Poems of Thomas Bailey Aldrich / [by Thomas Bailey Aldrich] [electronic text]

SONNETS.

I.
MIRACLES.

SICK of myself and all that keeps the light Of the blue skies away from me and mine, I climb this ledge, and by this wind-swept pine Lingering, watch the coming of the night. 'T is ever a new wonder to my sight. Men look to God for some mysterious sign, For other stars than those that nightly shine, For some unnatural symbol of His might:— Wouldst see a miracle as grand as those The prophets wrought of old in Palestine? Come watch with me the shaft of fire that glows In yonder West; the fair, frail palaces, The fading alps and archipelagoes, And great cloud-continents of sunset-seas.

II.
FREDERICKSBURG.

THE increasing moonlight drifts across my bed, And on the churchyard by the road, I know It falls as white and noiselessly as snow... 'T was such a night two weary summers fled; The stars, as now, were waning overhead. Listen! Again the shrill-lipped bugles blow Where the swift currents of the river flow Past Fredericksburg: far off the heavens are red With sudden conflagration: on yon height, Linstock in hand, the gunners hold their breath: A signal-rocket pierces the dense night, Flings its spent stars upon the town beneath: Hark!— the artillery massing on the right, Hark!— the black squadrons wheeling down to Death!

III.
PURSUIT AND POSSESSION.

WHEN I behold what pleasure is Pursuit, What life, what glorious eagerness it is; Then mark how full Possession falls from this How fairer seems the blossom than the fruit— I am perplext, and often stricken mute

Wondering which attained the higher bliss, The wingéd insect, or the chrysalis It thrust aside with unreluctant foot. Spirit of verse, that still elud'st my art, Thou airy phantom that dost ever haunt me, O never, never rest upon my heart, If when I have thee I shall little want thee! Still flit away in moonlight, rain, and dew, Will-of-the-wisp, that I may still pursue!

IV.
EGYPT.

"EGYPT." Page 203.

FANTASTIC Sleep is busy with my eyes: I seem in some waste solitude to stand Once ruled of Cheops: upon either hand A dark illimitable desert lies, Sultry and still— a realm of mysteries; A wide-browed Sphinx, half buried in the sand, With orbless sockets stares across the land, The woefulest thing beneath these brooding skies, Where all is woeful, weird-lit vacancy. 'T is neither midnight, twilight, nor moonrise. Lo! while I gaze, beyond the vast sand-sea The nebulous clouds are downward slowly drawn, And one bleared star, faint-glimmering like a bee, Is shut in the rosy outstretched hand of Dawn.

V.
A PREACHER.

THUS spake the Preacher: "O, my friends, beware! How ever smooth and tempting seems the path, With bowers of cooling shade, the end is wrath: Here 't is unsafe, that's dangerous footing there; But follow me and have no further care; Make me your guide, for I am one that hath Lived long and gathered in life's aftermath— Experience. I bid you not despair. Reach me your hands and cast away all doubt; I'll lead you safe along the glacier's shelf:You say 't is dark? 'T is noon-day, I insist; Besides, I know each pitfall hereabout, I know each chasm"—just then the Preacher's self Stumbled and plunged into eternal mist.

VI.
EUTERPE.

Now if Euterpe held me not in scorn, I'd shape a lyric, perfect, fair, and round As that thin band of gold wherewith I bound Your slender finger our betrothal morn.

Not of Desire alone is music born, Not till the Muse wills is our passion crowned: Unsought she comes, if sought but seldom found. Hence is it Poets often are forlorn, Taciturn, shy, self-immolated, pale, Taking no healthy pleasure in their kind—Wrapt in their dream as in a coat-of-mail. Hence is it I, the least, a very hind, Have stolen away into this leafy vale Drawn by the flutings of the silvery wind.

VII.
AT BAY RIDGE, LONG ISLAND.

PLEASANT it is to lie amid the grass Under these shady locusts, half the day, Watching the ships reflected on the Bay, Topmast and shroud, as in a wizard's glass: To see the happy-hearted martins pass, Brushing the dew-drops from the lilac spray: Or else to hang enamored o'er some lay Of fairy regions: or to muse, alas! On Dante, exiled, journeying outworn; On patient Milton's sorrowfulest eyes Shut from the splendors of the Night and Morn; To think that now, beneath the Italian skies, In such clear air as this, by Tiber's wave, Daisies are trembling over Keats's grave.

VIII.
GHOSTS.

THOSE forms we fancy shadows, those strange lights That flash on dank morasses, the quick wind That smites us by the roadside—are the Night's Innumerable children. Unconfined By shroud or coffin, disembodied souls, Uneasy spirits, steal into the air From ancient graveyards when the curfew tolls At the day's death. Pestilence and despair Fly with the sightless bats at set of sun; And wheresoever murders have been done, In crowded palaces or lonely woods, Where'er a soul has sold itself and lost Its high inheritance, there, hovering, broods Some sad, invisible, accurséd ghost!

IX.
BY THE POTOMAC.

THE soft new grass is creeping o'er the graves By the Potomac; and the crisp ground-flower Lifts its blue cup to catch the passing shower; The pine-cone ripens, and the long moss waves Its tangled gonfalons above our braves.

Hark, what a burst of music from yon bower!— The Southern nightingale that, hour by hour, In its melodious summer madness raves. Ah, with what delicate touches of her hand, With what sweet voices, Nature seeks to screen The awful Crime of this distracted land— Sets her birds singing, while she spreads her green Mantle of velvet where the Murdered lie, As if to hide the horror from God's eye.

X.
ENAMORED ARCHITECT OF AIRY RHYME.

ENAMORED architect of airy rhyme, Build as thou wilt; heed not what each man says Good souls, but innocent of dreamers' ways, Will come, and marvel why thou wastest time; Others, beholding how thy turrets climb 'Twixt theirs and heaven, will hate thee all their days: But most beware of those who come to praise. O Wondersmith, O worker in sublimeAnd heaven-sent dreams, let art be all in all; Build as thou wilt, unspoiled by praise or blame, Build as thou wilt, and as thy light is given: Then, if at last the airy structure fall, Dissolve, and vanish—take thyself no shame. They fail, and they alone, who have not striven.

XI.
THREE FLOWERS.

TO BAYARD TAYLOR.

HEREWITH I send you three pressed withered flowers: This one was white, with golden star; this, blue As Capri's cave; that, purple and shot through With sunset-orange. Where the Duomo towers In diamond air, and under hanging bowers The Arno glides, this faded violet grew On Landor's grave; from Landor's heart it drew Its magic azure in the long spring hours. Within the shadow of the Pyramid Of Caius Cestius was the daisy found, White as the soul of Keats in Paradise. The pansy—there were hundreds of them, hid In the thick grass that folded Shelley's mound Guarding his ashes with most lovely eyes.

XII.
AN ALPINE PICTURE.

STAND here and look, and softly hold your breath Lest the vast avalanche come crashing down!

How many miles away is yonder town Set flower-wise in the valley? Far beneath— A scimitar half drawn from out its sheath— The river curves through meadows newly mown; The ancient water-courses are all strown With drifts of snow, fantastic wreath on wreath And peak on peak against the turquoise-blue The Alps like towering campanili stand, Wondrous, with pinnacles of frozen rain, Silvery, crystal, like the prism in hue. O tell me, Love, if this be Switzerland— Or is it but the frost-work on the pane?

XIII.
TO L. T. IN FLORENCE.

YOU by the Arno shape your marble dream, Under the cypress and the olive trees, While I, this side the wild, wind-beaten seas, Unrestful by the Charles's placid stream, Long once again to catch the golden gleam Of Brunelleschi's dome, and lounge at ease In those pleached gardens and fair galleries. And yet, perhaps, you envy me, and deem My star the happier, since it holds me here. Even so, one time, beneath the cypresses My heart turned longingly across the sea, Aching with love for thee, New England dear!

And I'd have given all Titian's goddessesFor one poor cowslip or anemone.

XIV.
ENGLAND.

WHILE men pay reverence to mighty things, They must revere thee, thou blue-cinctured isle Of England—not to-day, but this long while In the front of nations, Mother of great kings, Soldiers, and poets. Round thee the Sea flings His steel-bright arm, and shields thee from the guile And hurt of France. Secure, with august smile Thou sittest, and the East its tribute brings. Some say thy old-time power is on the wane, Thy moon of grandeur filled, contracts at length— They see it darkening down from less to less. Let but a hostile hand make threat again, And they shall see thee in thy ancient strength,Each iron sinew quivering, lioness!

XV.
THE LORELEI.

YONDER we see it from the steamer's deck, The haunted Mountain of the Lorelei—

The o'erhanging crags sharp-cut against a sky Clear as a sapphire without flaw or fleck. 'T was here the Siren lay in wait to wreck The fisher-lad. At dusk, as he passed by, Perchance he'd hear her tender amorous sigh, And, seeing the wondrous whiteness of her neck, Perchance would halt, and lean towards the shore; Then she by that soft magic which she had Would lure him, and in gossamers of her hair, Gold upon gold, would wrap him o'er and o'er, Wrap him, and sing to him, and set him mad, Then drag him down to no man knoweth where.

XVI.
BARBERRIES.

IN scarlet clusters o'er the gray stone-wall The barberries lean in thin autumnal air: Just when the fields and garden-plots are bare, And ere the green leaf takes the tint of fall, They come, to make the eye a festival! Along the road, for miles, their torches flare. Ah, if your deep-sea coral were but rare (The damask rose might envy it withal), What bards had sung your praises long ago, Called you fine names in honey-worded books— The rosy tramps of turnpike and of lane, September's blushes, Ceres' lips aglow,

Little Red-Ridinghoods, for your sweet looks!— But your plebeian beauty is in vain.

XVII.
HENRY HOWARD BROWNELL.

THEY never crowned him, never knew his worth, But let him go unlaurelled to the grave: Hereafter there are guerdons for the brave, Roses for martyrs who wear thorns on earth, Balms for bruised hearts that languish in the dearth Of human love. So let the lilies wave Above him nameless. Little did he crave Men's praises. Modestly, with kindly mirth, Not sad nor bitter, he accepted fate—Drank deep of life, knew books, and hearts of men, Cities and camps, and war's immortal woe, Yet bore through all (such virtue in him sate His Spirit is not whiter now than then!) A simple, loyal nature, pure as snow.

XVIII.
"EVEN THIS WILL PASS AWAY."

TOUCHED with the delicate green of early May, Or later, when the rose unveils her face,

The world hangs glittering in star-strown space, Fresh as a jewel found but yesterday. And yet 't is very old; what tongue may say How old it is? Race follows upon race, Forgetting and forgotten; in their place Sink tower and temple; nothing long may stay. We build on tombs, and live our day, and die; From out our dust new towers and temples start; Our very name becomes a mystery. What cities no man ever heard of lie Under the glacier, in the mountain's heart, In violet glooms beneath the moaning sea!

XIX.
AT STRATFORD-UPON-AVON.

TO EDWIN BOOTH.

THUS spake his dust (so seemed it as I read The words): Good friend, for Jesus' sake forbeare (Poor ghost!) To digg the dust encloséd heare— Then came the malediction on the head Of whoso dare disturb the sacred dead. Outside the mavis whistled strong and clear, And, touched with the sweet glamour of the year, The winding Avon murmured in its bed. But in the solemn Stratford church the air Was chill and dank, and on the foot-worn tomb

The evening shadows deepened momently:Then a great awe crept on me, standing there, As if some speechless Presence in the gloom Was hovering, and fain would speak with me.

XX.
THE RARITY OF GENIUS.

WHILE yet my lip was breathing youth's first breath, Too young to feel the utmost of their spell I saw Medea and Phædra in Rachel: Later I saw the great Elizabeth. Rachel, Ristori— we shall taste of death Ere we meet spirits like these: in one age dwell Not many such; a century may tell Its hundred beads before it braid a wreath For two so queenly foreheads. If it take Æons to form a diamond, grain on grain, Æons to crystallize its fire and dew— By what slow processes must Nature make Her Shakespeares and her Raffaels? Great the gain If she spoil thousands making one or two.

XXI.
SLEEP.

WHEN to soft Sleep we give ourselves away, And in a dream as in a fairy bark Drift on and on through the enchanted dark To purple daybreak—little thought we pay To that sweet bitter world we know by day. We are clean quit of it, as is a lark So high in heaven no human eye can mark The thin swift pinion cleaving through the gray. Till we awake ill fate can do no ill, The resting heart shall not take up again The heavy load that yet must make it bleed; For this brief space the loud world's voice is still, No faintest echo of it brings us pain. How will it be when we shall sleep indeed?