FUGITIVE POETRY. FUGITIVE POETRY: BY N.P. WILLIS. "If, however, I can, by lucky chance, in these days of evil, rub out one wrinkle from the brow of care, or beguile the heavy heart of one moment of sorrow; if I can, now and then, penetrate the gathering film of misanthropy, prompt a benevolent view of human nature, and make my reader more in good humor with his fellow beings and himself, surely, surely, I shall not then have written entirely in vain." WASHINGTON IRVING. BOSTON: PUBLISHED BY PEIRCE AND WILLIAMS. 1829. DISTRICT OF MASSACHUSETTS, _to wit_: DISTRICT CLERK'S OFFICE. Be it remembered, that on the eleventh day of September, A.D. 1829, in the fifty-fourth year of the Independence of the United States of America, PEIRCE AND WILLIAMS, of the said district, have deposited in this office the title of a book, the right whereof they claim as proprietors in the words following, _to wit_: "Fugitive Poetry: By N.P. WILLIS. "'If, however, I can, by lucky chance, in these days of evil, rub out one wrinkle from the brow of care, or beguile the heart of one moment of sorrow; if I can, now and then, penetrate the gathering film of misanthropy, prompt a benevolent view of human nature, and make my reader more in good humor with his fellow beings, and himself, surely, surely, I shall not then have written entirely in vain.' _Washington Irving._" In conformity to the Act of the Congress of the United States, entitled "An Act for the encouragement of learning, by securing the copies of maps, charts, and books, to the authors and proprietors of such copies, during the times therein mentioned;" and also to an Act entitled "An Act supplementary to an Act, entitled 'An Act for the encouragement of learning, by securing the copies of maps, charts, and books, to the authors and proprietors of such copies during the times therein mentioned;' and extending the benefits thereof to the arts of designing, engraving, and etching historical and other prints." JNO. W. DAVIS,} _Clerk of the District_ _of Massachusetts._ TO GEORGE JAMES PUMPELLY, MY BEST AND MOST VALUED FRIEND, THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED BY THE AUTHOR. CONTENTS. Page. The Shunamite 9 Scene in Gethsemane 13 Contemplation 15 Sketch of a Schoolfellow 18 Idleness 21 On the Death of Edward Payson D.D. 24 The Tri-Portrait 26 January 1st, 1828 29 January 1st, 1829 30 Psyche, before the Tribunal of Venus 32 On seeing a beautiful Boy at play 34 The Child's first impression of a Star 36 Dedication Hymn 37 The Baptism 38 The Table of Emerald 39 The Annoyer 42 Starlight 44 Lassitude 45 Roaring Brook 46 The Declaration 48 Isabel 49 Mere Accident 51 The Earl's Minstrel 53 The Serenade 57 Hero 60 April 62 To ---- 64 Twenty-two 66 On the Picture of a child playing. By FISHER. 68 To a sleeping Boy 70 Sonnet 73 Sonnet 74 Sonnet 75 Sonnet 76 Sonnet 77 Andre's Request 78 Discrimination 79 The Solitary 80 Lines on the death of Miss Fanny V. Apthorp 82 A Portrait 83 May 84 On seeing through a window a Belle completing her Toilet for a Ball 86 To a Belle 88 FUGITIVE POETRY. THE SHUNAMITE.[A] It was a sultry day of summer time. The sun pour'd down upon the ripen'd grain With quivering heat, and the suspended leaves Hung motionless. The cattle on the hills Stood still, and the divided flock were all Laying their nostrils to the cooling roots, And the sky look'd like silver, and it seem'd As if the air had fainted, and the pulse Of nature had run down, and ceas'd to beat. 'Haste thee, my child!' the Syrian mother said, 'Thy father is athirst'--and from the depths Of the cool well under the leaning tree, She drew refreshing water, and with thoughts Of God's sweet goodness stirring at her heart, She bless'd her beautiful boy, and to his way Committed him. And he went lightly on, With his soft hands press'd closely to the cool Stone vessel, and his little naked feet Lifted with watchful care, and o'er the hills, And thro' the light green hollows, where the lambs Go for the tender grass, he kept his way, Wiling its distance with his simple thoughts, Till, in the wilderness of sheaves, with brows Throbbing with heat, he set his burden down. Childhood is restless ever, and the boy Stay'd not within the shadow of the tree, But with a joyous industry went forth Into the reapers' places, and bound up His tiny sheaves, and plaited cunningly The pliant withs out of the shining straw, Cheering their labor on, till they forgot The very weariness of their stooping toil In the beguiling of his earnest mirth. Presently he was silent, and his eye Closed as with dizzy pain, and with his hand Press'd hard upon his forehead, and his breast Heaving with the suppression of a cry, He uttered a faint murmur, and fell back Upon the loosen'd sheaf, insensible. They bore him to his mother, and he lay Upon her knees till noon--and then he died! She had watch'd every breath, and kept her hand Soft on his forehead, and gaz'd in upon The dreamy languor of his listless eye, And she had laid back all his sunny curls, And kiss'd his delicate lip, and lifted him Into her bosom, till her heart grew strong-- His beauty was so unlike death! She leaned Over him now, that she might catch the low Sweet music of his breath, that she had learn'd To love when he was slumbering at her side In his unconscious infancy-- --"So still! 'Tis a soft sleep! How beautiful he lies, With his fair forehead, and the rosy veins Playing so freshly in his sunny cheek! How could they say that he would die! Oh God! I could not lose him! I have treasured all His childhood in my heart, and even now, As he has slept, my memory has been there, Counting like ingots all his winning ways-- His unforgotten sweetness-- --"Yet so still!-- How like this breathless slumber is to death! I could believe that in that bosom now There were no pulse--it beats so languidly! I cannot see it stir; but his red lip!-- Death would not be so very beautiful! And that half smile--would death have left _that_ there? --And should I not have felt that he would die? And have I not wept over him?--and prayed Morning and night for him?--and _could_ he die? --No--God will keep him. He will be my pride Many long years to come, and this fair hair Will darken like his father's, and his eye Be of a deeper blue when he is grown; And he will be so tall, and I shall look With such a pride upon him!--_He_ to die!" And the fond mother lifted his soft curls, And smiled, as if 'twere mockery to think That such fair things could perish-- --Suddenly Her hand shrunk from him, and the color fled From her fix'd lip, and her supporting knees Were shook beneath her child. Her hand had touch'd His forehead, as she dallied with his hair-- And it was cold--like clay!--slow--very slow Came the misgiving that her child was dead. She sat a moment and her eyes were clos'd In a still prayer for strength, and then she took His little hand and press'd it earnestly-- And put her lip to his--and look'd again Fearfully on him--and then, bending low, She whisper'd in his ear, "My son!--My son!" And as the echo died, and not a sound Broke on the stillness, and he lay there still, Motionless on her knee--the truth _would_ come! And with a sharp, quick cry, as if her heart Were crush'd, she lifted him and held him close Into her bosom--with a mother's thought-- As if death had no power to touch him there! * * * * * The man of God came forth, and led the child Unto his mother, and went on his way. And he was there--her beautiful--her own-- Living and smiling on her--with his arms Folded about her neck, and his warm breath Breathing upon her lips, and in her ear The music of his gentle voice once more! Oh for a burning word that would express The measure of a mother's holy joy, When God has given back to her her child From death's dark portal! It surpasseth words. [Footnote A: 2 KINGS, iv. 18-37.] SCENE IN GETHSEMANE. The moon was shining yet. The Orient's brow, Set with the morning star, was not yet dim; And the deep silence which subdues the breath Like a strong feeling, hung upon the world As sleep upon the pulses of a child. 'Twas the last watch of night. Gethsemane, With its bath'd leaves of silver, seem'd dissolv'd In visible stillness, and as Jesus' voice With its bewildering sweetness met the ear Of his disciples, it vibrated on Like the first whisper in a silent world. They came on slowly. Heaviness oppress'd The Saviour's heart, and when the kindnesses Of his deep love were pour'd, he felt the need Of near communion, for his gift of strength Was wasted by the spirit's weariness. He left them there, and went a little on, And in the depth of that hush'd silentness, Alone with God, he fell upon his face, And as his heart was broken with the rush Of his surpassing agony, and death, Wrung to him from a dying universe, Were mightier than the Son of man could bear, He gave his sorrows way, and in the deep Prostration of his soul, breathed out the prayer, "Father, if it be possible with thee, Let this cup pass from me." Oh, how a word, Like the forc'd drop before the fountain breaks, Stilleth the press of human agony! The Saviour felt its quiet in his soul; And though his strength was weakness, and the light Which led him on till now was sorely dim, He breathed a new submission--"Not my will, But thine be done, oh Father!" As he spoke, Voices were heard in heaven, and music stole Out from the chambers of the vaulted sky, As if the stars were swept like instruments. No cloud was visible, but radiant wings Were coming with a silvery rush to earth, And as the Saviour rose, a glorious one, With an illumin'd forehead, and the light Whose fountain is the mystery of God Encalm'd within his eye, bow'd down to him, And nerv'd him with a ministry of strength. It was enough--and with his godlike brow Re-written, of his Father's messenger, With meekness, whose divinity is more Than power and glory, he return'd again To his disciples, and awak'd their sleep, For "he that should betray him was at hand." CONTEMPLATION. 'They are all up--the innumerable stars-- And hold their place in heaven. My eyes have been Searching the pearly depths through which they spring Like beautiful creations, till I feel As if it were a new and perfect world, Waiting in silence for the word of God To breathe it into motion. There they stand, Shining in order, like a living hymn Written in light, awaking at the breath Of the celestial dawn, and praising Him Who made them, with the harmony of spheres. I would I had an angel's ear to list That melody! I would that I might float Up in that boundless element, and feel Its ravishing vibrations, like a pulse Beating in heaven! My spirit is athirst For music--rarer music! I would bathe My soul in a serener atmosphere Than this! I long to mingle with the flock Led by the "living waters," and lie down In the "green pastures" of the better land! When wilt thou break, dull fetter! When shall I Gather my wings; and, like a rushing thought, Stretch onward, star by star, up into heaven!' Thus mused Alethe. She was one to whom Life had been like the witching of a dream, Of an untroubled sweetness. She was born Of a high race, and laid upon the knee, With her soft eye perusing listlessly The fretted roof, or, on Mosaic floors, Grasped at the tessellated squares, inwrought With metals curiously. Her childhood pass'd Like faery--amid fountains and green haunts-- Trying her little feet upon a lawn Of velvet evenness, and hiding flowers In her sweet bosom, as it were a fair And pearly altar to crush incense on. Her youth--oh! that was queenly! She was like A dream of poetry that may not be Written or told--exceeding beautiful! And so came worshippers; and rank bow'd down, And breathed upon her heart, as with a breath Of pride, and bound her forehead gorgeously With dazzling scorn, and gave unto her step A majesty as if she trod the sea, And the proud waves, unbidden, lifted her. And so she grew to woman--her mere look Strong as a monarch's signet, and her hand The ambition of a kingdom. From all this Turn'd her high heart away! She had a mind, Deep and immortal, and it would not feed On pageantry. She thirsted for a spring Of a serener element, and drank Philosophy, and for a little while She was allay'd--till, presently, it turn'd Bitter within her, and her spirit grew Faint for undying waters. Then she came To the pure fount of God--and is athirst No more--save when the "fever of the world" Falleth upon her, she will go, sometimes, Out in the starlight quietness, and breathe A holy aspiration after heaven! SKETCH OF A SCHOOLFELLOW. He sat by me in school. His face is now Vividly in my mind, as if he went From me but yesterday--its pleasant smile And the rich, joyous laughter of his eye, And the free play of his unhaughty lip, So redolent of his heart! He was not fair, Nor singular, nor over-fond of books, And never melancholy when alone. He was the heartiest in the ring, the last Home from the summer's wanderings, and the first Over the threshold when the school was done. All of us loved him. We shall speak his name In the far years to come, and think of him When we have lost life's simplest passages, And pray for him--forgetting he is dead-- Life was in him so passing beautiful! His childhood had been wasted in the close And airless city. He had never thought That the blue sky was ample, or the stars Many in heaven, or the chainless wind Of a medicinal freshness. He had learn'd Perilous tricks of manhood, and his hand Was ready, and his confidence in himself Bold as a quarreller's. Then he came away To the unshelter'd hills, and brought an eye New as a babe's to nature, and an ear As ignorant of its music. He was sad. The broad hill sides seem'd desolate, and the woods Gloomy and dim, and the perpetual sound Of wind and waters and unquiet leaves Like the monotony of a dirge. He pined For the familiar things until his heart Sicken'd for home!--and so he stole away To the most silent places, and lay down To weep upon the mosses of the slopes, And follow'd listlessly the silver streams, Till he found out the unsunn'd shadowings, And the green openings to the sky, and grew Fond of them all insensibly. He found Sweet company in the brooks, and loved to sit And bathe his fingers wantonly, and feel The wind upon his forehead; and the leaves Took a beguiling whisper to his ear, And the bird-voices music, and the blast Swept like an instrument the sounding trees. His heart went back to its simplicity As the stirr'd waters in the night grow pure-- Sadness and silence and the dim-lit woods Won on his love so well--and he forgot His pride and his assumingness, and lost The mimicry of the man, and so unlearn'd His very character till he became As diffident as a girl. 'Tis very strange How nature sometimes wins upon a child. Th' experience of the world is not on him, And poetry has not upon his brain Left a mock thirst for solitude, nor love Writ on his forehead the effeminate shame Which hideth from men's eyes. He has a full, Shadowless heart, and it is always toned More merrily than the chastened voice of winds And waters--yet he often, in his mirth, Stops by the running brooks, and suddenly Loiters, he knows not why, and at the sight Of the spread meadows and the lifted hills Feels an unquiet pleasure, and forgets To listen for his fellows. He will grow Fond of the early star, and lie awake Gazing with many thoughts upon the moon, And lose himself in the deep chamber'd sky With his untaught philosophies. It breeds Sadness in older hearts, but not in his; And he goes merrier to his play, and shouts Louder the joyous call--but it will sink Into his memory like his mother's prayer, For after years to brood on. Cheerful thoughts Came to the homesick boy as he became Wakeful to beauty in the summer's change, And he came oftener to our noisy play, Cheering us on with his delightful shout Over the hills, and giving interest With his keen spirit to the boyish game. We loved him for his carelessness of himself, And his perpetual mirth, and tho' he stole Sometimes away into the woods alone, And wandered unaccompanied when the night Was beautiful, he was our idol still, And we have not forgotten him, tho' time Has blotted many a pleasant memory Of boyhood out, and we are wearing old With the unplayfulness of this grown up world. IDLENESS. The rain is playing its soft pleasant tune Fitfully on the skylight, and the shade Of the fast flying clouds across my book Passes with delicate change. My merry fire Sings cheerfully to itself; my musing cat Purrs as she wakes from her unquiet sleep, And looks into my face as if she felt Like me the gentle influence of the rain. Here have I sat since morn, reading sometimes, And sometimes listening to the faster fall Of the large drops, or rising with the stir Of an unbidden thought, have walked awhile With the slow steps of indolence, my room, And then sat down composedly again To my quaint book of olden poetry. It is a kind of idleness, I know; And I am said to be an idle man-- And it is very true. I love to go Out in the pleasant sun, and let my eye Rest on the human faces that pass by, Each with its gay or busy interest; And then I muse upon their lot, and read Many a lesson in their changeful cast, And so grow kind of heart, as if the sight Of human beings were humanity. And I am better after it, and go More gratefully to my rest, and feel a love Stirring my heart to every living thing, And my low prayer has more humility, And I sink lightlier to my dreams--and this, 'Tis very true, is only idleness! I love to go and mingle with the young In the gay festal room--when every heart Is beating faster than the merry tune, And their blue eyes are restless, and their lips Parted with eager joy, and their round cheeks Flushed with the beautiful motion of the dance. 'Tis sweet, in the becoming light of lamps, To watch a brow half shaded, or a curl Playing upon a neck capriciously, Or, unobserved, to watch in its delight, The earnest countenance of a child. I love To look upon such things, and I can go Back to my solitude, and dream bright dreams For their fast coming years, and speak of them Earnestly in my prayer, till I am glad With a benevolent joy--and this, I know, To the world's eye, is only idleness! And when the clouds pass suddenly away, And the blue sky is like a newer world, And the sweet growing things--forest and flower, Humble and beautiful alike--are all Breathing up odors to the very heaven-- Or when the frost has yielded to the sun In the rich autumn, and the filmy mist Lies like a silver lining on the sky, And the clear air exhilarates, and life Simply, is luxury--and when the hush Of twilight, like a gentle sleep, steals on, And the birds settle to their nests, and stars Spring in the upper sky, and there is not A sound that is not low and musical-- At all these pleasant seasons I go out With my first impulse guiding me, and take Woodpath, or stream, or sunny mountain side, And, in my recklessness of heart, stray on, Glad with the birds, and silent with the leaves, And happy with the fair and blessed world-- And this, 'tis true, is only idleness! And I should love to go up to the sky, And course the heaven like stars, and float away Upon the gliding clouds that have no stay In their swift journey--and 'twould be a joy To walk the chambers of the deep, and tread The pearls of its untrodden floor, and know The tribes of its unfathomable depths-- Dwellers beneath the pressure of a sea! And I should love to issue with the wind On a strong errand, and o'ersweep the earth, With its broad continents and islands green, Like to the passing of a presence on!-- And this, 'tis true, were only idleness! ON THE DEATH OF EDWARD PAYSON, D.D. A servant of the living God is dead! His errand hath been well and early done, And early hath he gone to his reward. He shall come no more forth, but to his sleep Hath silently lain down, and so shall rest. Would ye bewail our brother? He hath gone To Abraham's bosom. He shall no more thirst, Nor hunger, but forever in the eye, Holy and meek, of Jesus, he may look, Unchided, and untempted, and unstained. Would ye bewail our brother? He hath gone To sit down with the prophets by the clear And crystal waters; he hath gone to list Isaiah's harp and David's, and to walk With Enoch, and Elijah, and the host Of the just men made perfect. He shall bow At Gabriel's Hallelujah, and unfold The scroll of the Apocalypse with John, And talk of Christ with Mary, and go back To the last supper, and the garden prayer With the belov'd disciple. He shall hear The story of the Incarnation told By Simeon, and the Triune mystery Burning upon the fervent lips of Paul. He shall have wings of glory, and shall soar To the remoter firmaments, and read The order and the harmony of stars; And, in the might of knowledge, he shall bow In the deep pauses of Archangel harps, And humble as the Seraphim, shall cry-- _Who by his searching, finds thee out, Oh God!_ There shall he meet his children who have gone Before him, and as other years roll on, And his loved flock go up to him, his hand Again shall lead them gently to the Lamb, And bring them to the living waters there. Is it so good to die! and shall we mourn That he is taken early to his rest? Tell me! Oh mourner for the man of God! Shall we bewail our brother that he died? THE TRI-PORTRAIT. 'Twas a rich night in June. The air was all Fragrance and balm, and the wet leaves were stirred By the soft fingers of the southern wind, And caught the light capriciously, like wings Haunting the greenwood with a silvery sheen. The stars might not be numbered, and the moon Exceeding beautiful, went up in heaven, And took her place in silence, and a hush, Like the deep Sabbath of the night, came down And rested upon nature. I was out With three sweet sisters wandering, and my thoughts Took color of the moonlight, and of them, And I was calm and happy. Their deep tones, Low in the stillness, and by that soft air Melted to reediness, bore out, like song, The language of high feelings, and I felt How excellent is woman when she gives To the fine pulses of her spirit way. One was a noble being, with a brow Ample and pure, and on it her black hair Was parted, like a raven's wing on snow. Her tone was low and sweet, and in her smile You read intense affections. Her moist eye Had a most rare benignity; her mouth, Bland and unshadowed sweetness; and her face Was full of that mild dignity that gives A holiness to woman. She was one Whose virtues blossom daily, and pour out A fragrance upon all who in her path Have a blest fellowship. I longed to be Her brother, that her hand might lie upon My forehead, and her gentle voice allay The fever that is at my heart sometimes. There was a second sister who might witch An angel from his hymn. I cannot tell The secret of her beauty. It is more Than her slight penciled lip, and her arch eye Laughing beneath its lashes, as if life Were nothing but a merry mask; 'tis more Than motion, though she moveth like a fay; Or music, though her voice is like a reed Blown by a low south wind; or cunning grace, Though all she does is beautiful; or thought, Or fancy, or a delicate sense, though mind Is her best gift, and poetry her world, And she will see strange beauty in a flower As by a subtle vision. I care not To know how she bewitches; 'tis enough For me that I can listen to her voice And dream rare dreams of music, or converse Upon unwrit philosophy, till I Am wildered beneath thoughts I cannot bound And the red lip that breathes them. On my arm Leaned an unshadowed girl, who scarcely yet Had numbered fourteen summers. I know not How I shall draw her picture--the young heart Has such a restlessness of change, and each Of its wild moods so lovely! I can see Her figure in its rounded beauty now, With her half-flying step, her clustering hair Bathing a neck like Hebe's, and her face By a glad heart made radiant. She was full Of the romance of girlhood. The fair world Was like an unmarred Eden to her eye, And every sound was music, and the tint Of every cloud a silent poetry. Light to thy path, bright creature! I would charm Thy being if I could, that it should be Ever as now thou dreamest, and flow on Thus innocent and beautiful to heaven! We walked beneath the full and mellow moon Till the late stars had risen. It was not In silence, though we did not seem to break The hush with our low voices; but our thoughts Stirred deeply at their sources; and when night Divided us, I slumbered with a peace Floating about my heart, which only comes From high communion. I shall never see That silver moon again without a crowd Of gentle memories, and a silent prayer, That when the night of life shall oversteal Your sky, ye lovely sisters! there may be A light as beautiful to lead you on. JANUARY 1, 1828. Fleetly hath past the year. The seasons came Duly as they are wont--the gentle Spring, And the delicious Summer, and the cool, Rich Autumn, with the nodding of the grain, And Winter, like an old and hoary man, Frosty and stiff--and so are chronicled. We have read gladness in the new green leaf, And in the first blown violets; we have drunk Cool water from the rock, and in the shade Sunk to the noon-tide slumber;--we have eat The mellow fruitage of the bending tree, And girded to our pleasant wanderings When the cool wind came freshly from the hills; And when the tinting of the Autumn leaves Had faded from its glory, we have sat By the good fires of Winter, and rejoiced Over the fulness of the gathered sheaf. "God hath been very good!" 'Tis He whose hand Moulded the sunny hills, and hollowed out The shelter of the valleys, and doth keep The fountains in their secret places cool; And it is He who leadeth up the sun, And ordereth the starry influences, And tempereth the keenness of the frost-- And therefore, in the plenty of the feast, And in the lifting of the cup, let HIM Have praises for the well-completed year. JANUARY 1, 1829. Winter is come again. The sweet south west Is a forgotten wind, and the strong earth Has laid aside its mantle to be bound By the frost fetter. There is not a sound Save of the skaiter's heel, and there is laid An icy finger on the lip of streams, And the clear icicle hangs cold and still, And the snow-fall is noiseless as a thought. Spring has a rushing sound, and Summer sends Many sweet voices with its odors out, And Autumn rustleth its decaying robe With a complaining whisper. Winter's dumb! God made his ministry a silent one, And he has given him a foot of steel And an unlovely aspect, and a breath Sharp to the senses--and we know that He Tempereth well, and hath a meaning hid Under the shadow of his hand. Look up! And it shall be interpreted--Your home Hath a temptation now. There is no voice Of waters with beguiling for your ear, And the cool forest and the meadows green Witch not your feet away; and in the dells There are no violets, and upon the hills There are no sunny places to lie down. You must go in, and by your cheerful fire Wait for the offices of love, and hear Accents of human tenderness, and feast Your eye upon the beauty of the young. It is a season for the quiet thought, And the still reckoning with thyself. The year Gives back the spirits of its dead, and time Whispers the history of its vanished hours; And the heart, calling its affections up, Counteth its wasted ingots. Life stands still And settles like a fountain, and the eye Sees clearly through its depths, and noteth all That stirred its troubled waters. It is well That Winter with the dying year should come! PSYCHE, BEFORE THE TRIBUNAL OF VENUS. Lift up thine eyes, sweet Psyche! What is she That those soft fringes timidly should fall Before her, and thy spiritual brow Be shadowed as her presence were a cloud? A loftier gift is thine than she can give-- That queen of beauty. She may mould the brow To perfectness, and give unto the form A beautiful proportion; she may stain The eye with a celestial blue--the cheek With carmine of the sunset; she may breathe Grace into every motion, like the play Of the least visible tissue of a cloud; She may give all that is within her own Bright cestus--and one silent look of thine, Like stronger magic, will outcharm it all. Ay, for the soul is better than its frame, The spirit than its temple. What's the brow, Or the eye's lustre, or the step of air, Or color, but the beautiful links that chain The mind from its rare element? There lies A talisman in intellect which yields Celestial music, when the master hand Touches it cunningly. It sleeps beneath The outward semblance, and to common sight Is an invisible and hidden thing; But when the lip is faded, and the cheek Robbed of its daintiness, and when the form Witches the sense no more, and human love Falters in its idolatry, this spell Will hold its strength unbroken, and go on Stealing anew the affections. Marvel not That Love leans sadly on his bended bow. He hath found out the loveliness of mind, And he is spoilt for beauty. So 'twill be Ever--the glory of the human form Is but a perishing thing, and Love will droop When its brief grace hath faded; but the mind Perisheth not, and when the outward charm Hath had its brief existence, it awakes, And is the lovelier that it slept so long-- Like wells that by the wasting of their flow Have had their deeper fountains broken up. ON SEEING A BEAUTIFUL BOY AT PLAY. Down the green slope he bounded. Raven curls From his white shoulders by the winds were swept, And the clear color of his sunny cheek Was bright with motion. Through his open lips Shone visibly a delicate line of pearl, Like a white vein within a rosy shell, And his dark eye's clear brilliance, as it lay Beneath his lashes, like a drop of dew Hid in the moss, stole out as covertly As starlight from the edging of a cloud. I never saw a boy so beautiful. His step was like the stooping of a bird, And his limbs melted into grace like things Shaped by the wind of summer. He was like A painter's fine conception--such an one As he would have of Ganymede, and weep Upon his pallet that he could not win The vision to his easel. Who could paint The young and shadowless spirit? Who could chain The visible gladness of a heart that lives, Like a glad fountain, in the eye of light, With an unbreathing pencil? Nature's gift Has nothing that is like it. Sun and stream, And the new leaves of June, and the young lark That flees away into the depths of heaven, Lost in his own wild music, and the breath Of springtime, and the summer eve, and noon In the cool autumn, are like fingers swept Over sweet-toned affections--but the joy That enters to the spirit of a child Is deep as his young heart: his very breath, The simple sense of being, is enough To ravish him, and like a thrilling touch He feels each moment of his life go by. Beautiful, beautiful childhood! with a joy That like a robe is palpable, and flung Out by your every motion! delicate bud Of the immortal flower that will unfold And come to its maturity in heaven! I weep your earthly glory. 'Tis a light Lent to the new born spirit that goes out With the first idle wind. It is the leaf Fresh flung upon the river, that will dance Upon the wave that stealeth out its life, Then sink of its own heaviness. The face Of the delightful earth will to your eye Grow dim; the fragrance of the many flowers Be noticed not, and the beguiling voice Of nature in her gentleness will be To manhood's senseless ear inaudible. I sigh to look upon thy face, young boy! A CHILD'S FIRST IMPRESSION OF A STAR. She had been told that God made all the stars That twinkled up in heaven, and now she stood Watching the coming of the twilight on, As if it were a new and perfect world, And this were its first eve. How beautiful Must be the work of nature to a child In its first fresh impression! Laura stood By the low window, with the silken lash Of her soft eye upraised, and her sweet mouth Half parted with the new and strange delight Of beauty that she could not comprehend, And had not seen before. The purple folds Of the low sunset clouds, and the blue sky That look'd so still and delicate above, Fill'd her young heart with gladness, and the eve Stole on with its deep shadows, and she still Stood looking at the west with that half smile, As if a pleasant thought were at her heart. Presently, in the edge of the last tint Of sunset, where the blue was melted in To the faint golden mellowness, a star Stood suddenly. A laugh of wild delight Burst from her lips, and putting up her hands, Her simple thought broke forth expressively-- "Father! dear Father! God has made a star!" DEDICATION HYMN. The perfect world by Adam trod, Was the first temple--built by God-- His fiat laid the corner stone, And heav'd its pillars, one by one. He hung its starry roof on high-- The broad illimitable sky; He spread its pavement, green and bright, And curtain'd it with morning light. The mountains in their places stood-- The sea--the sky--and "all was good;" And, when its first pure praises rang, The "morning stars together sang." Lord! 'tis not ours to make the sea And earth and sky a house for thee; But in thy sight our off'ring stands-- A humbler temple, "made with hands." THE BAPTISM. She stood up in the meekness of a heart Resting on God, and held her fair young child Upon her bosom, with its gentle eyes Folded in sleep, as if its soul had gone To whisper the baptismal vow in Heaven. The prayer went up devoutly, and the lips Of the good man glowed fervently with faith That it would be, even as he had pray'd, And the sweet child be gather'd to the fold Of Jesus. As the holy words went on Her lips mov'd silently, and tears, fast tears Stole from beneath her lashes, and upon The forehead of the beautiful child lay soft With the baptismal water. Then I thought That, to the eye of God, that mother's tears Would be a deeper covenant, which sin And the temptations of the world, and death Would leave unbroken, and that she would know In the clear light of heaven, how very strong The prayer which press'd them from her heart had been In leading its young spirit up to God. THE TABLE OF EMERALD. Deep, it is said, under yonder pyramid, has for ages lain concealed the Table of Emerald, on which the thrice-great Hermes engraved, before the flood, the secret of Alchemy that gives gold at will. _Epicurean._ That 'Emerald Green of the Pyramid'-- Were I where it is laid, I'd ask no king for his heavy crown, As its hidden words were said. The pomp and the glitter of worldly pride Should fetter my moments not, And the natural thought of an open mind, Should govern alone my lot. Would I feast all day? revel all night? Laugh with a weary heart? Would I sleep away the breezy morn? And wake till the stars depart? Would I gain no knowledge, and search no deep For the wisdom that sages knew? Would I run to waste with a human mind-- To its noble trust untrue? Oh! knew I the depth of that 'Emerald Green,' And knew I the spell of gold, I would never poison a fresh young heart With the taint of customs old. I would bind no wreath to my forehead free In whose shadow a thought would die, Nor drink from the cup of revelry, The ruin my gold would buy. But I'd break the fetters of care worn things, And be spirit and fancy free, My mind should go up where it longs to go, And the limitless wind outflee. I'd climb to the eyries of eagle men Till the stars became a scroll; And pour right on, like the even sea, In the strength of a governed soul. Ambition! Ambition! I've laughed to scorn Thy robe and thy gleaming sword; I would follow sooner a woman's eye, Or the spell of a gentle word; But come with the glory of human mind, And the light of the scholar's brow, And my heart shall be taught forgetfulness, And alone at thy altar bow. There was one dark eye--it hath passed away! There was one deep tone--'tis not! Could I see it now--could I hear it now, Ye were all too well forgot. My heart brought up, from its chambers deep, The sum of its earthly love; But it might not--could not--buy like Heaven, And she stole to her rest above. That first deep love I have taken back, In my rayless heart to hide; With the tear it brought for a burning seal, 'Twill there forever bide. I may stretch on now to a nobler ken, I may live in my thoughts of flame-- The tie is broken that kept me back, And my spirit is on, for fame! But alas! I am dreaming as if I knew The spell of the tablet green; I forgot how like to a broken reed, Is the lot on which I lean. There is nothing true of my idle dream, But the wreck of my early love; And my mind is coined for my daily bread, And how can it soar above? THE ANNOYER. Sogna il guerriér le schiere, Le sel ve il cacciatór; E sogna il pescatór; Le reti, e l' amo. _Metastatio._ Love knoweth every form of air, And every shape of earth, And comes, unbidden, everywhere, Like thought's mysterious birth. The moonlight sea and the sunset sky Are written with Love's words, And you hear his voice unceasingly, Like song in the time of birds. He peeps into the warrior's heart From the tip of a stooping plume, And the serried spears, and the many men May not deny him room. He'll come to his tent in the weary night, And be busy in his dream; And he'll float to his eye in morning light Like a fay on a silver beam. He hears the sound of the hunter's gun, And rides on the echo back, And sighs in his ear like a stirring leaf, And flits in his woodland track. The shade of the wood, and the sheen of the river, The cloud, and the open sky-- He will haunt them all with his subtle quiver, Like the light of your very eye. The fisher hangs over the leaning boat, And ponders the silver sea, For Love is under the surface hid, And a spell of thought has he. He heaves the wave like a bosom sweet, And speaks in the ripple low, Till the bait is gone from the crafty line, And the hook hangs bare below. He blurs the print of the scholar's book, And intrudes in the maiden's prayer. And profanes the cell of the holy man, In the shape of a lady fair. In the darkest night, and the bright daylight, In earth, and sea, and sky, In every home of human thought, Will Love be lurking nigh. STARLIGHT. The evening star will twinkle presently. The last small bird is silent, and the bee Has gone into his hive, and the shut flowers Are bending as if sleeping on the stem, And all sweet living things are slumbering In the deep hush of nature's resting time. The faded West looks deep, as if its blue Were searchable, and even as I look, The twilight hath stole over it, and made Its liquid eye apparent, and above To the far-stretching zenith, and around, As if they waited on her like a queen, Have stole out the innumerable stars To twinkle like intelligence in heaven. Is it not beautiful, my fair Adel? Fit for the young affections to come out And bathe in like an element! How well The night is made for tenderness--so still That the low whisper, scarcely audible, Is heard like music, and so deeply pure That the fond thought is chastened as it springs And on the lip made holy. I have won Thy heart, my gentle girl! but it hath been When that soft eye was on me, and the love I told beneath the evening influence Shall be as constant as its gentle star. LASSITUDE. I will throw by my book. The weariness Of too much study presses on my brain, And thought's close fetter binds upon my brow Like a distraction, and I must give o'er. Morning hath seen me here, and noon, and eve; And midnight with its deep and solemn hush Has look'd upon my labors, and the dawn, With its sweet voices, and its tempting breath Has driven me to rest--and I can bear The burden of such weariness no more. I have foregone society, and fled From a sweet sister's fondness, and from all A home's alluring blandishments, and now When I am thirsting for them, and my heart Would leap at the approaches of their kind And gentle offices, they are not here, And I must feel that I am all alone. Oh, for the fame of this forgetful world How much we suffer! Were it _all_ for this-- Were nothing but the empty praise of men The guerdon of this sedentary toil-- Were this world's perishable honors _all_-- I'd bound from its confinement as a hart Leaps from its hunters--but I know, that when My name shall be forgotten, and my frame Rests from its labors, I shall find above A work for the capacities I win, And, as I discipline my spirit here, My lyre shall have a nobler sweep in Heaven. "ROARING BROOK:"--CHESHIRE, CON. It was a mountain stream that with the leap Of its impatient waters had worn out A channel in the rock, and wash'd away The earth that had upheld the tall old trees, Till it was darken'd with the shadowy arch Of the o'er-leaning branches. Here and there It loiter'd in a broad and limpid pool That circled round demurely, and anon Sprung violently over where the rock Fell suddenly, and bore its bubbles on, Till they were broken by the hanging moss, As anger with a gentle word grows calm. In spring-time, when the snows were coming down, And in the flooding of the Autumn rains, No foot might enter there--but in the hot And thirsty summer, when the fountains slept, You could go its channel in the shade, To the far sources, with a brow as cool As in the grotto of the anchorite. Here when an idle student have I come, And in a hollow of the rock lain down And mus'd until the eventide, or read Some fine old Poet till my nook became A haunt of faery, or the busy flow Of water to my spell-bewilder'd ear Seem'd like the din of some gay tournament. Pleasant have been such hours, and tho' the wise Have said that I was indolent, and they Who taught me have reprov'd me that I play'd The truant in the leafy month of June, I deem it true philosophy in him Whose spirit must be temper'd of the world, To loiter with these wayside comforters. THE DECLARATION. 'Twas late, and the gay company was gone, And light lay soft on the deserted room From alabaster vases, and a scent Of orange leaves, and sweet verbena came Through the unshutter'd window on the air, And the rich pictures with their dark old tints Hung like a twilight landscape, and all things Seem'd hush'd into a slumber. Isabel, The dark eyed, spiritual Isabel Was leaning on her harp, and I had staid To whisper what I could not when the crowd Hung on her look like worshippers. I knelt, And with the fervor of a lip unused To the cool breath of reason, told my love. There was no answer, and I took the hand That rested on the strings, and pressed a kiss Upon it unforbidden--and again Besought her, that this silent evidence That I was not indifferent to her heart, Might have the seal of one sweet syllable. I kissed the small white fingers as I spoke, And she withdrew them gently, and upraised Her forehead from its resting place, and looked Earnestly on me--She had been asleep! ISABEL. They said that I was strange. I could not bear Confinement, and I lov'd to feel the wind Blowing upon my forehead, and when morn Came like an inspiration from the East, And the cool earth, awaking like a star In a new element, sent out its voice, And tempted me with music, and the breath Of a delicious perfume, and the dye Of the rich forests and the pastures green, To come out and be glad--I would not stay To bind my gushing spirit with a book. Fourteen bright summers--and my heart had grown Impatient in its loneliness, and yearn'd For something that was like itself, to love. She came--the stately Isabel--as proud And beautiful, and gentle as my dream; And with my wealth of feeling, lov'd I her. Older by years, and wiser of the world, She was in thought my equal, and we rang'd The pleasant wood together, and sat down Impassion'd with the same delicious sweep Of water, and I pour'd into her ear My passion and my hoarded thoughts like one, Till I forgot that there was any world But Isabel and nature. She was pleas'd And flatter'd with my wild and earnest love, And suffer'd my delirious words to burn Upon my lip unchided. It was new To be so worshipped like a deity By a pure heart from nature, and she gave Her tenderness its way, and when I kiss'd Her fingers till I thought I was in Heaven, She gaz'd upon me silently, and wept. * * * * * I have seen eighteen summers--and the child Of stately Isabel hath learn'd to come And win me from my sadness. I have school'd My feelings to affection for that child, And I can see his father fondle him, And give him to his mother with a kiss Upon her holy forehead--and be calm! MERE ACCIDENT. It was a shady nook that I had found Deep in the greenwood. A delicious stream Ran softly by it on a bed of grass, And to the border leant a sloping bank Of moss as delicate as Tempe e'er Spread for the sleep of Io. Overhead The spreading larch was woven with the fir, And as the summer wind stole listlessly, And dallied with the tree tops, they would part And let in sprinklings of the sunny light, Studding the moss like silver; and again Returning to their places, there would come A murmur from the touched and stirring leaves, That like a far-off instrument, beguiled Your mood into the idleness of sleep. Here did I win thee, Viola! We came-- Thou knowest how carelessly--and never thought Love lived in such a wilderness; and thou-- I had a cousin's kindness for thy lip, And in the meshes of thy chesnut hair I loved to hide my fingers--that was all! And when I saw thy figure on the grass, And thy straw bonnet flung aside, I thought A fairy would be pretty, painted so Upon a ground of green--but that was all! And when thou playfully wouldst bathe thy foot, And the clear water of the stream ran off And left the white skin polished, why, I thought It looked like ivory--but that was all! And when thou wouldst be serious, and I Was serious too, and thy mere fairy's hand Lay carelessly in mine, and just for thought I mused upon thy innocence and gaz'd Upon the pure transparence of thy brow-- I pressed thy fingers half unconsciously, And fell in love. Was _that_ all, Viola? THE EARL'S MINSTREL. I had a passion when I was a child For a most pleasant idleness. In June, When the thick masses of the leaves were stirr'd With a just audible murmur, and the streams Fainted in their cool places to a low Unnotic'd tinkle, and the reapers hung Their sickles in the trees and went to sleep, Then might you find me in an antique chair Cushion'd with cunning luxury, which stood In the old study corner, by a nook Crowded with volumes of the old romance; And there, the long and quiet summer day, Lay I with half clos'd eyelids, turning o'er Leaf after leaf, until the twilight blurr'd Their singular and time-stain'd characters. 'Twas a forgetful lore, and it is blent With dreams that in my fitful slumber came, And is remember'd faintly. But to-day With the strange waywardness of human thought, A story has come back to me which I Had long forgotten, and I tell it now Because it hath a savour that I find But seldom in the temper of the world. Angelo turn'd away. He was a poor Unhonor'd minstrel, and he might not breathe Love to the daughter of an Earl. She rais'd Proudly her beautiful head, and shook away From her clear temples the luxuriant hair, And told him it would ever please her well To listen to his minstrelsy, but love Was for a loftier lip--and then the tear Stole to her flashing eye, for as she spoke There rose up a remembrance of his keen, Unstooping spirit, and his noble heart Given her like a sacrifice, and she held Her hand for him to kiss, and said, "Farewell! Think of me, Angelo!" and so pass'd on. The color to his forehead mounted high, And his thin lip curl'd haughtily, and then As if his mood had chang'd, he bow'd his head Low on his bosom, and remain'd awhile Lost in his bitter thoughts--and then again He lifted to its height his slender form, And his moist eye grew clear, and his hand pass'd Rapidly o'er his instrument while thus He gave his spirit voice:-- It did not need that alter'd look, Nor that uplifted brow-- I had not ask'd thy haughty love, Were I as proud as now. My love was like a beating heart-- Unbidden and unstayed; And had I known but half its power, It had not been betray'd. I did not seek thy titled hand; I thought not of thy name; I only granted utterance To one wild thought of flame. I did not dream thou couldst be mine, Or I a thought to thee-- I only knew my lip must let Some burning thought go free. I lov'd thee for thy high born grace, Thy deep and lustrous eye, For the sweet meaning of thy brow, And for thy bearing high; I lov'd thee for thy stainless truth, Thy thirst for higher things; For all that to our common lot A better temper brings-- And are they not all thine? still thine? Is not thy heart as true? Holds not thy step its noble grace-- Thy cheek its dainty hue? And have I not an ear to hear-- A cloudless eye to see-- And a thirst for beautiful human thought, That first was stirr'd with thee? Then why should I turn from thee now? Why should not I love on-- Dreaming of thee by night, by day, As I have ever done? My service shall be still as leal, My love as quenchless burn It shames me of my selfish thought That dream'd of a return! He married her! Perhaps it spoils the tale-- But she had listen'd to his song, unseen, And kept it in her heart, and, by and by, When Angelo did service for his king, And was prefer'd to honor, she betray'd Her secret in some delicate way that I Do not remember, and so ends the tale. THE SERENADE. Innocent dreams be thine! The silver night Is a fit curtain for thy lovely sleep. The stars keep watch above thee, and the moon Sits like a brooding spirit up in Heaven, Ruling the night's deep influences, and life Hath a hushed pulse, and the suspended leaves Sleep with their whisperings as if the dew Were a soft finger on the lip of sound. Innocent dreams be thine! thy heart sends up Its thoughts of purity like pearly bells Rising in crystal fountains, and the sin That thou hast seen by day, will, like a shade, Pass from thy memory, as if the pure Had an unconscious ministry by night. Midnight--and now for music! Would I were A sound that I might steal upon thy dreams, And, like the breathing of my flute, distil Sweetly upon thy senses. Softly, boy! Breathe the low cadences as if the words Fainted upon thy lip--I would not break Her slumber quite--but only, as she dreams, Witch the lull'd sense till she believes she hears Celestial melody:-- SONG. "Sleep, like a lover, woo thee, Isabel! And golden dreams come to thee, Like a spell By some sweet angel drawn! Noiseless hands shall seal thy slumber, Setting stars its moments number, So, sleep thou on! The night above thee broodeth, Hushed and deep; But no dark thought intrudeth On the sleep Which folds thy senses now. Gentle spirits float around thee, Gentle rest hath softly bound thee, For pure art thou! And now thy spirit fleeth On rare wings, And fancy's vision seeth Holy things In its high atmosphere. Music strange thy sense unsealeth, And a voice to thee revealeth What angels hear. Thou'lt wake when morning breaketh, Pure and calm; As one who mourns, awaketh When the balm Of peace hath on him fell. Purer thoughts shall stir within thee, Softer cords to virtue win thee-- Farewell! Farewell!" HERO. _Claudio_. Know you any Hero? _Hero_. None my lord! _As You Like it._ Gentle and modest Hero! I can see Her delicate figure, and her soft blue eye, Like a warm vision--lovely as she stood, Veiled in the presence of young Claudio. Modesty bows her head, and that young heart That would endure all suffering for the love It hideth, is as tremulous as the leaf Forsaken of the Summer. She hath flung Her all upon the venture of her vow, And in her trust leans meekly, like a flower By the still river tempted from its stem, And on its bosom floating. Once again I see her, and she standeth in her pride, With her soft eye enkindled, and her lip Curled with its sweet resentment, like a line Of lifeless coral. She hath heard the voice That was her music utter it, and still To her affection faithful, she hath turned And questioned in her innocent unbelief, "Is my lord well, that he should speak so wide?"-- How did they look upon that open brow, And not read purity? Alas for truth! It hath so many counterfeits. The words, That to a child were written legibly, Are by the wise mistaken, and when light Hath made the brow transparent, and the face Is like an angel's--virtue is so fair-- They read it like an over-blotted leaf, And break the heart that wrote it. APRIL. A violet by a mossy stone, Half hidden from the eye, Fair as a star, when only one, Is shining in the sky. _Wordsworth_ I have found violets. April hath come on, And the cool winds feel softer, and the rain Falls in the beaded drops of summer time. You may hear birds at morning, and at eve The tame dove lingers till the twilight falls, Cooing upon the eaves, and drawing in His beautiful bright neck, and from the hills, A murmur like the hoarseness of the sea Tells the release of waters, and the earth Sends up a pleasant smell, and the dry leaves Are lifted by the grass--and so I know That Nature, with her delicate ear, hath heard The dropping of the velvet foot of Spring. Smell of my violets! I found them where The liquid South stole o'er them, on a bank That lean'd to running water. There's to me A daintiness about these early flowers That touches me like poetry. They blow With such a simple loveliness among The common herbs of pasture, and breathe out Their lives so unobtrusively, like hearts Whose beatings are too gentle for the world. I love to go in the capricious days Of April and hunt violets; when the rain Is in the blue cups trembling, and they nod So gracefully to the kisses of the wind. It may be deem'd unmanly, but the wise Read nature like the manuscript of heaven And call the flowers its poetry. Go out! Ye spirits of habitual unrest, And read it when the "fever of the world" Hath made your hearts impatient, and, if life Hath yet one spring unpoison'd, it will be Like a beguiling music to its flow, And you will no more wonder that I love To hunt for violets in the April time. TO A BRIDE. Pass thou on! for the vow is said That is never broken; The hand of blessing hath, trembling, laid On snowy forehead and simple braid, And the word is spoken By lips that never their words betray'd. Pass thou on! for thy human all Is richly given, And the voice that claim'd its holy thrall Must be sweeter for life than music's fall, And, this side Heaven, Thy lip may never that trust recal. Pass thou on! yet many an eye Will droop and glisten; And the hushing heart in vain will try To still its pulse as thy step goes by And we "vainly listen For thy voice of witching melody." Pass thou on! yet a sister's tone In its sweetness lingers, Like some twin echo sent back alone, Or the bird's soft note when its mate hath flown, And a sister's fingers Will again o'er the thrilling harp be thrown. And our eyes will rest on their foreheads fair, And our hearts awaken Whenever we come where their voices are-- But oh, we shall think how musical were, Ere of thee forsaken, The mingled voices we listed there. Pass on! there is not of our blessings one That may not perish-- Like visiting angels whose errand is done, They are never at rest till their home is won, And we may not cherish The beautiful gift of _thy_ light--Pass on! TWENTY-TWO. I'm twenty-two--I'm twenty-two-- They gaily give me joy, As if I should be glad to hear That I was less a boy. They do not know how carelessly Their words have given pain, To one whose heart would leap to be A happy boy again. I had a light and careless heart When this brief year began, And then I pray'd that I might be A grave and perfect man. The world was like a blessed dream Of joyous coming years-- I did not know its manliness Was but to wake in tears. A change has on my spirit come, I am forever sad; The light has all departed now My early feelings had; I used to love the morning grey, The twilight's quiet deep, But now like shadows on the sea, Upon my thoughts they creep. And love was like a holy star, When this brief year was young, And my whole worship of the sky On one sweet ray was flung; But worldly things have come between, And shut it from my sight, And though the star shines purely yet, I mourn its hidden light. And fame! I bent to it the knee, And bow'd to it my brow, And it is like a coal upon My living spirit now-- But when I pray'd for burning fire To touch the soul I bow'd, I did not know the lightning flash Would come in such a cloud. Ye give me joy! Is it because Another year has fled?-- That I am farther from my youth, And nearer to the dead? Is it because my cares have come?-- My happy boyhood o'er?-- Because the visions I have lov'd Will visit me no more? Oh, tell me not that ye are glad! I cannot smile it back; I've found no flower, and seen no light On manhood's weary track. My love is deep--ambition deep-- And heart and mind _will_ on-- But love is fainting by the way, And fame consumes ere won. ON A PICTURE OF CHILDREN PLAYING. BY FISHER. I love to look on a scene like this, Of wild and careless play, And persuade myself that I am not old And my locks are not yet gray; For it stirs the blood in old man's heart, And makes his pulses fly, To catch the thrill of a happy voice, And the light of a pleasant eye. I have walked the world for fourscore years, And they say that I am old; That my heart is ripe for the reaper, Death, And my years are well nigh told. It is very true--it is very true-- I'm old, and 'I bide my time'-- But my heart will leap at a scene like this, And I half renew my prime. Play on! play on! I am with you there, In the midst of your merry ring; I can feel the thrill of the daring jump, And the rush of the breathless swing. I hide with you in the fragrant hay, And I whoop the smothered call, And my feet slip up on the seedy floor, And I care not for the fall. I am willing to die when my time shall come, And I shall be glad to go; For the world, at best, is a weary place, And my pulse is getting low; But the grave is dark, and the heart will fail In treading its gloomy way; And it wiles my heart from its dreariness, To see the young so gay. TO A SLEEPING BOY. Sleep on! Sleep on! beguiling The hours with happy rest. Sleep!--by that dreamy smiling, I know that thou art blest. Thy mother over thee hath leant To guard thee from annoy, And the angel of the innocent Was in that dream, my boy! The tinting of the summer rose Is on that pillowed cheek, And the quietness of summer thought Has made thy forehead meek. And yet that little ample brow, And arching lip, are fraught With pledges of high manliness, And promises of thought. Thy polished limbs are rounded out As is the Autumn fruit, And full and reedy is the voice That slumber hath made mute. And, looking on thy perfect form-- Hearing thy pleasant tone-- I almost weep for joy, my son, To know thee for my own. Sleep on! thine eye seems looking thro' The half transparent lid, As if its free and radiant glance Impatiently were hid; But ever as I kneel to pray, And in my fulness weep, I thank the Giver of my child For that pure gift of sleep-- I half believe they take thee, then, Back to a better world again. And so, sleep on! If thou hast worn An angel's shining wing, The watch that I have loved to keep Hath been a blessed thing. And if thy spirit hath been here, With spotless thoughts alone-- A mother's silent ministry Is still a holy one; And I will pray that there may be A shining wing in wait for thee. SONNET. WINTER. The frozen ground looks gray. 'Twill shut the snow Out from its bosom, and the flakes will fall Softly and lie upon it. The hushed flow Of the ice-covered waters, and the call Of the cold driver to his oxen slow, And the complaining of the gust, are all That I can hear of music--would that I With the green summer like a leaf might die? So will a man grow gray, and on his head The snow of years lie visibly, and so Will come a frost when his green years have fled, And his chilled pulses sluggishly will flow, And his deep voice be shaken--would that I In the green summer of my youth might die! SONNET. Storm had been on the hills. The day had worn As if a sleep upon the hours had crept; And the dark clouds that gather'd at the morn In dull, impenetrable masses slept, And the wept leaves hung droopingly, and all Was like the mournful aspect of a pall. Suddenly on the horizon's edge, a blue And delicate line, as of a pencil, lay, And, as it wider and intenser grew, The darkness removed silently away, And, with the splendor of a God, broke through The perfect glory of departing day-- So, when his stormy pilgrimage is o'er, Will light upon the dying Christian pour. SONNET. Elegance floats about thee like a dress, Melting the airy motion of thy form Into one swaying grace, and loveliness, Like a rich tint that makes a picture warm, Is lurking in the chesnut of thy tress, Enriching it, as moonlight after storm Mingles dark shadows into gentleness. A beauty that bewilders like a spell Reigns in thine eye's clear hazel, and thy brow So pure in vein'd transparency doth tell How spiritually beautiful art thou-- A temple where angelic love might dwell. Life in thy presence were a thing to keep, Like a gay dreamer clinging to his sleep. SONNET. Beautiful robin! with thy feathers red Contrasting sweetly with the soft green tree, Making thy little flights as thou art led By things that tempt a simple one like thee-- I would that thou couldst warble me to tears As lightly as the birds of other years. Idly to lie beneath an April sun, Pressing the perfume from the tender grass; To watch a joyous rivulet leap on With the clear tinkle of a music glass, And as I saw the early robin pass, To hear him thro' his little compass run-- Hath been a joy that I shall no more know Before I to my better portion go. SONNET. Exquisite Laura! with thy pouting lip, And the arch smile that makes me constant so-- Tempting me still like a dull bee to sip The flower I should have left so long ago-- Beautiful Laura! who art just so fair That I can think thee lovely when alone, And still art not so wonderfully rare That I could never find a prettier one-- Spirited Laura! laughing, weeping, crying In the same breath, and gravest with the gay-- So wild, that Cupid ever shoots thee flying, And knows his archery is thrown away-- Inconstant as I am, I cannot yet Break thy sweet fetter, exquisite coquette! SONNET. There was a beautiful spirit in her air, As of a fay at revel. Hidden springs, Too delicate for knowledge, should be there, Moving her gently like invisible wings; And then her lip out-blushing the red fruit That bursts with ripeness in the Autumn time, And the arch eye you would not swear was mute, And the clear cheek, as of a purer clime, And the low tone, soft as a pleasant flute Sent over water with the vesper chime; And then her forehead with its loose, dark curl, And the bewildering smile that made her mouth Like a torn rose-leaf moistened of the South-- She has an angel's gifts--the radiant girl! ANDRE'S REQUEST. It is not the fear of death That damps my brow; It is not for another breath I ask thee now; I can die with a lip unstirr'd And a quiet heart-- Let but this prayer be heard Ere I depart. I can give up my mother's look-- My sister's kiss; I can think of love--yet brook A death like this! I can give up the young fame I burn'd to win-- All--but the spotless name I glory in! Thine is the power to give, Thine to deny, Joy for the hour I live-- Calmness to die. By all the brave should cherish, By my dying breath, I ask that I may perish With a soldier's death! DISCRIMINATION. I used to love a radiant girl-- Her lips were like a rose leaf torn; Her heart was as free as a floating curl, Or a breeze at morn; Her step as light as a Peri's daughter, And her eye as soft as gliding water. Witching thoughts like things half hid Lurk'd beneath her silken lashes, And a modest droop of the veined lid Oft hid their flashes-- But to me the charm was more complete As the blush stole up its fringe to meet. Paint me love as a honey bee! Rosy mouths are things to sip; Nothing was ever so sweet to me As Marion's lip-- Till I learned that a deeper magic lies In kissing the lids of her closed eyes. Her sweet brow I seldom touch, Save to part her raven hair; Her bright cheek I gaze on much, Her white hand is fair; But none of these--I've tried them all-- Is like kissing her eyes as the lashes fall. THE SOLITARY. Alone! alone! How drear it is Always to be alone! In such a depth of wilderness, The only thinking one! The waters in their path rejoice, The trees together sleep-- But I have not one silver voice Upon my ear to creep! The sun upon the silent hills His mesh of beauty weaves, There's music in the laughing rills And in the whispering leaves. The red deer like the breezes fly To meet the bounding roe, But I have not a human sigh To cheer me as I go. I've hated men--I hate them now-- But, since they are not here, I thirst for the familiar brow-- Thirst for the stealing tear. And I should love to see the one, And feel the other creep, And then again I'd be alone Amid the forest deep. I thought that I should love my hound, And hear my cracking gun Till I forgot the thrilling sound Of voices--one by one. I thought that in the leafy hush Of nature, they would die; But, as the hindered waters rush, Resisted feelings fly I'm weary of my lonely hut And of its blasted tree, The very lake is like my lot, So silent constantly. I've lived amid the forest gloom Until I almost fear-- When will the thrilling voices come My spirit thirsts to hear? ON THE DEATH OF MISS FANNY V. APTHORP. 'Tis difficult to feel that she is dead. Her presence, like the shadow of a wing That is just given to the upward sky, Lingers upon us. We can hear her voice, And for her step we listen, and the eye Looks for her wonted coming with a strange, Forgetful earnestness. We cannot feel That she will no more come--that from her cheek The delicate flush has faded, and the light Dead in her soft dark eye, and on her lip, That was so exquisitely pure, the dew Of the damp grave has fallen! Who, so lov'd, Is left among the living? Who hath walk'd The world with such a winning loveliness, And on its bright, brief journey, gather'd up Such treasures of affection? She was lov'd Only as idols are. She was the pride Of her familiar sphere--the daily joy Of all who on her gracefulness might gaze, And, in the light and music of her way, Have a companion's portion. Who could feel, While looking upon beauty such as hers, That it would ever perish! It is like The melting of a star into the sky While you are gazing on it, or a dream In its most ravishing sweetness rudely broken. A PORTRAIT. She was not very beautiful, if it be beauty's test To match a classic model when perfectly at rest; And she did not look bewitchingly, if witchery it be, To have a forehead and a lip transparent as the sea. The fashion of her gracefulness was not a follow'd rule, And her effervescent sprightliness was never learnt at school; And her words were all peculiar, like the fairy's who 'spoke pearls;' And her tone was ever sweetest midst the cadences of girls. Said I she was not beautiful? Her eyes upon your sight Broke with the lambent purity of planetary light, And an intellectual beauty, like a light within a vase, Touched every line with glory of her animated face. Her mind with sweets was laden, like a morning breath in June, And her thoughts awoke in harmony, like dreamings of a tune, And you heard her words like voices that o'er the waters creep, Or like a serenader's lute that mingles with your sleep. She had an earnest intellect--a perfect thirst of mind, And a heart by elevated thoughts and poetry refin'd, And she saw a subtle tint or shade with every careless look, And the hidden links of nature were familiar as a book. She's made of those rare elements that now and then appear, As if remov'd by accident unto a lesser sphere, Forever reaching up, and on, to life's sublimer things, As if they had been used to track the universe with wings. MAY. Oh the merry May has pleasant hours, And dreamily they glide, As if they floated like the leaves Upon a silver tide. The trees are full of crimson buds, And the woods are full of birds, And the waters flow to music Like a tune with pleasant words. The verdure of the meadow-land Is creeping to the hills, The sweet, blue-bosom'd violets Are blowing by the rills; The lilac has a load of balm For every wind that stirs, And the larch stands green and beautiful Amid the sombre firs. There's perfume upon every wind-- Music in every tree-- Dews for the moisture-loving flowers-- Sweets for the sucking bee; The sick come forth for the healing South, The young are gathering flowers; And life is a tale of poetry, That is told by golden hours. If 'tis not a true philosophy, That the spirit when set free Still lingers about its olden home, In the flower and the tree, It is very strange that our pulses thrill At the tint of a voiceless thing, And our hearts yearn so with tenderness In the beautiful time of Spring. ON SEEING THROUGH A DISTANT WINDOW A BELLE COMPLETING HER TOILET FOR A BALL. 'Tis well--'tis well--that clustering shade Is on thy forehead sweetly laid; And that light curl that slumbers by Makes deeper yet thy depth of eye; And that white rose that decks thy hair Just wins the eye to linger there, Yet makes it not to note the less The beauty of that raven tress. Thy coral necklace?--ear-rings too? Nay--nay--not them--no darker hue Than thy white bosom be to-night On that fair neck the bar of light, Or hide the veins that faintly glow And wander in its living snow. What!--yet another? can it be That neck needs ornament to thee?-- Yet not thy jewels!--they are bright, But that dark eye has softer light, And tho' each gem had been a star, Thy simple self were lovelier far-- Yet stay!--that string of matchless pearl? Nay--wear it--wear it--radiant girl! For ocean's best of pure and white Should only be thy foil to-night. Aye, turn thee round! 'tis lovely all-- Thou'lt have no peer at that gay ball! And that proud toss!--it makes thee smile To see how deep is thine own wile; And that slow look that seems to stray As each sweet feature made it stay-- And that small finger, lightly laid On dimpled cheek and glossy braid, As if to know that all they seem Is really there, and not a dream-- I wish I knew the gentle thought By all this living beauty wrought! I wish I knew if that sweet brow, That neck on which thou gazest now-- If thy rich lip and brilliant face-- Thy perfect figure's breezy grace-- If these are half the spell to thee That will, this night, bewilder me! TO A BELLE. All that thou art, I thrillingly And sensibly do feel; For my eye doth see, and my ear doth hear, And my heart is not of steel; I meet thee in the festal hall-- I turn thee in the dance-- And I wait, as would a worshipper, The giving of thy glance. Thy beauty is as undenied As the beauty of a star; And thy heart beats just as equally, Whate'er thy praises are; And so long without a parallel Thy loveliness hath shone, That, follow'd like the tided moon, Thou mov'st as calmly on. Thy worth I, for myself, have seen-- I know that thou art leal; Leal to a woman's gentleness, And thine own spirit's weal; Thy thoughts are deeper than a dream, And holier than gay; And thy mind is a harp of gentle strings, Where angel fingers play. I know all this--I feel all this-- And my heart believes it true; And my fancy hath often borne me on, As a lover's fancies do; And I have a heart, that is strong and deep, And would love with its human all, And it waits for a fetter that's sweet to wear, And would bound to a silken thrall. But it loves not thee.--It would sooner bind Its thoughts to the open sky; It would worship as soon a familiar star, That is bright to every eye. 'Twere to love the wind that is sweet to all-- The wave of the beautiful sea-- 'Twere to hope for all the light in Heaven, To hope for the love of thee. But wert thou lowly--yet leal as now; Rich but in thine own mind; Humble--in all but the queenly brow; And to thine own glory blind-- Were the world to prove but a faithless thing, And worshippers leave thy shrine-- My love were, then, but a gift for thee, And my strong deep heart were thine. A PORTRAIT. She's beautiful! Her raven curls Have broken hearts in envious girls-- And then they sleep in contrast so, Like raven feathers upon snow, And bathe her neck--and shade the bright Dark eye from which they catch the light, As if their graceful loops were made To keep that glorious eye in shade, And holier make its tranquil spell, Like waters in a shaded well. I cannot rhyme about that eye-- I've match'd it with a midnight sky-- I've said 'twas deep, and dark, and wild, Expressive, liquid, witching, mild-- But the jewell'd star, and the living air Have nothing in them half so fair. She's noble--noble--one to keep Embalm'd for dreams of fever'd sleep-- An eye for nature--taste refin'd, Perception swift, and ballanc'd mind,-- And more than all, a gift of thought To such a spirit-fineness wrought, That on my ear her language fell, As if each word dissolv'd a spell. Yet I half hate her. She has all That would ensure an angel's fall-- But there's a cool collected look, As if her pulses beat by book-- A measure'd tone, a cold reply, A management of voice and eye, A calm, possess'd, authentic air, That leaves a doubt of softness there, 'Till--look and worship as I may-- My fever'd thoughts will pass away. And when she lifts her fringing lashes, And her dark eye like star-light flashes-- And when she plays her quiet wile Of that calm look, and measur'd smile, I go away like one who's heard In some fine scene the prompter's word, And make a vow to break her chain, And keep it--till we meet again. ERRATA.--16th page, 10th line from top, "as _if_ it were" for "as it were." Same page 11th line from top "incense" for "insense." 46th page, 11th line from the bottom, "go its channel" for "go _up_ its channel." Page 60, 2nd line, "As you like it," for "Much ado about Nothing." In the table of Contents "A Portrait," page 90, is omitted. Transcriber's notes Original spelling retain'd. Errata not corrected. The Table of Contents is also missing a reference to Sonnet. Winter Page 72. Typographical errors corrected. Page 86 to night corrected to to-night. --- Provided by LoyalBooks.com ---