And the nations far away Are watching with eager eyes; And the old gods, the austere Ah me! for the land that is sown Where ashes are heaped in drifts His head through the blackened rifts See, see! the red light shines! 'Tis the glare of his awful eyes! And the storm-wind shouts through the pines Of Alps and of Apennines, "Enceladus, arise!" THE CUMBERLAND. AT anchor in Hampton Roads we lay, Or a bugle blast From the camp on the shore. Then far away to the south uprose Of our ribs of oak. Down upon us heavily runs, Silent and sullen, the floating fort; Then comes a puff of smoke from her guns, And leaps the terrible death, With fiery breath, From each open port. We are not idle, but send her straight From each iron scale Of the monster's hide. "Strike your flag!" the rebel cries, "It is better to sink than to yield!" With the cheers of our men. Then, like a kraken huge and black, For her dying gasp. Next morn, as the sun rose over the bay, Still floated our flag at the mainmast head. Lord, how beautiful was Thy day! Every waft of the air Was a whisper of prayer, Or a dirge for the dead. Hot brave hearts that went down in the seas ! And without a seam! SNOW-FLAKES. Out of the bosom of the Air, Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken, Over the woodlands brown and bare, Over the harvest-fields forsaken, Silent, and soft, and slow Descends the snow. Even as our cloudy fancies take Suddenly shape in some divine expression, The grief it feels. This is the poem of the air, Slowly in silent syllables recorded; This is the secret of despair, Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded, A DAY OF SUNSHINE. O GIFT of God! O perfect day, Through every fibre of my brain, I hear the wind among the trees And over me unrolls on high Towards yonder cloud-land in the West, Its craggy summits white with drifts. Blow, winds! and waft through all the rooms O Life and Love! O happy throng SOMETHING LEFT UNDONE. LABOR with what zeal we will, Something uncompleted still Waits the rising of the sun. By the bedside, on the stair, At the threshold, near the gates, Waits, and will not go away; Each to-day is heavier made; Till at length the burden seems And we stand from day to day, WEARINESS. O LITTLE feet! that such long years Where toil shall cease and rest begin, O little hands! that, weak or strong, Have still so long to give or ask ; |