feast clearly ringing,
      Tolls the church-bell far and wide!
     With that sweetest holiday,
      Must the May of life depart;
   With the cestus loosed—away
    Flies illusion from the heart!
     Yet love lingers lonely,
      When passion is mute,
     And the blossoms may only
      Give way to the fruit.
     The husband must enter
      The hostile life,
      With struggle and strife
      To plant or to watch.
      To snare or to snatch,
      To pray and importune,
     Must wager and venture
      And hunt down his fortune!
   Then flows in a current the gear and the gain,
   And the garners are filled with the gold of the grain,
   Now a yard to the court, now a wing to the centre!
       Within sits another,
        The thrifty housewife;
       The mild one, the mother—
        Her home is her life.
       In its circle she rules,
       And the daughters she schools
        And she cautions the boys,
       With a bustling command,
       And a diligent hand
        Employed she employs;
       Gives order to store,
       And the much makes the more;
   Locks the chest and the wardrobe, with lavender smelling,
   And the hum of the spindle goes quick through the dwelling;
   And she hoards in the presses, well polished and full,
   The snow of the linen, the shine of the wool;
   Blends the sweet with the good, and from care and endeavor
   Rests never!
     Blithe the master (where the while
     From his roof he sees them smile)
      Eyes the lands, and counts the gain;
     There, the beams projecting far,
     And the laden storehouse are,
     And the granaries bowed beneath
      The blessed golden grain;
     There, in undulating motion,
     Wave the cornfields like an ocean.
     Proud the boast the proud lips breathe:—
     "My house is built upon a rock,
     And sees unmoved the stormy shock
      Of waves that fret below!"
     What chain so strong, what girth so great,
     To bind the giant form of fate?—
      Swift are the steps of woe.

     Now the casting may begin;
      See the breach indented there:
     Ere we run the fusion in,
      Halt—and speed the pious prayer!
        Pull the bung out—
        See around and about
   What vapor, what vapor—God help us!—has risen?—
   Ha! the flame like a torrent leaps forth from its prison!
   What friend is like the might of fire
   When man can watch and wield the ire?
   Whate'er we shape or work, we owe
   Still to that heaven-descended glow.
   But dread the heaven-descended glow,
   When from their chain its wild wings go,
   When, where it listeth, wide and wild
   Sweeps free Nature's free-born child.
   When the frantic one fleets,
    While no force can withstand,
   Through the populous streets
    Whirling ghastly the brand;
   For the element hates
   What man's labor creates,
    And the work of his hand!
   Impartially out from the cloud,
    Or the curse or the blessing may fall!
   Benignantly out from the cloud
    Come the dews, the revivers of all!
   Avengingly out from the cloud
    Come the levin, the bolt, and the ball!
   Hark—a wail from the steeple!—aloud
   The bell shrills its voice to the crowd!
      Look—look—red as blood
        All on high!
   It is not the daylight that fills with its flood
        The sky!
   What a clamor awaking
    Roars up through the street,
   What a hell-vapor breaking.
    Rolls on through the street,
   And higher and higher
   Aloft moves the column of fire!
   Through the vistas and rows
   Like a whirlwind it goes,
   And the air like the stream from the furnace glows.
   Beams are crackling—posts are shrinking
   Walls are sinking—windows clinking—
        Children crying—
        Mothers flying—
   And the beast (the black ruin yet smouldering under)
   Yells the howl of its pain and its ghastly wonder!
   Hurry and skurry—away—away,
   The face of the night is as clear as day!
        As the links in a chain,
        Again and again
   Flies the bucket from hand to hand;
        High in arches up-rushing
        The engines are gushing,
   And the flood, as a beast on the prey that it hounds
   With a roar on the breast of the element bounds.
        To the grain and the fruits,
        Through the rafters and beams,
   Through the barns and garners it crackles and streams!
   As if they would rend up the earth from its roots,
        Rush the flames to the sky
        Giant-high;
   And at length,
   Wearied out and despairing, man bows to their strength!
   With an idle gaze sees their wrath consume,
   And submits to his doom!
        Desolate
   The place, and dread
   For storms the barren bed.
   In the blank voids that cheerful casements were,
   Comes to and fro the melancholy air,
    And sits despair;
   And through the ruin, blackening in its shroud
   Peers, as it flits, the melancholy cloud.

   One human glance of grief upon the grave
   Of all that fortune gave
   The loiterer takes—then turns him to depart,
   And grasps the wanderer's staff and mans his heart
   Whatever else the element bereaves
   One blessing more than all it reft—it leaves,
   The faces that he loves!—He counts them o'er,
   See—not one look is missing from that store!

   Now clasped the bell within the clay—
    The mould the mingled metals fill—
   Oh, may it, sparkling into day,
    Reward the labor and the skill!
        Alas! should it fail,
        For the mould may be frail—
   And still with our hope must be mingled the fear—
   And, ev'n now, while we speak, the mishap may be near!
   To the dark womb of sacred earth
    This labor of our hands is given,
   As seeds that wait the second birth,
    And turn to blessings watched by heaven!
   Ah, seeds, how dearer far than they,
    We bury in the dismal tomb,
   Where hope and sorrow bend to pray
   That suns beyond the realm of day
    May warm them into bloom!

        From the steeple
         Tolls the bell,
        Deep and heavy,
         The death-knell!
   Guiding with dirge-note—solemn, sad, and slow,
   To the last home earth's weary wanderers know.
        It is that worshipped wife—
        It is that faithful mother! 46   Whom the dark prince of shadows leads benighted,
   From that dear arm where oft she hung delighted
   Far from those blithe companions, born
   Of her, and blooming in their morn;
   On whom, when couched her heart above,
   So often looked the mother-love!

   Ah! rent the sweet home's union-band,
    And never, never more to come—
   She dwells within the shadowy land,
    Who was the mother of that home!
   How oft they miss that tender guide,
    The care—the watch—the face—the mother—
   And where she sate the babes beside,
    Sits with unloving looks—another!

      While the mass is cooling now,
       Let the labor yield to leisure,
      As the bird upon the bough,
       Loose the travail to the pleasure.
      When the soft stars awaken,
      Each task be forsaken!
   And the vesper-bell lulling the earth into peace,
   If the master still toil, chimes the workman's release!

    Homeward from the tasks of day,
    Through the greenwood's welcome way
    Wends the wanderer, blithe and cheerly,
    To the cottage loved so dearly!
    And the eye and ear are meeting,
    Now, the slow sheep homeward bleating—
    Now, the wonted shelter near,
    Lowing the lusty-fronted steer;
    Creaking now the heavy wain,
    Reels with the happy harvest grain.
    While with many-colored leaves,
    Glitters the garland on the sheaves;
    For the mower's work is done,
    And the young folks' dance begun!
    Desert street, and quiet mart;—
    Silence is in the city's heart;
    And the social taper lighteth;
    Each dear face that home uniteth;
    While the gate the town before
    Heavily swings with sullen roar!

     Though darkness is spreading
      O'er earth—the upright
     And the honest, undreading,
      Look safe on the night—
     Which the evil man watches in awe,
     For the eye of the night is the law!
      Bliss-dowered! O daughter of the skies,
     Hail, holy order, whose employ
     Blends like to like in light and joy—
     Builder of cities, who of old
     Called the wild man from waste and wold.
     And, in his hut thy presence stealing,
     Roused each familiar household feeling;
      And, best of all the happy ties,
     The centre of the social band,—
     The instinct of the Fatherland!

   United thus—each helping each,
    Brisk work the countless hands forever;
   For naught its power to strength can teach,
    Like emulation and endeavor!
   Thus linked the master with the man,
    Each in his rights can each revere,
   And while they march in freedom's van,
    Scorn the lewd rout that dogs the rear!
   To freemen labor is renown!
    Who works—gives blessings and commands;
   Kings glory in the orb and crown—
    Be ours the glory of our hands.

   Long in these walls—long may we greet
   Your footfalls, peace and concord sweet!
   Distant the day, oh! distant far,
   When the rude hordes of trampling war
    Shall scare the silent vale;
      And where,
     Now the sweet heaven, when day doth leave
      The air,
     Limns its soft rose-hues on the veil of eve;
    Shall the fierce war-brand tossing in the gale,
   From town and hamlet shake the horrent glare!

     Now, its destined task fulfilled,
      Asunder break the prison-mould;
     Let the goodly bell we build,
      Eye and heart alike behold.
        The hammer down heave,
        Till the cover it cleave:—
   For not till we shatter the wall of its cell
   Can we lift from its darkness and bondage the bell.

    To break the mould, the master may,
     If skilled the hand and ripe the hour;
    But woe, when on its fiery way
     The metal seeks itself to pour.
    Frantic and blind, with thunder-knell,
     Exploding from its shattered home,
    And glaring forth, as from a hell,
     Behold the red destruction come!
    When rages strength that has no reason,
    There breaks the mould before the season;
    When numbers burst what bound before,
    Woe to the state that thrives no more!
    Yea, woe, when in the city's heart,
     The latent spark to flame is blown;
    And millions from their silence start,
     To claim, without a guide, their own!

    Discordant howls the warning bell,
     Proclaiming discord wide and far,
    And, born but things of peace to tell,
     Becomes the ghastliest voice of war:
    "Freedom! Equality!"—to blood
     Rush the roused people at the sound!
    Through street, hall, palace, roars the flood,
     And banded murder closes round!
    The hyena-shapes (that women were!),
     Jest with the horrors they survey;
    They hound—they rend—they mangle there—
     As panthers with their prey!
    Naught rests to hollow—burst the ties
     Of life's sublime and reverent awe;
    Before the vice the virtue flies,
     And universal crime is law!
    Man fears the lion's kingly tread;
     Man fears the tiger's fangs of terror;
    And still the dreadliest of the dread,
     Is man himself in error!
    No torch, though lit from heaven, illumes
     The blind!—Why place it in his hand?
    It lights not him—it but consumes
     The city and the land!

     Rejoice and laud the prospering skies!
      The kernel bursts its husk—behold
     From the dull clay the metal rise,
      Pure-shining, as a star of gold!
        Neck and lip, but as one beam,
        It laughs like a sunbeam.
   And even the scutcheon, clear-graven, shall tell
   That the art of a master has fashioned the bell!

   Come in—come in
    My merry men—we'll form a ring
    The new-born labor christening;
     And "Concord" we will name her!—
    To union may her heartfelt call
    In brother-love attune us all!
   May she the destined glory win
     For which the master sought to frame her—
   Aloft—(all earth's existence under),
    In blue-pavillioned heaven afar
   To dwell—the neighbor of the thunder,
    The borderer of the star!
   Be hers above a voice to rise
    Like those bright hosts in yonder sphere,
   Who, while they move, their Maker praise,
    And lead around the wreathed year!
   To solemn and eternal things
    We dedicate her lips sublime!—
   As hourly, calmly, on she swings
    Fanned by the fleeting wings of time!—
   No pulse—no heart—no feeling hers!
    She lends the warning voice to fate;
   And still companions, while she stirs,
    The changes of the human state!
   So may she teach us, as her tone
    But now so mighty, melts away—
   That earth no life which earth has known
    From the last silence can delay!

     Slowly now the cords upheave her!
      From her earth-grave soars the bell;
     Mid the airs of heaven we leave her!
      In the music-realm to dwell!
        Up—upwards yet raise—
        She has risen—she sways.
   Fair bell to our city bode joy and increase,
   And oh, may thy first sound be hallowed to peace! 47