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FLOWER-DE-LUCE.

FLOWER-DE-LUCE.

BEAUTIFUL lily, dwelling by still rivers,

Or solitary mere,

Or where the sluggish meadow-brook delivers

Its waters to the weir!

Thou laughest at the mill, the whir and worry

Of spindle and of loom,

O flower-de-luce, bloom on, and let the river

Linger to kiss thy feet!

O flower of song, bloom on, and make forever

The world more fair and sweet.

PALINGENESIS.

I LAY upon the headland-height, and listened

And the great wheel that toils amid the To the incessant sobbing of the sea

hurry

And rushing of the flume.

In caverns under me,

And watched the waves, that tossed and fled and glistened,

Born in the purple, born to joy and Until the rolling meadows of amethyst pleasance,

Thou dost not toil nor spin,

Melted away in mist.

But makest glad and radiant with thy Then suddenly, as one from sleep, I

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The burnished dragon-fly is thine at- A moment only, and the light and glory tendant,

And tilts against the field,

Faded away, and the disconsolate shore
Stood lonely as before;

And down the listed sunbeam rides re- And the wild-roses of the promontory

splendent

With steel-blue mail and shield.

Thou art the Iris, fair among the fairest,

Who, armed with golden rod And winged with the celestial azure, bearest

The message of some God.

Around me shuddered in the wind, and shed

Their petals of pale red.

There was an old belief that in the em

bers

Of all things their primordial form exists,
And cunning alchemists

Could re-create the rose with all its
members

Thou art the Muse, who far from crowded From its own ashes, but without the

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Can from the ashes in our hearts once | I do not know; nor will I vainly ques

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tion

Those pages of the mystic book which hold

The story still untold,

But without rash conjecture or suggestion Turn its last leaves in reverence and good heed,

Until "The End" I read.

THE BRIDGE OF CLOUD.

BURN, O evening hearth, and waken
Pleasant visions, as of old!
Though the house by winds be shaken,
Safe I keep this room of gold!

Ah, no longer wizard Fancy
Builds her castles in the air,
Luring me by necromancy

Up the never-ending stair!

But, instead, she builds me bridges
Over many a dark ravine,
Where beneath the gusty ridges

Cataracts dash and roar unseen.

And I cross them, little heeding

Blast of wind or torrent's roar, As I follow the receding

Footsteps that have gone before.

Naught avails the imploring gesture,

Naught avails the cry of pain! When I touch the flying vesture, 'Tis the gray robe of the rain.

Baffled I return, and, leaning

O'er the parapets of cloud, Watch the mist that intervening Wraps the valley in its shroud.

And the sounds of life ascending

Faintly, vaguely, meet the ear, Murmur of bells and voices blending With the rush of waters near.

Well I know what there lies hidden, Every tower and town and farm, And again the land forbidden

Reassumes its vanished charm.

Well I know the secret places,

And the nests in hedge and tree; At what doors are friendly faces,

In what hearts are thoughts of me.

Through the mist and darkness sinking,
Blown by wind and beaten by shower,
Down I fling the thought I'm thinking,
Down I toss this Alpine flower.

HAWTHORNE.

MAY 23, 1864.

How beautiful it was, that one bright day

In the long week of rain! Though all its splendor could not chase away

The omnipresent pain.

The lovely town was white with apple

blooms,

And the great elms o'erhead
Dark shadows wove on their aerial looms
Shot through with golden thread.

Which at its topmost speed let fall the pen,

And left the tale half told.

Ah! who shall lift that wand of magic power,

And the lost clew regain?

The unfinished window in Aladdin's tower

Unfinished must remain !

CHRISTMAS BELLS.

I HEARD the bells on Christmas Day
Their old, familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet

The words repeat

Of peace on earth, good-will to men !

And thought how, as the day had come,
The belfries of all Christendom
Had rolled along
The unbroken song

Across the meadows, by the gray old Of peace on earth, good-will to men !

manse,

The historic river flowed:

I was as one who wanders in a trance,
Unconscious of his road.

Till, ringing, singing on its way,
The world revolved from night to day,
A voice, a chime,

A chant sublime

The faces of familiar friends seemed Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

strange;

Their voices I could hear,

Then from each black, accursed mouth

And yet the words they uttered seemed The cannon thundered in the South,

to change

Their meaning to my ear.

For the one face I looked for was not

there,

The one low voice was mute;
Only an unseen presence filled the air,
And baffled my pursuit.

And with the sound
The carols drowned

Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

It was as if an earthquake rent
The hearth-stones of a continent,
And made forlorn
The households born

Now I look back, and meadow, manse, Of peace on earth, good-will to men !

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THE WIND. OVER THE CHIM

NEY.

SEE, the fire is sinking low,
Dusky red the embers glow,

While above them still I cower, While a moment more I linger, Though the clock, with lifted finger, Points beyond the midnight hour.

Sings the blackened log a tune
Learned in some forgotten June

From a school-boy at his play, When they both were young together, Heart of youth and summer weather Making all their holiday.

And the night-wind rising, hark!
How above there in the dark,

In the midnight and the snow,
Ever wilder, fiercer, grander,
Like the trumpets of Iskander,

All the noisy chimneys blow!

Every quivering tongue of flame
Seems to murmur some great name,
Seems to say to me, 66
Aspire!"
But the night-wind answers,
Are the visions that you follow,
Into darkness sinks your fire!"

"Hollow

Then the flicker of the blaze
Gleams on volumes of old days,

Written by masters of the art,
Loud through whose majestic pages
Rolls the melody of ages,

Throb the harp-strings of the heart.

And again the tongues of flame
Start exulting and exclaim:

"These are prophets, bards, and seers; In the horoscope of nations, Like ascendant constellations,

They control the coming years."

But the night-wind cries: "Despair! Those who walk with feet of air

Leave no long-enduring marks; At God's forges incandescent Mighty hammers beat incessant,

These are but the flying sparks.

"Dust are all the hands that wrought; Books are sepulchres of thought;

The dead laurels of the dead Rustle for a moment only, Like the withered leaves in lonely Churchyards at some passing tread."

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HEARD AT NAHANT.

O CURFEW of the setting sun! O Bells of Lynn !

O

requiem of the dying day! O Bells of Lynn !

From the dark belfries of yon cloudcathedral wafted,

Your sounds aerial seem to float, O Bells of Lynn !

Borne on the evening wind across the crimson twilight,

O'er land and sea they rise and fall, O Bells of Lynn !

The fisherman in his boat, far out beyond the headland,

Listens, and leisurely rows ashore, O Bells of Lynn !

Over the shining sands the wandering cattle homeward

Follow each other at your call, O Bells of Lynn !

The distant lighthouse hears, and with his flaming signal

Answers you, passing the watchword on, O Bells of Lynn !

And down the darkening coast run the tumultuous surges,

And clap their hands, and shout to you, O Bells of Lynn !

Till from the shuddering sea, with your wild incantations,

Ye summon up the spectral moon, O Bells of Lynn !

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