Admetus and other poems / Emma Lazarus [electronic text]

MISCELLANEOUS.

EPOCHS.

"The epochs of our life are not in the visible facts, but in the silent thought by the wayside as we walk."

—EMERSON.

I. YOUTH.

SWEET empty sky of June without a stain, Faint, gray-blue dewy mists on far-off hills, Warm, yellow sunlight flooding mead and plain, That each dark copse and hollow overfills; The rippling laugh of unseen, rain-fed rills, Weeds delicate-flowered, white and pink and gold, A murmur and a singing manifold.

The gray, austere old earth renews her youth With dew-lines, sunshine, gossamer, and haze. How still she lies and dreams, and veils the truth, While all is fresh as in the early days! What simple things be these the soul to raise To bounding joy, and make young pulses beat, With nameless pleasure finding life so sweet.

On such a golden morning forth there floats, Between the soft earth and the softer sky, In the warm air adust with glistening motes, The mystic-winged and flickering butterfly,

A human soul, that hovers giddily Among the gardens of earth's paradise, Nor dreams of fairer fields or loftier skies.

II. REGRET.

Thin summer rain on grass and bush and hedge, Reddening the road and deepening the green On wide, blurred lawn, and in close-tangled sedge; Veiling in gray the landscape stretched between These low broad meadows and the pale hills seen But dimly on the far horizon's edge.

In these transparent-clouded, gentle skies, Wherethrough the moist beams of the soft June sun Might any moment break, no sorrow lies, No note of grief in swollen brooks that run, No hint of woe in this subdued, calm tone Of all the prospect unto dreamy eyes.

Only a tender, unnamed half-regret For the lost beauty of the gracious morn; A yearning aspiration, fainter yet, For brighter suns in joyous days unborn, Now while brief showers ruffle grass and corn, And all the earth lies shadowed, grave, and wet;

Space for the happy soul to pause again From pure content of all unbroken bliss, To dream the future void of grief and pain, And muse upon the past, in reveries More sweet for knowledge that the present is Not all complete, with mist and clouds and rain.

III. LONGING.

Look westward o'er the steaming rain-washed slopes, Now satisfied with sunshine, and behold Those lustrous clouds, as glorious as our hopes, Softened with feathery fleece of downy gold, In all fantastic, huddled shapes uprolled, Floating like dreams, and melting silently, In the blue upper regions of pure sky.

The eye is filled with beauty, and the heart Rejoiced with sense of life and peace renewed; And yet at such an hour as this, upstart Vague myriad longings, restless, unsubdued, And causeless tears from melancholy mood, Strange discontent with earth's and nature's best, Desires and yearnings that may find no rest.

IV. STORM.

Serene was morning with clear, winnowed air, But threatening soon the low, blue mass of cloud Rose in the west, with mutterings faint and rare At first, but waxing frequent and more loud. Thick sultry mists the distant hill-tops shroud; The sunshine dies; athwart black skies of lead Flash noiselessly thin threads of lightning red.

Breathless the earth seems waiting some wild blow, Dreaded, but far too close to ward or shun. Scared birds aloft fly aimless, and below Naught stirs in fields whence light and life are gone, Save floating leaves, with wisps of straw and down, Upon the heavy air; 'neath blue-black skies, Livid and yellow the green landscape lies.

And all the while the dreadful thunder breaks, Within the hollow circle of the hills, With gathering might, that angry echoes wakes, And earth and heaven with unused clamor fills. O'erhead still flame those strange electric thrills. A moment more,— behold! yon bolt struck home, And over ruined fields the storm hath come!

V. SURPRISE.

When the stunned soul can first lift tired eyes On her changed world of ruin, waste and wrack, Ah, what a pang of aching sharp surprise Brings all sweet memories of the lost past back, With wild self-pitying grief of one betrayed, Duped in a land of dreams where Truth is dead!

Are these the heavens that she deemed were kind? Is this the world that yesterday was fair? What painted images of folk half-blind Be these who pass her by, as vague as air? What go they seeking? there is naught to find. Let them come nigh and hearken her despair.

A mocking lie is all she once believed, And where her heart throbbed, is a cold dead stone. This is a doom she never preconceived, Yet now she cannot fancy it undone. Part of herself, part of the whole hard scheme, All else is but the shadow of a dream.

VI. GRIEF.

There is a hungry longing in the soul, A craving sense of emptiness and pain, She may not satisfy nor yet control, For all the teeming world looks void and vain. No compensation in eternal spheres, She knows the loneliness of all her years.

There is no comfort looking forth nor back, The present gives the lie to all her past. Will cruel time restore what she doth lack? Why was no shadow of this doom forecast? Ah! she hath played with many a keen-edged thing; Naught is too small and soft to turn and sting.

In the unnatural glory of the hour, Exalted over time, and death, and fate, No earthly task appears beyond her power, No possible endurance seemeth great.She knows her misery and her majesty, And recks not if she be to live or die.

VII. ACCEPTANCE.

Yea, she hath looked Truth grimly face to face, And drained unto the lees the proffered cup. This silence is not patience, nor the grace Of resignation, meekly offered up, But mere acceptance fraught with keenest pain, Seeing that all her struggles must be vain.

Her future dear and terrible outlies,— This burden to be borne through all her days, This crown of thorns pressed down above her eyes, This weight of trouble she may never raise. No reconcilement doth she ask nor wait; Knowing such things are, she endures her fate.

No brave endeavor of the broken will To cling to such poor strays as will abide (Although the waves be wild and angry still) After the lapsing of the swollen tide. No fear of further loss, no hope of gain, Naught but the apathy of weary pain.

VIII. LONELINESS.

All stupor of surprise hath passed away; She sees, with clearer vision than before, A world far off of light and laughter gay, Herself alone and lonely evermore. Folk come and go, and reach her in no wise, Mere flitting phantoms to her heavy eyes.

All outward things, that once seemed part of her, Fall from her, like the leaves in autumn shed. She feels as one embalmed in spice and myrrh, With the heart eaten out, a long time dead; Unchanged without, the features and the form; Within, devoured by the thin red worm.

By her own prowess she must stand or fall, This grief is to be conquered day by day. Who could befriend her? who could make this small, Or her strength great? she meets it as she may. A weary struggle and a constant pain, She dreams not they may ever cease nor wane.

IX. SYMPATHY.

It comes not in such wise as she had deemed, Else might she still have clung to her despair. More tender, grateful than she could have dreamed, Fond hands passed pitying over brows and hair, And gentle words borne softly through the air, Calming her weary sense and wildered mind, By welcome, dear communion with her kind.

Ah! she forswore all words as empty lies; What speech could help, encourage, or repair? Yet when she meets these grave, indulgent eyes, Fulfilled with pity, simplest words are fair, Caressing, meaningless, that do not dare To compensate or mend, but merely soothe With hopeful visions after bitter Truth.

One who through conquered trouble had grown wise, To read the grief unspoken, unexpressed, The misery of the blank and heavy eyes,—Or through youth's infinite compassion guessed The heavy burden,—such a one brought rest, And bade her lay aside her doubts and fears, While the hard pain dissolved in blessed tears.

X. PATIENCE.

The passion of despair is quelled at last; The cruel sense of undeservéd wrong, The wild self-pity, these are also past; She knows not what may come, but she is strong; She feels she hath not aught to lose nor gain, Her patience is the essence of all pain.

As one who sits beside a lapsing stream, She sees the flow of changeless day by day, Too sick and tired to think, too sad to dream, Nor cares how soon the waters slip away, Nor where they lead; at the wise God's decree, She will depart or bide indifferently.

There is a deeper pathos in the mild And settled sorrow of the quiet eyes, Than in the tumults of the anguish wild, That made her curse all things beneath the skies; No question, no reproaches, no complaint, Hers is the holy calm of some meek saint.

XI. HOPE.

Her languid pulses thrill with sudden hope, That will not be forgot nor cast aside, And life in statelier vistas seems to ope, Illimitably lofty, long, and wide. What doth she know? She is subdued and mild Quiet and docile "as a weanéd child."

If grief came in such unimagined wise, How may joy dawn? In what undreamed hour, May the light break with splendor of surprise, Disclosing all the mercy and the power? A baseless hope, yet vivid, keen, and bright, As the wild lightning in the starless night.

She knows not whence it came, nor where it pass But it revealed, in one brief flash of flame, A heaven so high, a world so rich and vast, That, full of meek contrition and mute shame, In patient silence hopefully withdrawn, She bows her head, and bides the certain dawn.

XII. COMPENSATION.

'Tis not alone that black and yawning void That makes her heart ache with this hungry pain, But the glad sense of life hath been destroyed, The lost delight may never come again. Yet myriad serious blessings with grave grace Arise on every side to fill their place.

For much abides in her so lonely life,— The dear companionship of her own kind, Love where least looked for, quiet after strife, Whispers of promise upon every wind, And quickened insight, in awakened eyes, For the new meaning of the earth and skies.

The nameless charm about all things hath died, Subtle as aureole round a shadow's head, Cast on the dewy grass at morning-tide; Yet though the glory and the joy be fled, 'Tis much her own endurance to have weighed, And wrestled with God's angels, unafraid.

XIII. FAITH.

She feels outwearied, as though o'er her head A storm of mighty billows broke and passed. Whose hand upheld her? Who her footsteps led To this green haven of sweet rest at last? What strength was hers, unreckoned and unknown? What love sustained when she was most alone?

Unutterably pathetic her desire, To reach, with groping arms outstretched in prayer, Something to cling to, to uplift her higher From this low world of coward fear and care, Above disaster, that her will may be At one with God's, accepting his decree.

Though by no reasons she be justified, Yet strangely brave in Evil's very face, She deems this want must needs be satisfied, Though here all slips from out her weak embrace. And in blind ecstasy of perfect faith, With her own dream her prayer she answereth.

XIV. WORK.

Yet life is not a vision nor a prayer, But stubborn work; she may not shun her task. After the first compassion, none will spare Her portion and her work achieved, to ask. She pleads for respite,—she will come ere long When, resting by the roadside, she is strong.

Nay, for the hurrying throng of passers-by Will crush her with their onward-rolling stream. Much must be done before the brief light die; She may not loiter, rapt in this vain dream. With unused trembling hands, and faltering feet, She staggers forth, her lot assigned to meet.

But when she fills her days with duties done, Strange vigor comes, she is restored to health. New aims, new interests rise with each new sun, And life still holds for her unbounded wealth. All that seemed hard and toilsome now proves small, And naught may daunt her,—she hath strength for all.

XV. VICTORY.

How strange, in some brief interval of rest, Backward to look on her far-stretching past. To see how much is conquered and repressed, How much is gained in victory at last! The shadow is not lifted,— but her faith, Strong from life's miracles, now turns toward death.

Though much be dark where once rare splendor shone, Yet the new light has touched high peaks unguessed In her gold, mist-bathed dawn, and one by one New outlooks loom from many a mountain crest. She breathes a loftier, purer atmosphere, And life's entangled paths grow straight and clear

Nor will Death prove an all-unwelcome guest; The struggle has been toilsome to this end. Sleep will be sweet, and after labor rest, And all will be atoned with him to friend. Much must be reconciled, much justified, And yet she feels she will be satisfied.

XVI. PEACE.

The calm outgoing of a long, rich day, Checkered with storm and sunshine, gloom and light Now passing in pure, cloudless skies away, Withdrawing into silence of blank night. Thick shadows settle on the landscape bright, Like the weird cloud of death that falls apace On the still features of the passive face.

Soothing and gentle as a mother's kiss, The touch that stopped the beating of the heart. A look so blissfully serene as this, Not all the joy of living could impart. Patient to bide, yet willing to depart, With dauntless faith and courage therewithal, The Master found her ready at his call.

On such a golden evening forth there floats, Between the grave earth and the glowing sky In the clear air, unvexed with hazy motes, The mystic-winged and flickering butterfly, A human soul, that drifts at liberty, Ah! who can tell to what strange paradise, To what undreamed-of fields and lofty skies!

February, 1871.

FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE.

UPON the whitewashed walls A woman's shadow falls, A woman walketh o'er the darksome floors. A soft, angelic smile Lighteth her face the while, In passing through the dismal corridors.

And now and then there slips A word from out her lips, More sweet and grateful to those listening ears Than the most plaintive tale Of the sad nightingale, Whose name and tenderness this woman bears.

Her presence in the room Of agony and gloom, No fretful murmurs, no coarse words profane; For while she standeth there, All words are hushed save prayer; She seems God's angel weeping o'er man's pain.

And some of them arise, With eager, tearful eyes, From off their couch to see her passing by. Some, e'en too weak for this, Can only stoop and kiss Her shadow, and fall back content to die.

No monument of stone Needs this heroic one,— Her name is graven on each noble heart; And in all after years Her praise will be the tears Which at that name from quivering lids will start.

And those who live not now, To see the sainted brow, And the angelic smile before it flits for aye, They in the future age Will kiss the storied page Whereon the shadow of her life will lie.

March 7, 1867

DREAMS.

A DREAM of lilies: all the blooming earth, A garden full of fairies and of flowers; Its only music the glad cry of mirth, While the warm sun weaves golden-tissued hours; Hope a bright angel, beautiful and true As Truth herself, and life a lovely toy, Which ne'er will weary us, ne'er break, a new Eternal source of pleasure and of joy.

A dream of roses: vision of Loves tree, Of beauty and of madness, and as bright As naught on earth save only dreams can be, Made fair and odorous with flower and light; A dream that Love is strong to outlast Time, That hearts are stronger than forgetfulness, The slippery sand than changeful waves that climb, The wind-blown foam than mighty waters' stress.

A dream of laurels: after much is gone, Much buried, much lamented, much forgot, With what remains to do and what is done, With what yet is, and what, alas! is not,

Man dreams a dream of laurel and of bays, A dream of crowns and guerdons and rewards, Wherein sounds sweet the hollow voice of praise, And bright appears the wreath that it awards.

A dream of poppies, sad and true as Truth,— That all these dreams were dreams of vanity; And full of bitter penitence and ruth, In his last dream, man deems 'twere good to die; And weeping o'er the visions vain of yore, In the sad vigils he doth nightly keep, He dreams it may be good to dream no more, And life has nothing like Death's dreamless sleep.

April 30, 1867.

ON A TUFT OF GRASS.

WEAK, slender blades of tender green, With little fragrance, little sheen, What maketh ye so dear to all? Nor bud, nor flower, nor fruit have ye, So tiny, it can only be 'Mongst fairies ye are counted tall.

No beauty is in this,— ah, yea, E'en as I gaze on you to-day, Your hue and fragrance bear me back Into the green, wide fields of old, With clear, blue air, and manifold Bright buds and flowers in blossoming track.

All bent one way like flickering flame, Each blade caught sunlight as it came, Then rising, saddened into shade; A changeful, wavy, harmless sea, Whose billows none could bitterly Reproach with wrecks that they had made.

No gold ever was buried there More rich, more precious, or more fair Than buttercups with yellow gloss. No ships of mighty forest trees E'er foundered in these guiltless seas Of grassy waves and tender moss.

Ah, no! ah, no! not guiltless still, Green waves on meadow and on hill, Not wholly innocent are ye; For what dead hopes and loves, what graves, Lie underneath your placid waves, While breezes kiss them lovingly!

Calm sleepers with sealed eyes lie there; They see not, neither feel nor care If over them the grass be green. And some sleep here who ne'er knew rest, Until the grass grew o'er their breast, And stilled the aching pain within.

Not all the sorrow man hath known, Not all the evil he hath done, Have ever cast thereon a stain. It groweth green and fresh and light, As in the olden garden bright, Beneath the feet of Eve and Cain.

It flutters, bows, and bends, and quivers, And creeps through forests and by rivers, Each blade with dewy brightness wet, So soft, so quiet, and so fair, We almost dream of sleeping there, Without or sorrow or regret.

May 22, 1867.

IN THE JEWISH SYNAGOGUE AT NEWPORT.

HERE, where the noises of the busy town, The ocean's plunge and roar can enter not, We stand and gaze around with tearful awe, And muse upon the consecrated spot.

No signs of life are here: the very prayers Inscribed around are in a language dead; The light of the "perpetual lamp" is spent That an undying radiance was to shed.

What prayers were in this temple offered up, Wrung from sad hearts that knew no joy on earth, By these lone exiles of a thousand years, From the fair sunrise land that gave them birth!

How as we gaze, in this new world of light, Upon this relic of the days of old, The present vanishes, and tropic bloom And Eastern towns and temples we behold.

Again we see the patriarch with his flocks, The purple seas, the hot blue sky o'erhead,

The slaves of Egypt,—omens, mysteries,— Dark fleeing hosts by flaming angels led.

A wondrous light upon a sky-kissed mount, A man who reads Jehovah's written law, 'Midst blinding glory and effulgence rare, Unto a people prone with reverent awe.

The pride of luxury's barbaric pomp, In the rich court of royal Solomon— Alas! we wake: One scene alone remains, — The exiles by the streams of Babylon.

Our softened voices send us back again But mournful echoes through the empty hall: Our footsteps have a strange unnatural sound, And with unwonted gentleness they fall.

The weary ones, the sad, the suffering, All found their comfort in the holy place, And children's gladness and men's gratitude 'Took voice and mingled in the chant of praise.

The funeral and the marriage, now, alas! We know not which is sadder to recall; For youth and happiness have followed age, And green grass lieth gently over all.

Nathless the sacred shrine is holy yet, With its lone floors where reverent feet once trod. Take off your shoes as by the burning bush, Before the mystery of death and God.

July, 1867.

WINGS.

DAWN opes her pensive eyes, In the yet starry skies, A roseate blush upon her cheek and brows. Her purple mantle still Lies on the sky-kissed hill, And a blue, solemn shade thereon it throws.

The earth lies hushed and calm. No chant of praise, no psalm Riseth to greet the rose-crowned queen of day. Each blade of grass, each leaf, Stands out in sharp relief, Against the rayless blue and silver gray.

All nature seems to wait For some new deed of Fate; The silence is a sacred, reverent prayer,— When hark! from some sweet throat One thrilling, quivering note Fills with its tremulous music all the air.

Then from the dewy grass A tiny form doth pass,

A little soul all music and all wings. All nature's voice is heard, Embodied in this bird, That darteth up and, rising, ever sings.

It mounteth still and sings: What soul yearns not for wings, To follow after, burst its prison bars, And learn the secret there, In those clear realms of air,The secret of the rainbow and the stars;

To rush as swift as light, Within those regions bright Of throbbing, scintillant, intensest blue; The air all breathless cleave, And far below to leave Regrets and tears, the raindrop and the dew.

Ah! caged 'mongst meaner things, The soul can use no wings, And beats against the bars it cannot pass; But it might humbly turn, Essaying first to learn The secret of the flowers and the grass.

November, 1867.

IN A SWEDISH GRAVEYARD.

"They all sleep with their heads to the westward. Each held a lighted taper in his hand when he died, and in his coffin were places his little heart-treasures and a piece of money for his last journey."

LONGFELLOW, Rural Life in Sweden.

AFTER wearisome toil and much sorrow, How quietly sleep they at last, Neither dreading and fearing the morrow, Nor vainly bemoaning the past! Shall we give them our envy or pity? Shall we shun or yearn after such rest, So calm near the turbulent city, With their heart stilled at length in their breast?

They all sleep with their heads lying westward, Where all suns and all days have gone down. Do they long for the dawn, looking eastward? Do they dream of the strife and the crown? Each one held a lit taper when dying: Where hath vanished the fugitive flame? With his love, and his joy, and his sighing, Alas! and his youth and his name.

The living stands o'er him and dreameth, And wonders what dreams came to him. While the tender, brief twilight still gleameth, With a light strangely mournful and dim. And he wonders what lights and what shadows Passed over these dead long ago, When their feet now at rest trod these meadows, And their hearts throbbed to pleasure or woe

What dreams came to them in their living? The self-same that come now to thee. If thou findest those dreams are deceiving, Then these lives thou wilt know and wilt see: The same visions of love and of glory, The same vain regret for the past; All the same poor and pitiful story, Till the taper's extinguished at last.

All the treasures on earth that they cherished, Now they care not to clasp nor to save; And the poor little lights, how they perished, Slowly dying alone in the grave! With a flickering faint on the features Of age, or of youth in its bloom: Lighting up for grim Death his weak creatures, In the darkness and night of the tomb,—

With a radiance ghostly and mournful, On the good, on the just and unjust; For a space, till the monarch, so scornful, Turned the light and the lighted to dust. No taper of earth he desired In his halls where they quietly rest; For all those who have toiled and are tired, Utter darkness and sleep may be best.

1867.

MARJORIE'S WOOING.

THE corn was yellow upon the cliffs, The fluttering grass was green to see, The waves were blue as the sky above, And the sun it was shining merrily.

"Marjorie, Marjorie! do you love me, Faithfully, truly as I love you?" The little lass reddened, and whitened, and smiled, And answered him with her clear eyes of blue.

"Marjorie, you are but gentle and young; I am too old and too rough for you." The little lass, trustfully giving her hand, Answered, "I love you, faithful and true."

"Marjorie, Marjorie, when shall we wed?" "As soon as you will it,—to-morrow, to-day." "Marjorie, Marjorie, if you knew all, Would you still say me the words that you say?"

"If I knew all?" said the little lass, "I know you are Kenneth, the brave and strong;

I know that I love, and that you are good: I will know it e'er, and have known it long."

"Marjorie, Marjorie, if I should say I fled from prison to come to you; I stabbed a man all for jealous love; I am not noble, nor good, nor true?"

"Kenneth, your eyes would belie your words," Boldly and bravely the lass replied. "Why should God fill them with love and truth, And your heart with cruelty, hate, and pride?"

"Marjorie, Marjorie, if I should say That I loved many ere I loved you?" "Ere you had seen me," Marjorie said, " How could you know I was loving and true?"

"Marjorie, Marjorie, if I should say That I was outcast on land and on sea?" "All the more reason," the little maid said, " Why you should ever be loved by me."

"Marjorie, Marjorie, if I should say That I was noble, and titled, and grand; Lord of the woods, and the castle, and park, Lord of the acres of corn o'er the land?"

Dropping a courtesy, the little lass said, "Still should I love you and ever be true; But if you found me too lowly and poor, I should bid farewell and go die for you."

"Marjorie, darling, I tell you then, This is the truth, and the land is mine, And the castle, the park, and the vessel far off, And whatever is mine, is thine, dear, thine!"

December 25, 1867.

THE GARDEN OF ADONIS.

(The Garden of Life in Spenser's "Faerie Queene.")

IT is no fabled garden in the skies, But bloometh here— this is no world of death; And nothing that once liveth, ever dies, And naught that breathes can ever cease to breathe, And naught that bloometh ever withereth. The gods can ne'er take back their gifts from men, They gave us life,— they cannot take again.

Who hath known Death, and who hath seen his face? On what high mountain have ye met with him? Within what lowest valley is there trace Of his feared footsteps? in what forest dim, In what great city, in what lonely ways? Nay, there is no such god, but one called Change, And all he does is beautiful and strange.

It is but Change that lays our darlings low, And, though we doubt and fear, forsakes them not.

Where red lips smiled do sweetest roses blow, And star-flowers bloom above the lovely spot Where gleamed the eyes, with blue forget-me-not. And through the grasses runs the same wave there We knew of old within the golden hair.

Dig in the earth— ye shall not surely find Death or death's semblance; only roots of flowers, And all fair, goodly things there live enshrined, With the foundations of the glad green bowers, Through which the sunshine comes in golden showers. And all the blossoms that this earth enwreathe, Are for assurance that there is no death.

O mother, raise thy tear-bathed lids again: Thy child died not, he only liveth more— His soul is in the sunshine and the rain, His life is in the waters and the shore, He is around thee all the wide world o'er; The daisy thou hast plucked smiles back at thee, Because it doth again its mother see.

What noble deed that ever lived, is dead, Or yet hath lost its power to inspire Courage in hearts that sicken, and to shed New faith and hope when hands and footsteps tire,

And make sad, downcast eyes look upward higher? Yea, all men see and know it, whence it came; It purifies them like a burning flame.

And dreams? What dreams were ever lost and gone, But wandering in strange lands we found again? When least we think of these dear birdlings flown, We find that bright and fresh they still remain. The garden of all life is round us then; And he is blind who doth not know and see, And praise the gods for immortality.

May, 1868.

MORNING.

GRAY-VESTED Dawn, with flameless, tranquil eye, Cool hands, and dewy lips, is in the sky, A sober nun, with starry rosary.

With eyes downcast and with uplifted palm, She seems to whisper now her silent psalm; Beneath her gaze the sleeping earth is calm.

Her prayer is ended, and she riseth slow, And o'er the hills she quietly doth go, Noiseless and gentle as the midnight snow.

Then suddenly the pale-east blushes red, The flowers to see upraise a sleepy head, The rosy colors deepen, grow, and spread.

A cool breeze whispers: "She is coming now!" And then the radiant colors burn and glow, The white cast blushes over cheek and brow,

And glorious on the hills the Morning stands, Her saffron hair back-blown from rosy bands, And light and joy and fragrance in her hands.

Her foot has touched the hill-tops, and they shine; She comes,— the willow rustles and the pine; She smiles upon the fields a smile divine,

And all the earth smiles back; from mount to vale, From oak to shuddering grass, from glen to dale, Wet fields and flowers and glistening brooks cry "Hail!"

IN MEMORIAM.

O FRIEND who passed away while flowers died, Now that the land bursts into bloom again, With vivid blossoms o'er the landscape wide, Purple and white 'mongst, grasses golden-eyed, In beauteous resurrection o'er the plain,—

My thoughts revert to thee, who liest still, Under the pulsing, stirring, glowing earth; Not rising with the lilac on the hill, Not waking with the sunny daffodil, Living and breathing with no second birth.

In these sweet days I dream I see thy grave, A mockery of death, alive with flowers. The delicate sprays and tender grasses wave, Blue violets and the hardy crocus brave, Wooed back to life by sunshine, dew, and showers.

I cannot deem that thou art lying there, Asleep through all these fervent days of spring; For I perceive thy spirit in the air,

Around me ever in my dream and prayer, Enskied and hallowed by thy suffering.

When thou didst walk upon the earth before, My trivial words and deeds alone were thine; But now my holiest dreams are evermore Blended with thoughts of thee, on that far shore, Where thy pale, girlish face has grown divine.

Through the dark shadows thou must go alone; And lo! thou hast a dauntless bravery, A most majestic resignation shown; A valiant patience, a faith not overthrown By the dread terror of uncertainty.

The day had fled, from thee for evermore, Thy soul was ebbing with the waning light, And still thou asked, aweary and heartsore, The same pathetic question o'er and o'er,— "O, I am tired! will I go to-night?"

Aye, thou didst go,— and where? Thou knowest now. Nature is innocent as well as fair; Lillies, as well as amaranth, wreathe her brow. She hath thy soul; because I cannot know Where it may be, I feel it everywhere.

And thus the spring hath brought me flowers of worth. O mourners, cease to weep o'er empty graves! Open them all! no dead come trooping forth, To fill with ghastly hosts the living earth; Only the flowers bloom, the green grass waves.

Those ye laid low with solemn rites and tears, Elude you; while ye weep, they all have flown. And so I lay aside my doubts and fears; My friend in day-dreams and at night appears, And hovers near when I am most alone.

REALITY.

"Hold fast to your most indefinite waking dream. Dreams are the solidest facts that we know."

— HENRY D. THOREAU.

CELESTIAL hopes and dreams, And lofty purposes, and long rich days, With fragrance filled of blameless deeds and ways, And visionary gleams—

These things alone endure; "They are the solid facts," that we may grasp, Leading us on and upward if we clasp And hold them firm and sure.

In a wise fable old, A hero sought a god who could at will Assume all figures, and the hero still Loosed not his steadfast hold,

For image foul or fair, For soft-eyed nymph, who wept with pain and shame,

For threatening fiend or loathsome beast or flame, For menace or for prayer.

Until the god, outbraved, Took his own shape divine; not wrathfully, But wondering, to the hero gave reply, The knowledge that he craved.

We seize the god in youth; All forms conspire to make us loose our grasp,—Ambition, folly, gain,— till we unclasp From the embrace of truth.

We grow more wise, we say, And work for worldly ends and mock our dream, Alas! while all life's glory and its gleam, With that have fled away.

If thereto we had clung Through change and peril, fire and night and storm, Till it assumed its proper, godlike form, We might at last have wrung

An answer to our cries— A brave response to our most valiant hope.

Unto the light of day this word might ope A million mysteries.

O'er each man's brow I see The bright star of his genius shining clear; It seeks to guide him to a nobler sphere, Above earth's vanity.

Up to pure height of snow, Its beckoning ray still leads him on and on; To those who follow, lo, itself comes down And crowns at length their brow.

The nimbus still doth gleam On these the heroes, sages of the earth, The few who found, in life of any worth, Only their loftiest dream.

May, 1869.

HEROES.

IN rich Virginian woods, The scarlet creeper reddens over graves, Among the solemn trees enlooped with vines; Heroic spirits haunt the solitudes— The noble souls of half a million braves, Amid the murmurous pines.

Ah! who is left behind, Earnest and eloquent, sincere and strong, To consecrate their memories with words Not all unmeet? with fitting dirge and song To chant a requiem purer than the wind, And sweeter than the birds?

Here, though all seems at peace, The placid, measureless sky serenely fair, The laughter of the breeze among the leaves, The bars of sunlight slanting through the trees, The reckless wild-flowers blooming everywhere, The grasses' delicate sheaves,—

Nathless each breeze that blows, Each tree that trembles to its leafy head With nervous life, revives within our mind, Tender as flowers of May, the thoughts of those Who lie beneath the living beauty, dead,— Beneath the sunshine, blind.

For brave dead soldiers, these: Blessings and tears of aching thankfulness, Soft flowers for the graves in wreaths enwove, The odorous lilac of dear memories, The heroic blossoms of the wilderness, And the rich rose of love.

But who has sung their praise, Not less illustrious, who are living yet? Armies of heroes, satisfied to pass Calmly, serenely from the whole world's gaze, And cheerfully accept, without regret, Their old life as it was,

With all its petty pain, Its irritating littleness and care; They who have scaled the mountain, with content Sublime, descend to live upon the plain; Steadfast as though they breathed the mountain-air Still, whereso'er they went.

They who were brave to act, And rich enough their action to forget; Who, having filled their day with chivalry, Withdraw and keep their simpleness intact, And all unconscious add more lustre yet Unto their victory.

On the broad Western plains Their patriarchal life they live anew; Hunters as mighty as the men of oId, Or harvesting the plenteous, yellow grains, Gathering ripe vintage of dusk bunches blue, Or working mines of gold;

Or toiling in the town, Armed against hindrance, weariness, defeat, With dauntless purpose not to swerve or yield, And calm, defiant strength, they struggle on, As sturdy and as valiant in the street, As in the camp and field.

And those condemned to live, Maimed, helpless, lingering still through suffering years, May they not envy now the restful sleep Of the dear fellow-martyrs they survive? Not o'er the dead, but over these, your tears, O brothers, ye may weep!

New England fields I see, The lovely, cultured landscape, waving grain, Wide, haughty rivers, and pale, English skies. And lo! a farmer ploughing busily, Who lifts a swart face, looks upon the plain,— I see, in his frank eyes,

The hero's soul appear. Thus in the common fields and streets they stand The light that on the past and distant gleams, They cast upon the present and the near, With antique virtues from some mystic land, Of knightly deeds and dreams.

EXULTATION.

BEHOLD, I walked abroad at early morning, The fields of June were bathed in dew and lustre, The hills were clad with light as with a garment.

The inexpressible auroral freshness, The grave, immutable, aerial heavens, The transient clouds above the quiet landscape,

The heavy odor of the passionate lilacs, That hedged the road with sober-colored clusters, All these o'ermastered me with subtle power,

And made my rural walk a royal progress, Peopled my solitude with airy spirits, Who hovered over me with joyous singing.

"Behold!" they sang, "the glory of the morning. Through every vein does not the summer tingle, With vague desire and flush of expectation?

"To think how fair is life! set round with grandeur; The eloquent sea beneath the voiceless heavens, The shifting shows of every bounteous season;

"Rich skies, fantastic clouds, and herby meadows, Gray rivers, prairies spread with regal flowers, Grasses and grains and herds of browsing cattle:

"Great cities filled with breathing men and women, Of whom the basest have their aspirations, High impulses of courage or affection.

"And on this brave earth still those finer spirits, Heroic Valor, admirable Friendship, And Love itself, a very god among you.

"All these for thee, and thou evoked from nothing, Born from blank darkness to this blaze of beauty, Where is thy faith, and where are thy thanksgivings?"

The world is his who can behold it rightly, Who hears the harmonies of unseen angels Above the senseless outcry of the hour.

SONNET.

STILL northward is the central mount of Maine, From whose high crown the rugged forests seem Like shaven lawns, and lakes with frequent gleam, "Like broken mirrors," flash back light again. Eastward the sea, with its majestic plain, Endless, of radiant, restless blue, superb With might and music, whether storms perturb Its reckless waves, or halcyon winds that reign, Make it serene as wisdom. Storied Spain Is the next coast, and yet we may not sigh For lands beyond the inexorable main; Our noble scenes have yet no history. All subtler charms than those that feed the eye, Our lives must give them; 'tis an aim austere, But opes new vistas, and a pathway clear.

IDYL.

The swallows made twitter incessant, The thrushes were wild with their mirth. The ways and the woods were made pleasant, And the flowering nooks of the earth. And the sunshine sufficed to rejoice me, And the air was as bracing as wine, And the sky and the shadows and grasses Were enough to make living divine.

Then I saw on the ground two gray robins, One with glorious flame-colored vest, 'Neath the shade of some delicate bluebells, By the breeze of the morning caressed. They were singing of love in the shadow; She was bashful, and modest, and coy, And he sang to her tenderest love-songs, And madrigals full of his joy.

And his song came forth clearer and clearer, With each passionate, musical note; Like the ripple of silvery waters, It gushed from his beautiful throat.

His whole little bird-soul he offers,— Ah! she listens to him as he sings: Then he ceases, awaiting her answer, With bright eyes and with quivering wings.

And I, too, stood awaiting it, breathless, For his song was too sweet to disdain, Till it came, little notes full of gladness, With a plaintive and tender refrain. And the songs died away in the distance, And the forest alone heard the rest, As the two little lovers flew upward, To build them together a nest.

THE DAY OF DEAD SOLDIERS.

May 30, 1869.

WELCOME, thou gray and fragrant Sabbath-day, To deathless love and valor dedicate! Glorious with the richest flowers of May, With early roses, lingering lilacs late, With vivid green of grass and leaf and spray, Thou bringest memories that far outweigh The season's joy with thoughts of death and fate.

What words may paint the picture on the air Of this broad land to-day from sea to sea? The rolling prairies, purple valleys rare, And royal mountains, endless rivers free, Filled full with phantoms flitting everywhere, Pale ghosts of buried armies, slowly there From countless graves uprising silently.

A calm, grave day,—the sunlight does not shine But thin, gray clouds bedrape the sky o'erhead. The delicate air is filled with spirits fine, The temperate breezes whisper of the dead.

What visions and what memories divine, O holy Sabbath flower-day, are thine, Painted in light against a field of red!

Behold the fairest spots in all the land, To-day in this mid-season of fresh flowers, Are heroes' graves, —by many a tender hand Sprinkled With odorous, radiant-colored showers; By mild, moist breezes delicately fanned, Sending o'er distant towns their perfumes bland, Loading with sweet aroma sunless hours.

Who knows what tremulous, dusky hands set free, Deck quaintly with gay flowers the graves unknown? What wealth of bloom is shed exuberantly, On the far grave in Illinois alone, Where the last hero, sleeping peacefully, Beyond detraction and mistrust, doth lie, By the glad winds of prairies overblown?

With hymns and prayer be this day sanctified, And consecrate to heroes' memories; Not with wild, violent grief for those who died, O wives and mothers, but with patience wise, Calm resignation, and a thankful pride, That they have left their land a fame so wide, So rich a page of thrilling histories.

HOW LONG!

How long, and yet how long, Our leaders will we hail from over seas, Masters and kings from feudal monarchies, And mock their ancient song With echoes weak of foreign melodies?

That distant isle mist-wreathed, Mantled in unimaginable green, Too long hath been our mistress and our queen. Our fathers have bequeathed Too deep a love for her our hearts within.

She made the whole world ring With the brave exploits of her children strong, And with the matchless music of her song. Too late, too late we cling To alien legends, and their strains prolong.

This fresh young world I see, With heroes, cities, legends of her own; With a new race of men, and overblown By winds from sea to sea,Decked with the majesty of every zone.

I see the glittering tops Of snow-peaked mounts, the wid'ning vale's expanse Large prairies where free herds of horses prance, Exhaustless wealth of crops, In vast, magnificent extravagance.

These grand, exuberant plains, These stately rivers, each with many a mouth, The exquisite beauty of the soft-aired south, The boundless seas of grains, Luxuriant forests' lush and splendid growth.

The distant siren-song Of the green island in the eastern sea, Is not the lay for this new chivalry. It is not free and strong To chant on prairies 'neath this brilliant sky.

The echo faints and fails; It suiteth not, upon this western plain, Our voice or spirit; we should stir again The wilderness, and make the plain Resound unto a yet unheard-of strain.