Everywhere about us are they glowing, Some like stars, to tell us Spring is born; Others, their blue eyes with tears o'erflowing, Stand like Ruth amid the golden corn; Not alone in Spring's armorial bearing,, And in Summer's green-emblazoned field, But in arms of brave old Autumn's wearing, In the centre of his brazen shield; Not alone in meadows and green alleys, On the mountain-top, and by the brink Of sequestered pools in woodland valleys, Where the slaves of nature stoop to drink; Not alone in her vast dome of glory, Not on graves of bird and beast alone, But in old cathedrals, high and hoary, On the tombs of heroes, carved in stone; In the cottage of the rudest peasant, In ancestral homes, whose crumbling towers, Speaking of the Past unto the Present, Tell us of the ancient Games of Flowers; In all places, then, and in all seasons, And with childlike, credulous affection We behold their tender buds expand; Emblems of our own great resurrection, Emblems of the bright and better land. THE BELEAGUERED CITY. I HAVE read, in some old, marvellous tale, Beside the Moldau's rushing stream, White as a sea-fog, landward bound, And, with a sorrowful, deep sound, No other voice nor sound was there, But when the old cathedral bell Proclaimed the morning prayer, Down the broad valley fast and far I have read, in the marvellous heart of man, That strange and mystic scroll, Encamped beside Life's rushing stream, Upon its midnight battle-ground No other voice nor sound is there, In the army of the grave; But the rushing of Life's wave. And when the solemn and deep churchbell Entreats the soul to pray, Down the broad Vale of Tears afar MIDNIGHT MASS FOR THE DY. ING YEAR. YES, the Year is growing old, And his eye is pale and bleared! Death, with frosty hand and cold, Plucks the old man by the beard, Sorely, sorely! The leaves are falling, falling, A sound of woe! Through woods and mountain passes And the hooded clouds, like friars, There he stands in the foul weather, Crowned with wild flowers and with Like weak, despised Lear, Then comes the summer-like day, Bids the old man rejoice! |Of the soft air, like a daughter's breath, And now the sweet day is dead; No mist or stain ! Then, too, the Old Year dieth, And the forests utter a moan, "Vex not his ghost!" Then comes, with an awful roar, Howl! howl! and from the forest Would, the sins that thou abhorrest, And be swept away! His joy! his last! O, the old man gray For there shall come a mightier blast, Loveth that ever-soft voice, Gentle and low. To the crimson woods he saith, To the voice gentle and low There shall be a darker day; And the stars, from heaven down-cast Kyrie, eleyson! EARLIER POEMS. [These poems were written for the most part during my college life, and all of them before the age of nineteen. Some have found their way into schools, and seem to be successful. Others lead a vagabond and precarious existence in the corners of newspapers; or have changed their names and run away to seek their fortunes beyond the sea. I say, with the Bishop of Avranches on a similar occasion: "I cannot be displeased to see these children of mine, which I have neglected, and almost exposed, brought from their wanderings in lanes and alleys, and safely lodged, in order to go forth into the world together in a more decorous garb."] AN APRIL DAY. WHEN the warm sun, that brings Seed-time and harvest, has returned again, "T is sweet to visit the still wood, where springs The first flower of the plain. I love the season well, When forest glades are teeming with Nor dark and many-folded clouds foretell From the earth's loosened mould The sapling draws its sustenance, and thrives; Though stricken to the heart with winter's | And, from a beaker full of richest dyes, cold, The drooping tree revives. The softly-warbled song Comes from the pleasant woods, and colored wings Glance quick in the bright sun, that moves along The forest openings. When the bright sunset fills The silver woods with light, the green slope throws Its shadows in the hollows of the hills, And wide the upland glows. And when the eve is born, Pouring new glory on the autumn woods, And dipping in warm light the pillared clouds. Morn on the mountain, like a summer bird, Lifts up her purple wing, and in the vales The gentle wind, a sweet and passionate wooer, Kisses the blushing leaf, and stirs up life Within the solemn woods of ash deepcrimsoned, And silver beech, and maple yellowleaved, Where Autumn, like a faint old man, sits down In the blue lake the sky, o'er-reaching By the wayside a-weary. Through the far, trees The golden robin moves. The purple finch, That on wild cherry and red cedar feeds, A winter bird, comes with its plaintive whistle, And pecks by the witch-hazel, whilst aloud From cottage roofs the warbling bluebird sings, And merrily, with oft-repeated stroke, Sounds from the threshing-floor the busy flail. O what a glory doth this world put on For him who, with a fervent heart, goes forth Under the bright and glorious sky, and looks On duties well performed, and days well spent! For him the wind, ay, and the yellow leaves, Shall have a voice, and give him eloquent teachings. He shall so hear the solemn hymn that Has lifted up for all, that he shall go WOODS IN WINTER. WHEN winter winds are piercing chill, And through the hawthorn blows the gale, With solemn feet I tread the hill, That overbrows the lonely vale. O'er the bare upland, and away Through the long reach of desert woods, The embracing sunbeams chastely play, And gladden these deep solitudes. Where, twisted round the barren oak, The summer vine in beauty clung, And summer winds the stillness broke, The crystal icicle is hung. Where, from their frozen urns, mute springs Pour out the river's gradual tide, Shrilly the skater's iron rings, And voices fill the woodland side. Alas! how changed from the fair scene, When birds sang out their mellow lay, And winds were soft, and woods were green, And the song ceased not with the day! But still wild music is abroad, Pale, desert woods! within your crowd; And gathering winds, in hoarse accord, Amid the vocal reeds pipe loud. Chill airs and wintry winds! my ear Has grown familiar with your song; I hear it in the opening year, I listen, and it cheers me long. HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN NUNS OF BETHLEHEM. AT THE CONSECRATION OF PULASKI'S BANNER. WHEN the dying flame of day And the nuns' sweet hymn was heard the while, Sung low, in the dim, mysterious aisle. "Take thy banner! May it wave When the clarion's music thrills "Take thy banner! and, beneath "Take thy banner! But when night "Take thy banner! and if e'er And the muffled drum should beat Martial cloak and shroud for thee." |