Ere the evening lamps are lighted, Dance upon the parlour wall ;- Come to visit me once more; He, the young and strong, who cherished Who the cross of suffering bore, With those deep and tender eyes, Is the spirit's voiceless prayer, Such as these have lived and died! Stars they are, wherein we read our history, As astrologers and seers of eld; Yet not wrapped about with awful mystery, When he called the flowers, so blue and golden, Stars that in earth's firmament do Like the burning stars which they beheld. Wondrous truths, and manifold as wondrous, God hath written in those stars above; But not less in the bright flowerets under us Stands the revelation of his love. Bright and glorious is that revelation, 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, Blossoms flaunting in the eye of day, Tremulous leaves, with soft and silver lining, Buds that open only to decay; Brilliant hopes, all woven in gorgeous tissues, Flaunting gaily in the golden light; Large desires, with most uncertain issues, Tender wishes, blossoming at night! These in flowers and men are more than seeming; Workings are they of the self-same powers, Which the Poet, in no idle dreaming, 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, 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, In all places, then, and in all seasons, THE BELEAGUERED CITY. I HAVE read, in some old marvellous tale, White as a sea-fog, landward bound, The spectral camp was seen, And with a sorrowful, deep sound, The river flowed between. No other voice nor sound was there, Proclaimed the morning prayer, On the alarmèd air. Down the broad valley, fast and far, I have read in the marvellous heart of man, That strange and mystic scroll, That an army of phantoms vast and wan Beleaguer the human soul. Encamped beside Life's rushing stream, Gigantic shapes and shadows gleam Entreats the soul to pray, The spectral camp is fled; Faith shineth as a morning star, Our ghastly fears are dead. MIDNIGHT MASS FOR THE DYING YEAR. YES, the Year is growing old, And his eye is pale and bleared! Plucks the old man by the beard, The leaves are falling, falling, Solemnly and slow; Caw! caw! the rooks are calling, It is a sound of woe, 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, 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,- And now the sweet day is dead; Cold in his arms it lies; Over the glassy skies, Then, too, the Old Year dieth And the forests utter a moan, Then comes, with an awful roar, Gathering and sounding on, The storm-wind from Labrador, The wind Euroclydon, The storm-wind! Howl! howl! and from the forest Sweep the red leaves away! Would the sins that thou abhorrest, O Soul! could thus decay, And be swept away! For there shall come a mightier blast, L'ENVOI. YE voices, that arose After the Evening's close, And whispered to my restless heart repose! Go, breathe it in the ear Of all who doubt and fear, And say to them, "Be of good cheer!" Ye sounds, so slow and calm, Seemed to me like an angel's psalm! Go, mingle yet once more Of the pine forest, dark and hoar! Tongues of the dead, not lost, Of the vast plain where Death encamps! EARLIER POEMS. [WRITTEN FOR THE MOST PART DURING MY COLLEGE LIFE, AND ALL OF THEM BEFORE THE AGE OF NINETEEN.] 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 I hear it in the opening year,- AN APRIL DAY. WHEN the warm sun, that brings Seed-time and harvest, has returned again, 'Tis sweet to visit the still wood, where springs The first flower of the plain. 1 I love the season well, When forest glades are teeming with bright forms, Nor dark and many-folded clouds foretell The coming-on of storms. From the earth's loosened mould Though stricken to the heart with The drooping tree revives. 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, In the blue lake the sky, o'er reaching far, Is hollowed out, and the moon dips her horn, And twinkles many a star. Inverted in the tide, Stand the gray rocks, and trembling shadows throw; And the fair trees look over, side by side, And see themselves below. Sweet April!--many a thought Is wedded unto thee, as hearts are wed; Nor shall they fail, till, to its autumn brought, Life's golden fruit is shed. AUTUMN. WITH what a glory comes and goes the year! life There is a beautiful spirit breathing now O what a glory doth this world put on To his long resting-place without a tear. HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN AT THE CONSECRATION OF PULASKI'S BANNER. WHEN the dying flame of day 9 |