The Coming of the Princess, and Other Poems

BY THE SEA-SHORE AT NIGHT. BY THE SEA-SHORE AT NIGHT. Oh lapping waves!—oh gnawing waves!— That rest not day nor night,— I hear ye when the light Is dim and awful in your hollow caves.— All day the winds were out, and rode Their steeds, your tossing crest,— To-night the fierce winds rest, And the moon walks above them her bright road. Yet none the less ye lift your hands, And your despairing cry Up to the midnight sky, And clutch, and trample on the shuddering sands, That shrink and tremble even in sleep, Out of your passionate reach, Afraid of your dread speech, And the more dreadful silence that ye keep Oh sapping waves!—oh mining waves!— Under the oak's gnarled feet, And tower, and village street, Scooping by stealth in darkness myriad graves;— What secret strive ye thus to hide, A thousand fathoms deep, Which the sea will not keep, And pours, and babbles forth upon her refluent tide?— I see your torn and wind-blown hair, Shewn far along the shore,— And lifted evermore You white hands tossing in a fierce despair; And half I deem ye hold below, In vast and wandering cell, The primal spirits who fell, Reserved in chains and immemorial woe. Keep ye, oh waves!—your mystery:— The time draws on apace, When from before His face, The heavens and the earth shall flee, And evermore there shall be no more sea! RESURGAM Into the darkness and the deeps My thoughts have strayed, where silence dwells, Where the old world encrypted sleeps,— Myriads of forms, in myriad cells, Of dead and inorganic things, That neither live, nor move, nor grow, Nor any change of atoms know; That have neither legs, nor arms, nor wings, That have neither heads, nor mouths, nor stings, That have neither roots, nor leaves, nor stems, To hold up flowers like diadems, Growing out of the ground below: But which hold instead The cycles dead, And out of their stony and gloomy folds Shape out new moulds For a new race begun; Shutting within dark pages, furled As in a vast herbarium, The flowers and balms, The pines and palms, The ferns and cones, All turned to stones Of all the unknown elder world, As in a wonderful museum, Ranged in its myriad mummy shelves. Insects and worms,— All lower forms Of fin and scale, Of gnat and whale, Fish, bird, and the monstrous mastodon, The fabulous megatherium, And men themselves. Ah, what life is here compressed, Frozen into endless rest! Down through springing blades and spires, Down through mines, and crypts, and caves, Still graves on graves, and graves on graves, Down to earth's most central fires. The morning stars sang at their birth, In the first beginnings of time. What voice of dolour or of mirth At their last funeral made moan,— Ashes to ashes—earth to earth, And stone to stone,— Chanting the liturgy sublime. What matter,—in that doom's-day book Their place is fixed—their names are writ, Each in its individual nook,— God's eye beholds—remembers it. When the slow-moving centuries Have lapsed in the former eternities,— When the day is come which we see not yet,— When the sea gives up its dead— And the thrones are set, These books shall be opened and read! WRITTEN IN A CEMETERY. Stay yet awhile, oh flowers!—oh wandering grasses, And creeping ferns, and climbing, clinging vines;— Bend down and cover with lush odorous masses My darling's couch, where he in sleep reclines. Stay yet awhile;—let not the chill October Plant spires of glinting frost about his bed; Nor shower her faded leaves, so brown and sober, Among the tuberoses above his head. I would have all things fair, and sweet, and tender,— The daisy's pearl, the cowslip's shield of snow, And fragrant hyacinths in purple splendour, About my darling's grassy couch to grow. Oh birds!—small pilgrims of the summer weather, Come hither, for my darling loved ye well;— Here floats the thistle down for you to gather, And bearded grasses ripen in the dell. Here pipe, and plume your wings, and chirp and flutter, And swing, light-poised upon the pendant bough;— Fondly I deem he hears the calls ye utter, And stirs in his light sleep to answer you. Oh wind!—that blows through hours of nights and lonely, Oh rain!—that sobs against my window pane,— Ye beat upon my heart, which beats but only To clasp and shelter my lost lamb again. Peace—peace, my soul:—I know that in another And brighter land my darling walks and waits, Where we shall surely meet and clasp each other, Beyond the threshold of the shining gates. MARGUERITE Marguerite,—oh Marguerite! Thy sleep is sound, and still and sweet, Framed in the pale gold of thy hair, Thy face is like an angel's fair, Marguerite,—oh Marguerite! Tender curves of cheek and lips— Sweet eyes hid in long eclipse— Pale robes flowing to thy feet— Folded hands that lightly meet,— Marguerite,—oh Marguerite! Sleep'st thou still?—the world awakes,— Still the echo swells and breaks,— Over field, and wood, and street Easter anthems throb and beat,— Marguerite,—oh Marguerite! Christ the Lord is risen again,— Hear'st thou not the glad refrain,— Have those gentle lips no breath, Smiling in the trance of death?— Marguerite,—oh Marguerite! In the grave from whence He rose, Lay thee to thy long repose,— Sweet with myrrh and spices,—sweet With the footprints of His feet,— Marguerite,—oh Marguerite! Where His sacred head hath lain, Thine may rest, secure from pain. While the circling years go round, Without motion,—without sound,— Marguerite,—oh Marguerite! THE WATCH-LIGHT. Above the roofs and chimney-tops, And through the slow November rain, A light from some far attic pane, Shines twinkling through the water-drops. Some lonely watcher waits and weeps, Like me, the step that comes not yet;— Her watch for weary hours is set, While far below the city sleeps. The level lamp-rays lay the floors, And bridge the dark that lies below, O'er which my fancies come and go, And peep, and listen at the doors; And bring me word how sweet and plain, And quaint the lonely attic room, Where she sits singing in the gloom, Words sadder than the autumn rain. A thousand times by sea and shore, In my wild dreams I see him lie, With face upturned toward the sky, Murdered, and stiffening in his gore;— Or drowned, and floating with the tide, Within some lonely midnight bay,— His arms stretched toward me where he lay, And blue eyes staring, fixed and wide. Oh winds that rove o'er land and sea! Oh waves that lap the yellow sands! Oh hide your stealthy, treacherous hands, And call no more his name to me.'— Thus much I heard,—and unawares, The sense of pity stole away My loneliness and misery,— When lo, a light step on the stairs!— Ah joy!—the step that brings my own, Safe from all harms and dangers in;— My heart lifts up its thankful hymn, And bids' good-night to night and moan. I sleep,—I rest,—and I forget The bridge-the night-lamp's level beams, Till waking out of happy dreams, I see her watch-light shining yet. God comfort those that watch in vain,— I breathe to Him my voiceless prayer; Pity their tears and their despair, And bring the wanderers home again, NEW YEAR, 1868. Cradled in ice, and swathed in snows, And shining like a Christmas rose, Wreathed round with white chrysanthemums; Heaven in his innocent, brave blue eyes, Straight from the primal paradise, Behold the infant New Year comes! His looks a serious sweetness wear, As if upon that unseen way, Those baby hands that lightly bear Garlands, and festive tokens gay, For but a glance,—a touch sufficed,— Had met and touched the infant Christ! And lingering on the wing, had heard, Sweeter than song of any bird, Of cherub or of seraphim, The notes of that divinest hymn,— Glory to God in highest strain, And peace on earth, good will to men. Oh, diamond days, so royally set In winter's stern and rugged breast, Like jewels in an amulet,— Your light has cheered, and soothed, and blest, The want and toil, the sighs and tears, And sorrows-of a thousand years! The bells ring in the merry morn, The poor forget their poverty, The saddest face grows bright with glee, And smiles for joy that he is born; The fair round world shines out with cheer, To welcome in the glad New Year. Oh ye, whose homes are warm and bright, With plenty smiling at the board, Remember those whose roofs to-night, Nor warmth, nor light, nor food afford, Still make those wants, and woes your care, And let the poor your bounty share. For yet our hills and lakes along Echoes the herald angels' song,— Peace and good will!—oh look abroad,— In every nation, tribe, and clan, Behold the brotherhood of man,— Behold the Fatherhood of God! Peace to our mountains and our hills,— Peace to our rivers and our rills;— Our young Dominion takes her place Among the nations west and east,— God send her length of happy days, And years of plenty and of peace! THANKSGIVING. The Autumn hills are golden at the top, And rounded as a poet's silver rhyme; The mellow days are ruby ripe, that drop One after one into the lap of time. Dead leaves are reddening in the woodland copse, And forest boughs a fading glory wear; No breath of wind stirs in their hazy tops, Silence and peace are brooding everywhere. The long day of the year is almost done, And nature in the sunset musing stands, Gray-robed, and violet-hooded like a nun, Looking abroad o'er yellow harvest lands: O'er tents of orchard boughs, and purple vines With scarlet flecked, flung like broad banners out Along the field paths where slow-pacing lines Of meek-eyed kine obey the herdboy's shout; Where the tired ploughman his dun oxen turns, Unyoked, afield, mid dewy grass to stray, While over all the village church spire burns— A shaft of flame in the last beams of day. Empty and folded are her busy hands; Her corn and wine and oil are safely stored, As in the twilight of the year she stands, And with her gladness seems to thank the Lord. Thus let us rest awhile from toil and care, In the sweet sabbath of this autumn calm, And lift our hearts to heaven in grateful prayer, And sing with nature our thanksgiving psalm. MISERERE Be pitiful, oh God! the night is long, My soul is faint with watching for the light, And still the gloom and doubt of seven-fold night Hangs heavy on my spirit: Thou art strong.— Pity me, oh my God! I stretch my hands through darkness up to Thee,— The stars are shrouded, and the night is dumb; There is no earthly help,—to Thee I come In all my helplessness and misery,— Pity me, oh my God! Be pitiful, oh God!—for I am weak, And all my paths are rough, and hedged about,— Hold Thou my hand dear Lord, and lead me out, And bring me to the city which I seek,— Pity me, oh my God! By the temptation which Thou didst endure, And by Thy fasting and Thy midnight prayer, Jesu! let me not utterly despair; Oh! hide me in the Rock from ill secure,— Pity me, oh my God! Mine eyes run down with tears that do not cease; Oh! when beyond the river dark and cold, Shall I the white walls of my home behold,— The shining palaces—the streets of gold,— And enter through the gates the City of Peace,— Pity me, oh my God! BEYOND Cloudy argosies are drifting down into the purple dark, And the long low amber reaches, lying on the horizon's mark, Shape themselves into the gateways, dim and wonderful unfurled, Gateways leading through' the sunset, out into the underworld. How my spirit vainly flutters, like a bird that beats the bars, To be launched upon that ocean, with its tides of throbbing stars, To be gone beyond the sunset, and the day's revolving zone, Out into the primal darkness, and the world of the unknown! Hints and guesses of its grandeur, broken shadows, sudden gleams, Like a falling star shoot past me, quenched within a sea of dreams,— But the unimagined glory lying in the dark beyond, Is to these as morn to midnight, or as silence is to sound. Sweeter than the trees of Eden, dropping purple blooms, and balm, Are the odors wafted toward me from its isles of windless calm,— And the gold of all our sunsets, with their sapphire all impearled, Would not match the fused and glowing heaven of that under world. Pale sea-buds there weep forever, water lilies damp and cool, And the mystic lotus shining through its white waves beautiful, In those dusk and sunless valleys, where no steps of mortals tread, Bind the white brows of the living, whom we blindly call the dead. Oh ye lost ones,—ye departed, who have passed that silent shore, Though we call you through the sunset, ye return to us no more. Have ye found those blessed islands where earth's toils and sorrows cease? Do ye wear the sacred lotus,—have ye entered into peace? Do ye hear us when we call you,—do ye heed the tears we shed,— Oh beloved!—oh immortal!—oh ye dead who are not dead! Speak to us across the darkness,—-wave to us a glimmering hand,— Tell us but that ye remember , dwellers in the silent land! But the sunset clouds have faded, arch and capital are gone, And the regal night is glorious, with the starlight overblown;— Life is labor and not dreaming, and I have my work to do, Ere within those happy valleys I shall wear the lilies too. THE SABBATH OF THE WOODS Sundown—and silence—and deep peace,— Night's benediction and release;— The tints of day die out and cease. This morn I heard the Sabbath bells Across the breezy upland swells;— My path lay down the woodland dells. To-day, I said, the dust of creeds, The wind of words reach not my needs;— I worship with the birds and weeds. From height to height the sunbeam sprung, The wild vine, touched with vermeil, clung, The mountain brooklet leapt and sung. The white lamp of the lily made A tender light in deepest shade,— The solitary place was glad. The very air was tremulous,— I felt its deep and reverent hush,— God burned before me in the bush! And nature prayed with folded palm, And looks that wear perpetual calm,— The while glad notes uplifted psalm. The wild rose swung her fragrant vase, The daisy answered from her place,— Praise Him whose looks are full of grace. And violets murmured where the feet Of brooks made hollows cool and deep; He giveth His beloved sleep. Wide stood the great cathedral doors, Arched o'er with heaven's radiant floors;— Nature, with lifted brow, adores. And wave, and wind, and rocking trees, And voice of birds, and hum of bees, Made anthem, like the roll of seas. The sunset vapors sail and swim;— All day uprose their mighty hymn,— I listened till the woods were dim. And through the beechen aisles there fell A silver silence, like a spell. The heifer's home returning bell, Faint and remote, as if it grew A portion of that silence too, Dissolved and ceased, like falling dew. Stars twinkled through the coming night,— A voice dropped down the purple height,— At even time it shall be light. Ah rest my soul, for God is good, Though sometimes faintly understood, His goodness fills the solitude. Fold up thy spirit,—trust the right, As blossoms fold their leaves at night, And trust the sun though out of sight. A VALENTINE At last, dear love, the day is gone, The doors are barred—the lamps are lit, The couch beside the fire is drawn, The nook where thou wert wont to sit; The book is open at the place, And half its leaves are still uncut, And yet without thy listening face, I cannot read, the book I shut, And muse, and dream:—it is the day When lovers, silent all the year, Find tongues in floral tokens gay, To whisper all they long to hear. Ah, many a time, and many a time I saw the question in thine eyes, Where is the silver-sounding rhyme, The simple household melodies, The harp that trembled to thy touch; Hast thou forgot thine early lore? And know'st not that I love so much, That song contents my heart no more. For thou hast made my life so sweet, With dainty gifts thy dear hands bring, Rich with thine affluence, and complete, I have no longing left to sing. And yet, I have such vast desires, Such thirst for some great destiny, That all the poet's weaker fires Burn into prophecies for thee. The circle of our home could make The boundaries of my world, but thine So splendid is,—for thy dear sake, I fain would push the bounds of mine. For this I study as I may To walk with thee, the world of mind, To follow where thou lead'st the way, A step,—but just a step behind. Thy hand in mine, thine earnest eyes Fixed ever on the radiant goal, Together shall we climb the skies, And mingle there, one perfect soul. SNOW-DROPS Dimly and dumbly under the ground, Groping the walls of their prison round, The roots of the aged and garrulous trees Are sending electrical messages From the under-world to the world without And quickening pulses that course in each Fettered and bound and frozen thing, Rootlets that tremble, and fibres that reach Are pushing inanimate fingers out, To ask further inarticulate speech For tidings of Spring And the fine invisible sprite which dwells In cups and discs, in blossoms and bells, Fleeter than Ariel's wing hath flown Beyond this cloudy and frozen zone, To the summer land of the South, Beyond those rugged sentinels Which winter sets in the snow-capped hills, From the breath of whose cruel mouth, Sighing, the leaves in forest and wold, Shivered and died in the nights a'cold, Died and were buried under the snow, Long moons ago. Now over the tropic's broad ellipse The sprite hath passed, as fleet and fast As the light of falling stars, that cast A sudden radiance and eclipse; And all the buds that are folded close As the inner leaves of an unblown rose, In bulb, or cone, or scale, or sheath, And sealed with the odorous gums that breathe Like the breath of the singing and sighing pine, When the dews are falling at evening time, Through cone, and sheath, and bulb, and scale— Tremble, and cry All hail! And look where a rosier beam hath cleft The damp and fragrant-smelling earth, A handful of snow-drops peeping forth; As if King Winter had dropped and left— Stumbling and tripping the steep hills down— Had clutched his robe and dropped his crown: Or as if the very snow had power, Out of itself to fashion a flower; So vase-like, slender, and exquisite, Like an alabaster lamp alit,— And shining with a sea-green light, As if it had but newly come Up from some subterranean palace, The haunt of fairy or of gnome, With its waxen taper still alight, And beaming in its leafy chalice, That lit the revellers down below, When the nights were long, and the moon was low You might have heard, far-off and sweet, The sound of the elfin revelries, Like a bugle strain blown over seas, And the patter and beat of dancing feet,— If you had been like me awake, What time the Great Bear seems to shake, Down through the trackless realms of air, Frost-lances from his shaggy hair; And all around—beneath—across, The round globe lies stabbed through with frost. Now the touches of the sun, Like some potent alchemist, In heat and dews, in rain and mist, As in a subtle menstruum, Hath dissolved the icy charm, And laid on that cold breast of hers,— Nature's breast—that faintly stirs, With his fragrant kisses warm, Sweet as myrrh and cinnamon,— Snow-drops, spring's bright harbingers, First-born children of the sun. Like a sudden burst of leaf and bloom, The sun shines redly through the gloom, And the wind with its many melodies Hath a murmurous sound like the noise of bees, Singing and humming,—blowing and growing, Of springing blade, and of fountain flowing; And night and silence under the ground Listen—and thrill—and move to the sound, And answer, Spring is coming! EASTER BELLS Oh bells of Easter morn, oh solemn sounding bells, Which fill the hollow cells Of the blue April air with a most sweet refrain, Ye fill my heart with pain. For when, as from a thousand holy altar-fires, A thousand resonant spires Sent up the offering—the glad thanksgiving strain— "The Lord is risen again!" He went from us who shall return no more, no more! I say the sad words o'er, And they are mixed and blent with your triumphant psalm, Like bitterness and balm, We stood with him beside the black and silent river, Cold, cold and soundless ever; But there our feet were stayed—unloosed our clasping fond, And he has passed beyond. And still that solemn hymn, like smoke of sacrifice, Clomb the blue April skies, And on our anguish placed its sacramental chrism, "Behold, the Lord is risen!" Oh, bells of Easter morn! your mighty voices reach A deeper depth than speech; We heard, "Because He liveth they shall live with Him;" This was our Easter hymn. And while the slow vibrations swell, and sink, and cease, They bring divinest peace, For we commit our best beloved to the dust, In sure and certain trust. IN THE SIERRA NEVADA I lift my spirit to your cloudy thrones, And feel it broaden to your vast expanse, Oh! mountains, so immeasurably old, Crowned with bald rocks and everlasting cold, That melts not underneath the sun's fierce glance, Peak above peak, fixed, dazzling, ice and stones. Down your steep sides quick torrents leap and roar, And disappear, in gloomy gorges sunk, Fringed with black pines on dizzy verges high— Poised, trembling to the thunder and the cry Of the lost waters, through each giant trunk, And farthest twig and tassel evermore. Behold far down the mountain herdsman's ranche, The rough road winding past his lonely door, And in his ears, by day and night, the sound Of mad waves plunging down the gulfs profound, The tempest's gathering cry, the dull deep roar. And the long thunder of the avalanche! Night broods along the vallies while your peaks Are pink and purple with the rays of morn, And filmy tints that swim the depths of space, To reach, and kiss you first upon the face, Before the world awakes, and day is born, To flush with colder gleam your rugged cheeks. And last, and longest lingering, the light Is on your mighty foreheads, when, the sun Sets in the sea, and makes a palace fair For his repose, of crystal wave and air,— Ye seem to stoop, and smile to look upon The fallen monarch from your silent height. Vallies are green about your rocky feet, And sweet with clambering vines, and waving corn, And breath of flowers, and gold of ripening fruit; Cities send up their smoke, and man and brute Beneath your wide embrazure have been born And died for ages, yet Ye hold your seat. I lift my spirit up to you, and seem To feel your vastness penetrate my soul; And faintly see, far-off, and looming broad And dread, the grandeur of the world of God, And thrill to be a part of the great whole, Which towers above me, a stupendous dream. SUMMER RAIN O rain, Summer Rain! forever, Out of the crystal spheres, And cool from my brain the fever, And wash from my eyes the tears Stir gently the blossoming clover, In the hollows dewy and deep,— Somewhere they are blossoming over The spot where I shall sleep. Asleep from this wearisome aching, With my arms crossed under my head, I shall hear without awaking, The rain that blesses the dead. And the ocean of man's existence,— The surges of toil and care, Shall break and die in the distance, But never reach me there. And yet—I fancy it often— I should stir in my shrouded sleep, And struggle to rise in my coffin, If he came there to weep. Among the dead—or the angels— Though ever so faint and dim, I should know that voice in a thousand, And stretch my hands to him. But the trouble of life and living, And the burden of daily care, And the endless sin, and forgiving, Are greater than I can bear. So rain, Summer Rain, and cover The meadows dewy and deep, And freshen the blossoming clover, And sing me to dreamless sleep. A BABY'S DEATH A little white soul went up to God, Out of the mire of the city street; It grew like a flower in the highway broad, Close to the trample of heedless feet. It fell like a snow-flake over night, Into the ways by vile ones trod; It sparkled—dissolved in the morning light, And the little white soul went up to God. Dainty, flower-soft, waxen thing, Its clear eyes opened on this bad earth, And the little shuddering soul took wing, By the gate of death, from the gate of birth. Not for those innocent lips and eyes, The words and the ways of sin and strife; The pure flower opened in paradise, Fast by the banks of the river of life. Yea, little victors, who never fought; And crowned, though ye never ran the race, His blood your innocent lives hath bought, And ye stand before Him and see His face! For this, oh Father! we give Thee thanks, By the little graves, and the tear-wet sod, They stand before Thee in shining ranks, And the little white souls are safe with God! CHRISTMAS The birth day of the Christ child dawneth slow Out of the opal east in rosy flame, As if a luminous picture in its frame— A great cathedral window, toward the sun Lifted a form divine, which still below Stretched hands of benediction;—while the air Swayed the bright aureole of the flowing hair Which lit our upturned faces;—even so Look on us from the heavens, divinest One And let us hear through the slow moving years. Long centuries of wrongs, and crimes, and tears,— The echo of the angel's song again, Peace and good will, good will and peace to men, A little space make silence,—that our ears, Filled with the din of toil and moil and pain May catch the jubilant rapture of the skies,— The glories of the choirs of paradise. The hills still tremble when the thunders cease Of the loud diapason,—and again Through the rapt stillness steals the hymn of peace; Melodious and sweet its far refrain Dying in distance, as the shadows die Of white wings vanished up the morning sky, As farther still—and thinner—more remote— A film of sound, the aerial voices float— Peace and good will, good will and peace to men! MY GARDEN Only the commonest flowers Grow in my garden small, Like buttercups, and bouncing-bets, And hollyhocks by the wall, And sunflowers nodding their stately heads, Like grenadiers so tall. But the purple pansy grows beneath— The sweetest flower of all— And tiny feathery filmy ferns You scarce can see at all, Fleck the shady side of the stones, So dainty, fine and small Only the commonest flowers Grow in this garden of mine, The larkspur flaunting her sky-blue cap, And the twinkling celandine Shakes her jewels of freckled gold, And drinks her honey-wine, Making a cup of her lucent stem, So slender and so fine. You hear the waves that dimple and slide, Slide and shimmer and shine, Under her fairy-slippered feet— My golden celandine. The hands of the little children Gather them without fear; Wonders of beauty and gladness To them my flowers appear. I have seen them bend to listen, With poised and patient ear, The curfew chime of the fairies, In the lily's bell to hear. Oh, blessed and innocent children, With eyes so crystal clear, That ye look with the dual vision Of the baby and the seer. To you the stars and the angels, And the heavens themselves are near, And the amaranths of paradise, That blossom all the year: I would I could see what ye see, And hear what ye can hear. RIVER SONG Swift and silent and strong Under the low-browed arches, Through culverts, and under bridges, Sweeping with long forced marches Down to the ultimate ridges,— The sand, and the reeds, and the midges, And the down-dropping tassels of larches, That border the ocean of song. Swift and silent and deep Through the noisome and smoke-grimed city, Turning the wheels and the spindles, And the great looms that have no pity,— Weight, and pulley, and windlass, And steel that flashes and kindles, And hears no forest-learnt ditty, Not even in dreams and sleep. Blithe and merry and sweet Over its shallows singing,— I hear before I awaken The Bound of the church-bells ringing, And the sound of the leaves wind-shaken, Complaining and sun-forsaken, And the oriole warbling and singing, And the swish of the wind in the wheat Sweet and tender and true! From meadows of blossoming clover, Where sleepy-eyed cows are lowing, And bobolinks twittering over,— Ebbing and falling and flowing— Singing and gliding and going— The river—my silver-shod lover, Down to the infinite blue. Deep, and tender, and strong! With resonant voice and hole— To far away sunshiny places, Haunts of the bee and the swallow, Where the Sabbath is sweet with the praises Of dumb things, of weeds and of daisies,— Oh river! I hear thee—I follow To the ocean where I too belong. THE RETURN I have been where the roses blow, Where the orange ripens its gold, And the mountains stand with their peaks of snow, To fence away the cold, Where the lime and the myrtle lent Their fragrance to the air, To make the land of my banishment More exquisitely fair. And I heard the ring dove call To his mate in the blossoming trees, And I saw the white waves heave and fall. Far away over southern seas. I listened along the beach, By the shore of the shifting sea, To the waves, till I knew their murmured speech, And the message they bore to me. And I watched the great sails furled. Like the wings of some ocean bird, That brought me, out of another world, A warning, and a word; For still beside my way, By shore or sunlit wave, There journeyed with me night and day, The shadow of a grave. Oh, friends! my heart went forth To you with a yearning cry, To be taken back to my native North— To be taken home to die. For sweeter than southern suns, Or the blossoms of summer lands, Are the faces of my little ones, And the touch of their tender hands. Come closer to my side, Your eyes are as clear and true As if they were stars my way to guide, My darlings, back to you. Oh God! my heart is stirred With thankfulness and rest, To reach at last, like a wounded bird, The shelter of its nest Oh, faint pulse, throbbing long! And weary and fluttering breath, Twas the mother-love that kept you strong, Though face to face with death. But now my eyes are dim, And my breath comes weak and slow, Sing to me softly the evening hymn, And kiss me ere I go. Come close for the angel waits— The angel with gentle hand, To open for me the shadowy gates, Into the silent land. Oh, voices sweet and clear What light is in the skies? Is it your glad voices that I hear— Or the hymns of paradise? Farewell your faces fade— Fade—fade—and disappear In the light no earthly cloud may shade, Heaven's morning dawning clear. Oh, land of rest so fair By angel footsteps trod, I shall wait for you, beloved there, In the paradise of God. VOICES OF HOPE It is the hither side, O Hope, And afternoon; our shadows slope Backward along the mountain cope. The early morning was so sweet, We seemed to climb with winged feet, Like moving vapors fine and fleet, Not more elastic poised and swung Harebell or yellow adder's tongue, Nor blither any bird that sung. Thy light foot bent not any stem Of frailest plant, whose diadem In passing kissed thy garment's hem. O Hope! so near me and so bright, Thy foot above me on the height, I might not touch thy garments white. Thy lifted face, so fair, so rapt, Like sunshine rolled and overlapped Cliff, slope, and tall peak thunder-capped. Thy voice to me like silver brooks Down dropped from secret mountain nooks, Still drew me, like thy radiant looks. Nor scorching sun, nor beating rain, Nor soil, nor grime, nor travel-stain, With thee, were weariness or pain. But now—it is the afternoon Behind, the mountain summit's gloom: Before, night's shadows gather soon. O Hope! where art thou?—rough and steep The way has grown; I faint and weep, Beside me torrents toss and leap, And far below, unseen for tears, The river where life disappears, Uplifts its thunder to my ears. Canst thou, with thy serener eyes, Over the flood God's paradise, Behold in awful beauty rise? Far off I seem to see thee stand, Shading rapt eyes with radiant hand, To scan that unknown glorious land. The glory of that unseen place, Gathers and brightens o'er thy face, And fills thy looks with tender grace. O, Hope divine '— I would behold Those shining spires, those streets of gold: But ah! the waves are deadly cold! I hear the thunder and the sweep Of waves; deep calleth unto deep; The pathway ends, abrupt and steep. Yet, soft beside that solemn shore, I hear thy voice above its roar: "Life is a dream-and it is o'er; "The night is past—behold the day, O new-born soul—O child of clay, O bird uncaged and still astray; "Take through the universe thy road; All paths lead up to His abode, Converging at the Mount of God!" IN THE COUNTRY. Here the sunshine, filtering down, Through leaves of emerald, dun and brown, Is green instead of golden And the hum and roar of the distant town In an endless hush is holden. Twinkling bright through the shadowing limes. The brook rains a sparkle of silver rhymes On the dragon-fly, its neighbour; It pays no duty in dollars and dimes, For its work is all love-labour. Here are no spindles, nor wheels to be whirled, No forges nor looms from the outside world, Stunning the ear with clamour; You hear but the whisper of leaves unfurled, And the tap of the woodpecker's hammer Here are no books to be written or read, But cushions of softest moss instead, Without a care to cumber; And fern-leaf fans for the weary head, Soothing the soul to slumber Oh! come from the dusty haunts of trade, From the desk, the ledger, the loom, the spade; There is neither toil nor payment. Forget for once, in this peaceful shade, The sordid ways in which dollars are made, And food and drink and raiment. Consider the lilies, arrayed so fair, In robes that an eastern king might wear, Though never an eye may heed them; And the sparrows, of whom His hand takes care, For our Father in Heaven feeds them. His rainbow spans the heavenly blue; His eye takes note of the drops of dew, And the sunset's golden arrows; And shall He not take thought of you, O man, as well as the sparrows? SCIENCE, THE ICONOCLAST. "Oh! spare dual idols of the past, Whose lips are dumb, whose eyes are dim; Truth's diadem is not for him Who comes, the fierce Iconoclast: Who wakes the battle's stormy blast, Hears not the angel's choral hymn" THE IMAGE-BREAKER Ah me! for we have fallen on evil days, When science, with remorseless cold precision, Puts out the flame of poetry, and lays Her double-convex lens on fancy's vision. When not a star has longer leave to shine, Unweighed, unanalysed, reduced to gases,— Resolved to something in the chemist's line, By those miraculously long-ranged glasses. The awful mysteries which Nature locks Deep in her stony bosom, hid for ages,— The hieroglyphics of primeval rocks, Are glibly written out on short-hand pages. Within that rocky scroll, her palimpsest, The hand of time still writes, and still effaces Records in dolomite—and shale—and schist, The pre-historic history of Races. Cave-dwellers, under nameless strata hid, Vast bones of extinct monsters that were fossil, Ere the first Pharaoh built the pyramid, And shaped in stone his sepulchre colossal. What undiscovered secret yet remains Beneath the swirl and sway of billows tidal, Since Art triumphant led the deep in chains, And on the mane of ocean laid her bridle. Into those awful crypts of cycles dead, Shrouded and mute, each in its mummy-chamber, Her daring step intrudes without more dread Than to behold a fly embalmed in amber. Stars—motes—worlds—molecules, and microcosms, Her level gaze sweeps down the page recorded, And withers all its myths, and fairy blossoms, Condemned to explanations dull and sordid. Alike the sculptures of the graceful Greeks, Grey with the moss of eld and venerable, The fauns, the nymphs, the half-defaced antiques, The gods and men of mythologic fable, And legends of steel-casqued and mailed men, The old heroic tales of love and glory, Of knight, and palmer, and the Saracen, And the crusaders of enchanted story; Grim ghosts and goblins, and more harmless sprites That peopled once our juvenile romances, And made us shiver in our beds o'nights, Science has banished those bewitching fancies; And given us the merest husks instead, The very bones and skeleton of nature, Filling those peaceful hours with shapes of dread, And horrid ranks of Latin nomenclature. Blest is the Indian on his native plains, And blest the wandering Tartar, happy nomad, Fire-worshippers, whose twinkling altar-fanes Still gleam on lonely peaks beyond Allahbad. Shadows yet linger round their ruined towers, And whisper from the caverns and the islands, Their Memnon still is eloquent, but ours Stares on with shut lips in an age-long silence. Not so! The age still ripens for her needs The flower, the man. Behold her slow still finger Points where He comes, beneath whose feet the weeds Bloom out immortal flowers, the immortal Singer! Forward, not backward all the ages press; New stars arise, of whose bright occultation No glory of the dying past could guess: Still grows the unfinished miracle, Creation. Oh! Poet of the years that are to come, Singing at dawn thy idyls sweet and tender— The preludes of the great millenium Of song, to drown the world in light and splendour Awake, arise! thou youngest born of time! Through flaming sunsets with red banners furled, The nations call thee to thy task sublime, To sing the new songs of a newer world! WHAT THE OWL SAID TO ME. The moon went under a ragged cloud, The owl cried out of the ruined wall, Slow and solemn, distinct and loud, His melancholy call: Tu-whit, tu-whit, tu-whoo! Like a creature in a shroud. Across the night in a silver chain, While a lonesome wind arose and died, Slow stepped the ghostly feet of the rain; The owl from the wall replied: Tu-whit, tu-whoo, hoo-hoo' With a peal of goblin laughter, And silence fell thereafter. Weird fingers of the wandering rain, Reaching out of the hollow dark, Paused and tapped at my window-pane,— A muffled voice cried, Hark! Tu-whit, tu-whit, tu-whoo! The moon is drowned in the dark, And the world belongs to me and you! OUR VOLUNTEERS. Where shall we write your names, ye brave! Where build for you a monument, Who lie in many a sylvan grave, Stretched half across the continent! Young, bright and brave, the very flower And choice of all we had to give, With you what glory ceased to live,— Or lives again in hearts of men. An inspiration and a power! For when one sunny day in June, A sudden war-cry shook the land, As if from out clear skies at noon Had dropped the lightning's deadly brand— Ah then, while rang our British cheers, And pealed the bugle, rolled the drum, We saw the Nation rise like one! Swift formed the files,—a thousand miles Of them, our gallant Volunteers! Deep clanged the bells, the drums did beat, And still from east and west they came; Echoed the street with martial feet, From north, from south, with hearts aflame: Ah, still the tires of freedom burn,— Be witness, Ridgway's silent shade, No foe shall dare our land invade, While hearts like those that met the foes, Still beat like theirs,—the undismayed, The brave, who never will return. Our Country holds them in her heart, Shrined with her mountains and her rivers; And still for them her proud lip quivers, And tears to her great eyelids start: But they are tears of love and pride, And she shall tell to coming years The story of her Volunteers, For all their names are hers and fame's— The brave who live, the brave who died. NIGHT,—A PHANTASY Night! the horrible wizard Night! The dumb and terrible Night Hath drawn his circle of magic, round Over the sky, and over the ground, Without a sound. Ah me, what woeful phantoms rise, With ice-cold hands and pitiless eyes, As stars grow out of the summer skies, Tangible things to mortal sight, Under the hands of the wizard Night! Night! the mystical prophet, Night! The haunted and awful Night! With the trail of his garment's shadowy fall, Soundless and black as a funeral pall, Now enters his dread laboratory. A wan, and faint, and wavering glory Shines from a veiled lamp somewhere hidden. Like a lily in a grave: And things unholy, and things forbidden,— Hands that have long been the earth-worm's prey, And shrouded faces out of the clay. Rise and fill the enchanted cave With a pale and deathly light,— The haunted and awful Night! Night! the abhorred magician Night! The black astrologer Night! Night is the world!—I shiver with fright:— The air is full of evil things, The coil and glitter of snaky rings, And, the tremor of vast invisible wings, That are not heard but felt: They touch my hair, my hand, my cheek, They mope and mouth, but they never speak To utter their awful history. Oh, when will the darkness break and melt, Like blocks of ice on a golden reef, And little by little, as leaf by leaf, In light and color and form increased, The rose of morning blooms in the east,— The old yet ever new mystery! And I fall on my knees to worship the light That casts out the evil demon of Night, And hallows with blossoms, like prayers, the way Of another new day. A MONODY On the early and lamented death of George and Maggie Rosseaux, brother and sister, who died within one week of each other in the autumn of 1875. Young, beautiful and beloved, they were indeed lovely and pleasant in their lives, and in their death they were not divided. Pace slowly, black horses, step stately and solemn— One by one—two by two—stretches out the long column; Pass on with your burden, the sound of our tears Will not reach the deaf ears. Beneath the black shadow of funeral arches, Stepping slow to the rhythm of funeral marches; Pass on down the street where their steps were so gay, And so light, yesterday. Where it seems if we turn we shall clasp them and hold them, Our hands shall embrace—and our eyes shall behold them,— So near are the confines of hither, and yonder,— So world-wide asunder! Oh, lovers and friends! ye were youth and glad weather, And beauty and strength, and all bright things together, With the smile on your lips, and the flower at your breast Have ye gone to your rest. The dull lives of others move on, while the splendid Beginnings of yours are all broken and ended, The high hopes, the bright dreams, and youth's confident trust, Gone down to the dust. Step slowly, black steeds, at the head of the column, Breathe softly, dead marches, so mournfully solemn; Ye bear from our sight what no morn shall restore Nevermore, nevermore. Oh, beloved—oh, wept for!—beyond the dark river Are the lives incomplete, there made perfect forever? Oh, wave but a hand through the darkness, to tell It is well with ye—well. Profound is the darkness—the silence unbroken— No glimmer of pale hands comes back as a token: Yet still in our hearts we have heard the words spoken:— "He hath overcome death—He hath passed through the grave— He is able to save." MINNIE " And Jesu called a little child unto him ." MATT. xviii. 2. Oh, my blossom, my darling, whose dimpled hands are cold! Oh, my baby, my treasure, laid under the green mould! Earth pressed on thy closed eyelids, and on thy sunny hair, And folded hands, and smiling lips, so exquisitely fair. Cold and dark are the night dews around thy grassy bed, Instead of warm and loving arms beneath thy sunny head; Oh, my blossom, my darling, the long nights through, awake, I stretch my empty arms for thee,—my heart—my heart will break. The autumn leaves are falling ungathered on the hill, The soft October sun is bright, but the little hands are still; And the little feet that chased them as frolicksome and light, Have lain beneath them—can it be?—a whole day and a night. The autumn winds will sigh and moan; the dreary, dreary rain Will drench thy lowly pillow, sweet, with tears like mine in vain; And weary, weary months drag on, and long years stretch before, Whilst thou to me, my beautiful, returnest nevermore. Beyond our earthly vision—beyond the burial sod, Where the palm trees and the amaranths grow on the hills of God, Oh, golden gates, that stand within the holy, heavenly place, Open for me but a little, that I may behold her face. Open for me but a little, that I may touch her hand, And hear her sing the hymn she loved about "The Promised Land." Oh, my blossom! Oh, my darling! though it be but in a dream, Speak to me,—I watch—I listen,—speak to me across the stream. Kneeling—praying at the threshold—day and night, and night and day, When I rise with heavy eyelids—when I kneel at night to pray— Still I wait to catch the far-off music of the starry hymn, Till I hear the voice that called thee bid me rise and enter in. THE GOLDEN WEDDING. Inscribed to OUR FATHER AND MOTHER, and read on that Anniversary, FEBRUARY 15TH, 1876. A half a century of time, The mingled pain and bliss That make the history of life Between that day and this; Two lives that in that morning light, Together were made one, Now standing where the shadows fall Athwart the setting sun. How long it seems!—the devious way. And full of toil and pain,— Yet love and peace kept house with them, And love and peace remain. Though youth and strength and youthful friends Were left upon the road Long since, an honest man is still The noblest work of God. No famous deeds, no acts achieved In battle or in state Make memorable this festal day, The day we celebrate: Divided from the common lot By neither fame nor pelf, Our hearts revere the man who loves His neighbour as himself. The fragrance of the Christian's life, Though humble and unknown, Is a more precious heritage Than heirship to a throne. That lowly roof—what memories Of blessings cluster there, Around the hearthstone consecrate By fifty years of prayer! The shaded lamp, the cheerful fire, Our Mother's patient look, The firelight on her silver hair, And on the Holy Book;— Where e'er our erring feet may stray, The welcome waits the same,— That light, that look will follow still, And soften and reclaim. Type of the Fatherhood of God, Whose love has kept us still, In all the changeful scenes of life Secure from every ill, And brought our long-divided band, Not one of us astray, Around our Father's board to keep This Golden Wedding Day. Oh ye beloved and revered! Our hearts make thankful prayer, That still around our household hearth There is no vacant chair. God grant that we may be of those Who sing the heavenly psalm, And sit together at the feast, The marriage of the Lamb!

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