Stars they are, wherein we read our history, Yet not wrapped about with awful mystery, Wondrous truths, and manifold as wondrous, Bright and glorious is that revelation, Written all over this great world of ours; Making evident our own creation, In these stars of earth,-these golden flowers. And the Poet, faithful and far-seeing, Sees, alike in stars and flowers, a part Of the self-same, universal being, Which is throbbing in his brain and heart. Gorgeous flowerets in the sunlight shining, Brilliant hopes, all woven in gorgeous tissues, These in flowers and men are more than seeming ; Seeth in himself and in the flowers. 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, Not on graves of bird and beast alone, 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, Flowers expand their light and soul-like wings, And with childlike, credulous affection We behold their tender buds expand; Emblems of our own great resurrection, Emblems of the bright and better land. I HAVE read, in some old marvellous tale, White as a sea-fog, landward bound, The spectral camp was seen, The river flowed between. No other voice nor sound was there, But, when the old cathedral bell Proclaimed the morning prayer, The white pavilions rose and fell On the alarmèd air. Down the broad valley fast and far The troubled army fled; Up rose the glorious morning star, The ghastly host was dead. I have read, in the marvellous heart of man, That an army of phantoms vast and wan Encamped beside Life's rushing stream, Upon its midnight battle-ground No other voice, nor sound is there, But the rushing of Life's wave. And, when the solemn and deep church-bell The midnight phantoms feel the spell, Down the broad Vale of Tears afar And the hooded clouds, like friars, All in vain! There he stands in the foul weather, Crowned with wild flowers and with heather, A king, a king! Then comes the summer-like day, His joy! his last! O, the old man gray Gentle and low. To the crimson woods he saith, To the voice gentle and low Of the soft air, like a daughter's breath,"Pray do not mock me so! Do not laugh at me!" And now the sweet day is dead ; No stain from its breath is spread No mist or stain! Then, too, the Old Year dieth, And the forests utter a moan, Like the voice of one who crieth Then comes, with an awful roar, The storm-wind! |