Chapter I: Part 1

MR. STEDMAN’S WRITINGS.

I.

POETICAL WORKS. Collective Edition of the author’s Poems which have previously appeared, containing “LYRICS AND IDYLS,” “ALICE OF MONMOUTH,” “THE BLAMELESS PRINCE,” etc., etc. Uniform with Farringford TENNYSON. 12mo. With Portrait. Gilt top

$2.25

II.

VICTORIAN POETS. A Critical Review of the Poetry of Great Britain, from the Accession of Victoria down to the Present Time. One volume. 12mo

$2.50

“The main purpose of this book is to examine the lives and productions of such British poets as have gained reputation within the last forty years. Incidentally, I hope to derive from the body of their verse,—so various in form and thought,—and from the record of their different experiences, correct ideas in respect to the aim and province of the art of Poetry, and not a few striking illustrations of the poetic life.”

III.

HAWTHORNE, and other Poems.

Cloth, $1.25

⁂ _For sale by all Booksellers. Sent, postpaid, on receipt of price, by the Publishers._

JAMES R. OSGOOD & CO., Boston.

THE
POETICAL WORKS
OF
EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN.

_COMPLETE EDITION._

BOSTON:
JAMES R. OSGOOD AND COMPANY,
LATE TICKNOR & FIELDS, AND FIELDS, OSGOOD, & CO.
1878.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1873,
BY JAMES R. OSGOOD & CO.,
in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.

THIRD EDITION.

UNIVERSITY PRESS: WELCH, BIGELOW, & CO.,
CAMBRIDGE.

THIS COLLECTION
IS AFFECTIONATELY AND REVERENTLY
Dedicated
TO MY MOTHER,
IN GRATITUDE FOR WHATSOEVER PORTION I INHERIT OF
HER OWN SWEET
GIFT OF SONG.

CONTENTS.

PAGE

EARLY POEMS. (Published 1860.)

BOHEMIA: A PILGRIMAGE 3

THE DIAMOND WEDDING 10

PENELOPE 17

THE SINGER 21

HELIOTROPE 21

ROSEMARY 23

SUMMER RAIN 25

TOO LATE 28

VOICE OF THE WESTERN WIND 29

FLOOD-TIDE 30

APOLLO 40

THE ORDEAL BY FIRE 40

THE PROTEST OF FAITH 44

THE FRESHET 48

THE SLEIGH-RIDE 56

THE BALLAD OF LAGER BIER 58

HOW OLD BROWN TOOK HARPER’S FERRY 64

SONNETS.

HOPE DEFERRED 71

A MOTHER’S PICTURE 72

POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH.

ELFIN SONG 75

AMAVI 79

ODE TO PASTORAL ROMANCE 80

ALICE OF MONMOUTH AND OTHER POEMS. (Published 1864.)

ALICE OF MONMOUTH 91

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

ALECTRYÔN 145

THE TEST 152

THE OLD LOVE AND THE NEW 154

ESTELLE 158

EDGED TOOLS 160

THE SWALLOW 162

REFUGE IN NATURE 163

MONTAGU 165

WILD WINDS WHISTLE 168

PETER STUYVESANT’S NEW YEAR’S CALL 170

TRANSLATION.

JEAN PROUVAIRE’S SONG AT THE BARRICADE 179

THE BLAMELESS PRINCE AND OTHER POEMS. (Published 1869.)

THE BLAMELESS PRINCE 187

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

I. SONGS AND STUDIES.

SURF 237

TOUJOURS AMOUR 238

LAURA, MY DARLING 239

THE TRYST 240

VIOLET EYES 241

THE DOORSTEP 242

FUIT ILIUM 244

COUNTRY SLEIGHING 247

PAN IN WALL STREET 250

ANONYMA 253

SPOKEN AT SEA 255

THE DUKE’S EXEQUY 257

THE HILLSIDE DOOR 259

AT TWILIGHT 261

II. POEMS OF NATURE.

WOODS AND WATERS 263

TO BAYARD TAYLOR 265

THE MOUNTAIN 266

HOLYOKE VALLEY 270

THE FEAST OF HARVEST 272

AUTUMN SONG 275

WHAT THE WINDS BRING 275

BETROTHED ANEW 276

III. SHADOW-LAND.

“THE UNDISCOVERED COUNTRY” 278

“DARKNESS AND THE SHADOW” 279

THE ASSAULT BY NIGHT 279

GEORGE ARNOLD 281

THE SAD BRIDAL 283

OCCASIONAL POEMS.

SUMTER 287

WANTED—A MAN 289

TREASON’S LAST DEVICE 291

ABRAHAM LINCOLN 293

ISRAEL FREYER’S BID FOR GOLD 293

CUBA 297

CRETE 299

THE OLD ADMIRAL 300

GETTYSBURG 303

DARTMOUTH ODE 310

HORACE GREELEY 321

LATER POEMS.

THE SONGSTER 327

CRABBED AGE AND YOUTH 331

STANZAS FOR MUSIC 333

THE FLIGHT OF THE BIRDS 334

HYPATIA 335

THE HEART OF NEW ENGLAND 338

EARLY POEMS.

EARLY POEMS.

BOHEMIA.

A PILGRIMAGE.

I.

_When buttercups are blossoming_,
The poets sang, _’tis best to wed_:
So all for love we paired in Spring—
Blanche and I—ere youth had sped,
For Autumn’s wealth brings Autumn’s wane.
Sworn fealty to royal Art
Was ours, and doubly linked the chain,
With symbols of her high domain,
That twined us ever heart to heart;
And onward, like the Babes in the Wood,
We rambled, till before us stood
The outposts of Bohemia.

II.

For, roaming blithely many a day,
Eftsoons our little hoard of gold,
Like Christian’s follies, slipt away,
Unloosened from the pilgrim’s hold,
But left us just as blithe and free;
Whereat our footsteps turned aside
From lord and lady of degree,
And bore us to that brave countree
Where merrily we now abide,—
That proud and humble, poor and grand,
Enchanted, golden Gypsy-Land,
The Valley of Bohemia.

III.

Together from the higher clime,
By terraced cliff and copse along,
Adown the slant we stept, in time
To many another pilgrim’s song,
And came where faded far away,
Each side, the kingdom’s ancient wall,
From breaking unto dying day;
Beyond, the magic valley lay,
With glimpse of shimmering stream and fall;
And here, between twin turrets, ran,
Built o’er with arch and barbacan,
The entrance to Bohemia.

IV.

Beneath the lichened parapet
Grim-sculptured Gog and Magog bore
The Royal Arms,—Hope’s Anchor, set
In azure, on a field of _or_,
With pendent mugs, and hands that wield
A lute and tambour, graven clear;
What seemed a poet’s scroll revealed
The antique legend of the shield:
Cambrinus. Rex. helde. Wassaille. here.
Joyned. with. ye. Kinge. of. Yvetot.
O. worlde-worne. Pilgrim. passe. belowe.
To. entre. fayre. Bohemia.

V.

No churlish warder barred the gate,
Nor other pass was needed there
Than equal heart for either fate,
And barren scrip, and hope to spare.
Through the gray archway, hand in hand,
We walked, beneath the rampart high,
And on within the wondrous land;
There, changed as by enchanter’s wand,
My sweetheart, fairer to the eye
Than ever, moved along serene
In hood and cloak,—a gypsy queen,
Born princess of Bohemia!

VI.

A fairy realm! where slope and stream,
Champaign and upland, town and grange,
Like shadowy shiftings of a dream,
Forever blend and interchange;
A magic clime! where, hour by hour,
Storm, cloud, and sunshine, fleeting by,
Commingle, and, through shine and shower,
Bright castles, lit with rainbows, tower,
Emblazoning the distant sky
With glimmering glories of a land
Far off, yet ever close at hand
As hope, in brave Bohemia.

VII.

On either side the travelled way,
Encamped along the sunny downs,
The blithesome, bold Bohemians lay;
Or hid, in quaintly-gabled towns,
At smoke-stained inns of musty date,
And spider-haunted attic nooks
In empty houses of the great,
Still smacking of their ancient state,—
Strewn round with pipes and mouldy books,
And robes and buskins over-worn,
That well become the careless scorn
And freedom of Bohemia.

VIII.

For, loving Beauty, and, by chance,
Too poor to make her all in all,
They spurn her half-way maintenance,
And let things mingle as they fall;
Dissevered from all other climes,
Yet compassing the whole round world,
Where’er are jests, and jousts at rhymes,
True love, and careless, jovial times,
Great souls by jilting Fortune whirled,
Men that were born before their day,
Kingly, without a realm to sway,
Yet monarchs in Bohemia;

IX.

And errant wielders of the quill;
And old-world princes, strayed afar,
In thread-bare exile chasing still
The glimpses of a natal star;
And Woman—taking refuge there
With woman’s toil, and trust, and song,
And something of a piquant air
Defiant, as who must and dare
Steer her own shallop, right or wrong.
A certain noble nature schools,
In scorn of smaller, mincing rules,
The maidens of Bohemia.

X.

But we pursued our pilgrimage
Far on, through hazy lengths of road,
Or crumbling cities gray with age;
And stayed in many a queer abode,
Days, seasons, years,—wherein were born
Of infant pilgrims, one, two, three;
And ever, though with travel worn,
Nor garnered for the morrow’s morn,
We seemed a merry company,—
We, and the mates whom friendship, or
What sunshine fell within our door,
Drew to us in Bohemia.

XI.

For Ambrose—priest without a cure—
Christened our babes, and drank the wine
He blessed, to make the blessing sure;
And Ralph, the limner—half-divine
The picture of my Blanche he drew,
As Saint Cecilia ’mong the caves,—
She singing; eyes a holy blue,
Upturned and rapturous; hair, in hue,
Gold rippled into amber waves.
There, too, is wayward, wild Annette,
Danseuse and warbler and grisette,
True daughter of Bohemia,

XII.

But all by turns and nothing long;
And Rose, whose needle gains her bread;
And bookish Sibyl,—she whose tongue
The bees of Hybla must have fed;
And one—a poet—nowise sage
For self, but gay companion boon
And prophet of the golden age;
He joined us in our pilgrimage
Long since, one early Autumn noon
When, faint with journeying, we sate
Within a wayside hostel-gate
To rest us in Bohemia.

XIII.

In rusty garb, but with an air
Of grace, that hunger could not whelm,
He told his wants, and—“Could we spare
Aught of the current of the realm—
A shilling?”—which I gave; and so
Came talk, and Blanche’s kindly smile;
Whereat he felt his heart aglow,
And said: “Lo, here is silver! lo,
Mine host hath ale! and it were vile,
If so much coin were spent by me
For bread, when such good company
Is gathered in Bohemia.”

XIV.

Richer than Kaiser on his throne,
A royal stoup he bade them bring;
And so, with many of mine own,
His shilling vanished on the wing;
And many a skyward-floating strain
He sang, we chorusing the lay
Till all the hostel rang again;
But when the day began to wane,
Along the sequel of our way
He kept us pace; and, since that time,
We never lack for song and rhyme
To cheer us, in Bohemia.

XV.

And once we stopped a twelvemonth, where
Five-score Bohemians began
Their scheme to cheapen bed and fare,
Upon a late-discovered plan;
“For see,” they said, “the sum how small
By which one pilgrim’s wants are met!
And if a host together fall,
What need of any cash at all?”
Though how it worked I half forget,
Yet still the same old dance and song
We found,—the kindly, blithesome throng
And joyance of Bohemia.

XVI.

Thus onward through the Magic Land,
With varying chance. But once there past
A mystic shadow o’er our band,
Deeper than Want could ever cast,
For, oh, it darkened little eyes!
We saw our youngest darling die,
Then robed her in her palmer’s guise,
And crossed the fair hands pilgrim-wise,
And, one by one, so tenderly,
Came Ambrose, Sibyl, Ralph, and Rose,
Strewing each sweetest flower that grows
In wildwoods of Bohemia.

XVII.

But last the Poet, sorrowing, stood
Above the tiny clay, and said:
“Bright little Spirit, pure and good,
Whither so far away hast fled?
Full soon thou tryest that other sphere:
Whate’er is lacking in our lives
Thou dost attain; for Heaven is near,
Methinks, to pilgrims wandering here,
As to that one who never strives
With fortune,—has not come to know
The pride and pain that dwell so low
In valleys of Bohemia.”

XVIII.

He ceased, and pointed solemnly
Through western windows; and we saw
That lustrous castle of the sky
Gleam, touched with flame; and heard with awe,
About us, gentle whisperings
Of unseen watchers hovering near
Our dead, and rustling angel wings!
Now, whether this or that year brings
The valley’s end, or, haply, here
Our pilgrimage for life must last,
We know not; but a sacred past
Has hallowed all Bohemia.

THE DIAMOND WEDDING.

O love! Love! Love! what times were those,
Long ere the age of belles and beaux
And Brussels lace and silken hose,
When, in the green Arcadian close,
You married Psyche, under the rose,
With only the grass for bedding!
Heart to heart, and hand in hand,
You followed Nature’s sweet command—
Roaming lovingly through the land,
Nor sighed for a Diamond Wedding.

So have we read, in classic Ovid,
How Hero watched for her beloved,
Impassioned youth, Leander.
She was the fairest of the fair,
And wrapt him round with her golden hair,
Whenever he landed cold and bare,
With nothing to eat and nothing to wear
And wetter than any gander;
For Love was Love, and better than money;
The slyer the theft, the sweeter the honey;
And kissing was clover, all the world over,
Wherever Cupid might wander.

So thousands of years have come and gone,
And still the moon is shining on,
Still Hymen’s torch is lighted;
And hitherto, in this land of the West,
Most couples in love have thought it best
To follow the ancient way of the rest,
And quietly get united.

But now, True Love, you’re growing old—
Bought and sold, with silver and gold,
Like a house, or a horse and carriage!
Midnight talks,
Moonlight walks,
The glance of the eye and sweetheart sigh,
The shadowy haunts with no one by,
I do not wish to disparage;
But every kiss
Has a price for its bliss,
In the modern code of marriage;
And the compact sweet
Is not complete,
Till the high contracting parties meet
Before the altar of Mammon;
And the bride must be led to a silver bower,
Where pearls and rubies fall in a shower
That would frighten Jupiter Ammon!

I need not tell
How it befell,
(Since Jenkins has told the story
Over and over and over again,
In a style I cannot hope to attain,
And covered himself with glory!)
How it befell, one Summer’s day,
The King of the Cubans strolled this way,—
King January’s his name, they say,—
And fell in love with the Princess May,
The reigning belle of Manhattan;
Nor how he began to smirk and sue,
And dress as lovers who come to woo,
Or as Max Maretzek and Jullien do,
When they sit, full-bloomed, in the ladies’ view,
And flourish the wondrous baton.

He wasn’t one of your Polish nobles,
Whose presence their country somehow troubles,
And so our cities receive them;
Nor one of your make-believe Spanish grandees,
Who ply our daughters with lies and candies,
Until the poor girls believe them.
No, he was no such charlatan—
Count de Hoboken Flash-in-the-pan,
Full of gasconade and bravado,
But a regular, rich Don Rataplan
Santa Claus de la Muscovado
Señor Grandissimo Bastinado!
His was the rental of half Havana
And all Matanzas; and Santa Anna,
Rich as he was, could hardly hold
A candle to light the mines of gold
Our Cuban owned, choke-full of diggers;
And broad plantations, that, in round figures,
Were stocked with at least five thousand niggers!
“Gather ye rosebuds while ye may!”
The Señor swore to carry the day,
To capture the beautiful Princess May,
With his battery of treasure;
Velvet and lace she should not lack;
Tiffany, Haughwout, Ball & Black,
Genin and Stewart, his suit should back,
And come and go at her pleasure;
Jet and lava—silver and gold—
Garnets—emeralds rare to behold—
Diamonds—sapphires—wealth untold—
All were hers, to have and to hold;
Enough to fill a peck-measure!

He didn’t bring all his forces on
At once, but like a crafty old Don,
Who many a heart had fought and won,
Kept bidding a little higher;
And every time he made his bid,
And what she said, and all they did—
’Twas written down,
For the good of the town,
By Jeems, of _The Daily Flyer_.

A coach and horses, you’d think, would buy
For the Don an easy victory;
But slowly our Princess yielded.
A diamond necklace caught her eye,
But a wreath of pearls first made her sigh.
She knew the worth of each maiden glance,
And, like young colts, that curvet and prance,
She led the Don a deuce of a dance,
In spite of the wealth he wielded.

She stood such a fire of silks and laces,
Jewels, and golden dressing-cases,
And ruby brooches, and jets and pearls,
That every one of her dainty curls
Brought the price of a hundred common girls;
Folks thought the lass demented!
But at last a wonderful diamond ring,
An infant Koh-i-noor, did the thing,
And, sighing with love, or something the same,
(What’s in a name?)
The Princess May consented.

Ring! ring the bells, and bring
The people to see the marrying!
Let the gaunt and hungry and ragged poor
Throng round the great Cathedral door,
To wonder what all the hubbub’s for,
And sometimes stupidly wonder
At so much sunshine and brightness, which
Fall from the church upon the rich,
While the poor get all the thunder.

Ring! ring, merry bells, ring!
O fortunate few,
With letters blue,
Good for a seat and a nearer view!
Fortunate few, whom I dare not name;
_Dilettanti! Crême de la crême!_
We commoners stood by the street façade
And caught a glimpse of the cavalcade;
We saw the bride
In diamonded pride,
With jewelled maidens to guard her side,—

Six lustrous maidens in tarletan.
She led the van of the caravan;
Close behind her, her mother
(Dressed in gorgeous _moire antique_,
That told, as plainly as words could speak,
She was more antique than the other,)
Leaned on the arm of Don Rataplan
Santa Claus de la Muscovado
Señor Grandissimo Bastinado.
Happy mortal! fortunate man!
And Marquis of El Dorado!

In they swept, all riches and grace,
Silks and satins, jewels and lace;
In they swept from the dazzled sun,
And soon in the church the deed was done.
Three prelates stood on the chancel high;
A knot that gold and silver can buy
Gold and silver may yet untie,
Unless it is tightly fastened;
What’s worth doing at all’s worth doing well,
And the sale of a young Manhattan belle
Is not to be pushed or hastened;
So two Very-Reverends graced the scene,
And the tall Archbishop stood between,
By prayer and fasting chastened.
The Pope himself would have come from Rome,
But Garibaldi kept him at home.
Haply these robed prelates thought
Their words were the power that tied the knot;
But another power that love-knot tied,
And I saw the chain round the neck of the bride,—
A glistening, priceless, marvellous chain,
Coiled with diamonds again and again,
As befits a diamond wedding;
Yet still ’twas a chain, and I thought she knew it,
And half-way longed for the will to undo it,
By the secret tears she was shedding.

But isn’t it odd, to think whenever
We all go through that terrible River,—
Whose sluggish tide alone can sever
(The Archbishop says) the Church decree,
By floating one into Eternity
And leaving the other alive as ever,—
As each wades through that ghastly stream,
The satins that rustle and gems that gleam
Will grow pale and heavy, and sink away
To the noisome River’s bottom-clay;
Then the costly bride and her maidens six
Will shiver upon the banks of the Styx,
Quite as helpless as they were born,—
Naked souls, and very forlorn;
The Princess, then, must shift for herself,
And lay her royalty on the shelf;
She, and the beautiful Empress, yonder,
Whose robes are now the wide world’s wonder,
And even ourselves, and our dear little wives,
Who calico wear each morn of their lives,
And the sewing girls, and _les chiffoniers_,
In rags and hunger,—a gaunt array,—
And all the grooms of the caravan—
Ay, even the great Don Rataplan
Santa Claus de la Muscovado
Señor Grandissimo Bastinado—
That gold-encrusted, fortunate man!—
All will land in naked equality:
The lord of a ribboned principality
Will mourn the loss of his _cordon_.
Nothing to eat, and nothing to wear
Will certainly be the fashion there!
Ten to one, and I’ll go it alone,
Those most used to a rag and bone,
Though here on earth they labor and groan,
Will stand it best, as they wade abreast
To the other side of Jordan.

PENELOPE.

Not thus, Ulysses, with a tender word,
Pretence of state affairs, soft blandishment,
And halt assurances, canst thou evade
My heart’s discernment. Think not such a film
Hath touched these aged eyes, to make them lose
The subtlest mood of those even now adroop,
Self-conscious, darkling from my nearer gaze.
Full well I know thy mind, O man of wiles!
O man of restless yearnings—fate-impelled,
Fate-conquering—like a waif thrown back and forth
O’er many waters! Oft I see thee stand
At eve, a landmark on the outer cliff,
Looking far westward; later, when the feast
Smokes in the hall, and nimble servants pass
Great bowls of wine, and ancient Phemeus sings
The deeds of Peleus’ son, thy right hand moves
Straight for its sword-hilt, like a ship for home;
Then, when thou hearest him follow in the song
Thine own miraculous sojourn of long years
Through stormy seas, weird islands, and the land
Of giants, and the gray companions smite
Their shields, and cry, _What do we longer here?_
_Afloat! and let the great waves bear us on!_
I know thou growest weary of the realm,
Thy wife, thy son, the people, and thy fame.

I too have had my longings. Am I not
Penelope, who, when Ulysses came
To Sparta, and Icarius bade her choose
Betwixt her sire and wooer, veiled her face
And stept upon the galley silver-oared,
And since hath kept thine Ithacensian halls?
Then when the hateful Helen fled to Troy
With Paris, and the Argive chieftains sailed
Then ships to Aulis, I would have thee go—
Presaging fame, and power, and spoils of war.
So ten years passed; meanwhile I reared thy son
To know his father’s wisdom, and, apart
Among my maidens, wove the yellow wool.
But then, returning one by one, they came,—
The island-princes; high-born dames of Crete
And Cephalonia saw again their lords;
Only Ulysses came not; yet the war
Was over, and his vessels, like a troop
Of cranes in file, had spread their wings for home.
More was unknown. Then many a winter’s night
The servants piled great fagots, smeared with tar,
High on the palace-roof; with mine own hands
I fired the heaps, that, haply, far away
On the dark waters, might my lord take heart
And know the glory of his kingly towers.

So winter passed; and summer came and went,
And winter and another summer; then—
Alas, how many weary months and days!
But he I loved came not. Meanwhile thou knowest
Pelasgia’s noblest chiefs, with kingly gifts
And pledge of dower, gathered in the halls;
But still this heart kept faithful, knowing yet
Thou wouldst return, though wrecked on alien shores.
And great Athenè often in my dreams
Shone, uttering words of cheer. But, last of all,
The people rose, swearing a king should rule,
To keep their ancient empery of the isles
Inviolate and thrifty: bade me choose
A mate, nor longer dally. Then I prayed
Respite, until the web within my loom,
Of gold and purple curiously devised
For old Laertes’ shroud, should fall complete
From hands still faithful to his blood. Thou knowest
How like a ghost I left my couch at night,
Unravelling the labor of the day,
And warded off the fate, till came that time
When my lost sea-king thundered in his halls,
And with long arrows clove the suitors’ hearts.
So constant was I! now not thirty moons
Go by, and thou forgettest all. Alas!
What profit is there any more in love?
What thankless sequel hath a woman’s faith!

Yet if thou wilt,—in these thy golden years,
Safe-housed in royalty, like a god revered
By all the people,—if thou yearnest yet
Once more to dare the deep and Neptune’s hate,
I will not linger in a widowed age;
I will not lose Ulysses, hardly found
After long vigils; but will cleave about
Thy neck, with more than woman’s prayers and tears,
Until thou take me with thee. As I left
My sire, I leave my son, to follow where
Ulysses goeth, dearer for the strength
Of that great heart which ever drives him on
To large experience of newer toils!

Trust me, I will not any hindrance prove,
But, like Athenè’s helm, a guiding star,
A glory and a comfort! O, be sure
My heart shall take its lesson from thine own!
My voice shall cheer the mariners at their oars
In the night watches; it shall warble songs,
Whose music shall o’erpower the luring airs
Of Nereïd or Siren. If we find
Those isles thou namest, where the golden fount
Gives youth to all who taste it, we will drink
Deep draughts, until the furrows leave thy brow,
And I shall walk in beauty, as when first
I saw thee from afar in Sparta’s groves.
But if Charybdis seize our keel, or swift
Black currents bear us down the noisome wave
That leads to Hades, till the vessel sink
In Stygian waters, none the less our souls
Shall gain the farther shore, and, hand in hand,
Walk from the strand across Elysian fields,
’Mong happy thronging shades, that point and say:
“There go the great Ulysses, loved of gods,
And she, his wife, most faithful unto death!”

THE SINGER.

O lark! sweet lark!
Where learn you all your minstrelsy?
What realms are those to which you fly?
While robins feed their young from dawn till dark,
You soar on high,—
Forever in the sky.

O child! dear child!
Above the clouds I lift my wing
To hear the bells of Heaven ring;
Some of their music, though my flights be wild,
To Earth I bring;
Then let me soar and sing!

HELIOTROPE.

I walk in the morning twilight,
Along a garden-slope,
To the shield of moss encircling
My beautiful Heliotrope.

O sweetest of all the flowerets
That bloom where angels tread!
But never such marvellous odor
From heliotrope was shed,

As the passionate exhalation,
The dew of celestial wine,
That floats in tremulous languor
Around this darling of mine.

For, only yester-even,
I saw the dearest scene!
I heard the delicate footfall,
The step of my love, my queen.

Along the walk she glided:
I made no sound nor sign,
But ever, at the turning
Of her star-white neck divine,

I shrunk in the shade of the cypress,
And crouched in the swooning grass,
Like some Arcadian shepherd
To see an Oread pass.

But when she came to the border
At the end of the garden-slope,
She bent, like a rose-tree, over
That beautiful Heliotrope.

The cloud of its subtile fragrance
Entwined her in its wreath,
And all the while commingled
With the incense of her breath.

And so she glistened onward,
Far down the long parterre,
Beside the statue of Hesper,
And a hundred times more fair.

But ah! her breath had added
The perfume that I find
In this, the sweetest of flowerets,
And the paragon of its kind.

I drink deep draughts of its nectar;
I faint with love and hope!
Oh, what did she whisper to you,
My beautiful Heliotrope?

ROSEMARY.

“THERE’S ROSEMARY, THAT’S FOR REMEMBRANCE.”

Years ago, when a summer sun
Warmed the greenwood into life,
I went wandering with one
Soon to be my wife.

Birds were mating, and Love began
All the copses to infold;
Our two souls together ran
Melting in one mould.

Skies were bluer than ever before:
It was joy to love you then,
And to know I loved you more
Than could other men!

Winds were fresh and your heart was brave,
Sang to mine a sweet refrain,
And for every pledge I gave
Pledged me back again.

How it happened I cannot tell,
But there came a cursed hour,
When some hidden shape of hell
Crept within our bower.

Sudden and sharply either spoke
Bitter words of doubt and scorn;
Pride the golden linklets broke,—
Left us both forlorn.

Seven long years have gone since then,
And I suffered, but, at last,
Rose and joined my fellow-men,
Crushing down the past.

Far away over distant hills,
Now I know your life is led;
Have you felt the rust that kills?
Are your lilies dead?

Summer and winter you have dwelt,
Like a statue, cold and white;
None, of all the crowd who knelt,
Read your soul aright.

O, I knew the tremulous swell
Of its secret undertone!
That diviner music fell
On my ear alone!

Ever in dreams we meet with tears:
Lake and mountain—all are past:
With the stifled love of seven long years
Hold each other fast!

Though the glamoury of the night
Fades with morning far away,
Oftentimes a strange delight
Haunts the after-day.

Even now, when the summer sun
Warms the greenwood far within,
Even now my fancies run
On what might have been.

SUMMER RAIN.

Yestermorn the air was dry
As the winds of Araby,
While the sun, with pitiless heat,
Glared upon the glaring street,
And the meadow fountains sealed,
Till the people everywhere,
And the cattle in the field,
And the birds in middle air,
And the thirsty little flowers,
Sent to heaven a fainting prayer
For the blessed summer showers.

Not in vain the prayer was said;
For at sunset, overhead,
Sailing from the gorgeous West,
Came the pioneers, abreast,
Of a wondrous argosy,—
The Armada of the sky!
Far along I saw them sail,
Wafted by an upper gale;
Saw them, on their lustrous route,
Fling a thousand banners out:
Yellow, violet, crimson, blue,
Orange, sapphire,—every hue
That the gates of Heaven put on,
To the sainted eyes of John,
In that hallowed Patmos isle
Their skyey pennons wore; and while
I drank the glory of the sight
Sunset faded into night.

Then diverging, far and wide,
To the dim horizon’s side,
Silently and swiftly there,
Every galleon of the air,
Manned by some celestial crew,
Out its precious cargo threw,
And the gentle summer rain
Cooled the fevered Earth again.

Through the night I heard it fall
Tenderly and musical;
And this morning not a sigh
Of wind uplifts the briony leaves,
But the ashen-tinted sky
Still for earthly turmoil grieves,
While the melody of the rain,
Dropping on the window-pane,
On the lilac and the rose,
Round us all its pleasance throws,
Till our souls are yielded wholly
To its constant melancholy,
And, like the burden of its song,
Passionate moments glide along.

Pinks and hyacinths perfume
All our garden-fronted room;
Hither, close beside me, Love!
Do not whisper, do not move.
Here we two will softly stay,
Side by side, the livelong day.
Lean thy head upon my breast:
Ever shall it give thee rest,
Ever would I gaze to meet
Eyes of thine up-glancing, Sweet!
What enchanted dreams are ours!
While the murmur of the showers
Dropping on the tranquil ground,
Dropping on the leaves and flowers,
Wraps our yearning souls around
In the drapery of its sound.

Still the plenteous streamlets fall:
Here two hearts are all in all
To each other; and they beat
With no evanescent heat,
Put softly, steadily, hour by hour,
With the calm, melodious power
Of the gentle summer rain,
That in Heaven so long hath lain,
And from out that shoreless sea
Pours its blessings tenderly.

Freer yet its currents swell!
Here are streams that flow as well,
Rivulets of the constant heart;
But a little space apart
Glide they now, and soon shall run,
Love-united, into one.
It shall chance, in future days,
That again the lurid rays
Of that hidden sun shall shine
On the floweret and the vine,
And again the meadow-springs
Fly away on misty wings:
But no glare of Fate adverse
Shall on us achieve its curse,
Never any baneful gleam
Waste our clear, perennial stream;
For its fountains lie below
That malign and ominous glow,—
Lie in shadowy grottoes cool,
Where all kindly spirits rule;
Calmly ever shall it flow
Toward the waters of the sea,—
That serene Eternity!

TOO LATE.

Crouch no more by the ivied walls,
Weep no longer over her grave,
Strew no flowers when evening falls:
Idly you lost what angels gave!

Sunbeams cover that silent mound
With a warmer hue than your roses’ red;
To-morrow’s rain will bedew the ground
With a purer stream than the tears you shed.

But neither the sweets of the scattered flowers,
Nor the morning sunlight’s soft command,
Nor all the songs of the summer showers,
Can charm her back from that distant land.

Tenderest vows are ever too late!
She, who has gone, can only know
The cruel sorrow that was her fate,
And the words that were a mortal woe.

Earth to earth, and a vain despair;
For the gentle spirit has flown away,
And you can never her wrongs repair,
Till ye meet again at the Judgment Day.

VOICE OF THE WESTERN WIND.

Voice of the western wind!
Thou singest from afar,
Rich with the music of a land
Where all my memories are;
But in thy song I only hear
The echo of a tone
That fell divinely on my ear
In days forever flown.

Star of the western sky!
Thou beamest from afar,
With lustre caught from eyes I knew,
Whose orbs were each a star;
But, oh, those eyes—too wildly bright—
No more eclipse thine own,
And never shall I find the light
Of days forever flown!

FLOOD-TIDE.

Just at sunrise, when the land-breeze cooled the fevered air once more,
From a restless couch I wandered to the sounding ocean shore;
Strolling down through furrowed sand-hills, while the splendor of the day
Flashed across the trembling waters to the West and far away.
There I saw, in distant moorings, many an anchored vessel tall;
Heard with cheery morning voices sailor unto sailor call.
Crowned with trailing plumes of sable, right afront my standing-place
Moved a swarthy ocean-steamer in her storm-resisting grace.
Prophet-like, she clove the waters toward the ancient mother-land,
And I heard her clamorous engine and the echo of command,
While the long Atlantic billows to my feet came rolling on,
With the multitudinous music of a thousand ages gone.

There I stood, with careless ankles half in sand and half in spray,
Till the baleful mist of midnight from my being passed away;
Then, with eager inhalations opening all my mantle wide,
Felt my spirit rise exultant with the rising of the tide;
Felt the joyous morning breezes run afresh through every vein,
Till the natural pulse of manhood beat the call-to-arms again.
Then came utterance self-condemning,—oh, how wild with sudden scorn
Of the chain that held me circling in a little round forlorn!
Of the sloth which, like a vapor, hugs the dull, insensate heart,
That can act in meek submission to the lowness of its part,—
In the broad terrestrial drama play the herald or the clown,
While the warrior wins his garlands and the monarch wears his crown!

“Shame” I said, “upon the craven who can rest, content to save
Paltry handfuls of the riches that his guardian-angel gave!
Shame upon all listless dreamers early hiding from the strife,
Sated with some little gleaning of the harvest-fields of life!
Shame upon God’s toiling thinkers, who make profit of their brains,
Getting store of scornful pittance for their slow-decaying pains!
Give me purpose, steadfast purpose, and the grandeur of a soul
Born to lead the van of armies or a people to control.
Let me float away and ever, from this shore of bog and mire,
On the mounting waves of effort, buoyed by the soul’s desire!
Would that it were mine to govern yon large wonder of our time:
Such a life were worth the living! thus to sail through every clime,
From a hundred spicy shorelands bearing treasures manifold;
Foremost to achieve discovery of the peerless lands of gold;
Or to thrid the crashing hummocks for the silent Northern Pole,
And those solemn open waters that beyond the ice-plains roll,—
Cold and shining sea of ages! like a silver fillet set
On the Earth’s eternal forehead, for her bridal coronet.
Or to close with some tall frigate, for my country and the right,
Gunwale grinding into gunwale through the rolling cloud of fight.
When the din of cannonading and the jarring war should cease,
From the lion’s mouth of battle there should flow the sweets of peace.
I should count repose in cities from my seventy years a loss,—
Resting only on the waters, like the dusk-winged albatross.
I should lay the wire-wrought cable—a ghostly depth below—
Along the marly summit of the plummet-found plateau;
To the old Antipodes with the olive branch should roam,
Joining swart Mongolian races to the ranks of Christendom.
Oftentimes our stately presence in a tyrant’s port should save
Captives, rash in freedom-loving, from the dungeon and the grave;
And a hymn should greet our coming, far across the orient sea,
Like the glad apostles’ anthem, when an angel set them free.

Such the nobler life heroic! life which ancient Homer sung
Of the sinewy Grecian worthies, when the blithesome Earth was young,
And a hundred marvellous legends lay about the misty land
Where the wanton Sirens carolled and the cliffs of Scylla stand.
How their lusty strokes made answer, when Ulysses held the helm,
And with subtle words of wisdom spake of many a wondrous realm!
Neither Circè, nor the languor of enchanted nights and days
Soothed their eager-eyed disquiet,—tamed their venturous, epic ways;
And the dread Sicilian monster, in his cavern by the shore,
Felt the shadow of their coming, and was blind for evermore.

So lived all those stalwart captains of the loyal Saxon blood,
Grasping morsels of adventure as an eagle grasps his food;
Fought till death for queen and country, hating Antichrist and Spain;
Sacked the rich Castilian cities of the glittering western main;
Hacked and hewed the molten idols of each gray cathedral pile,
And with Carthaginian silver dowered the virgin English isle.
Up and down the proud Antilles still the ringing echoes go:
_Ho! a Raleigh! Ho! a Drake!_—and, forever, WESTWARD HO!

Why should not my later pæan catch the swell of that refrain,
And, with bursts of fresh endeavor, send it down the age again?
But I know, that, while the mariner wafts along the golden year,
Broader continents of action open up in every sphere.
And I deem those noble also, who, with strong persuasive art,
Strike the chords of aspiration in a people’s lyric heart.
If in mine—of all republics the Atlantis and supreme—
There be little cause for mouthing on the old, undying theme—
Yet I falter while I say it:—ours of every crime the worst!
For the long revenge of Heaven crying loud and calling first:
But if fiery Carolina and all the sensual South,
Like the world before the deluge, laugh to scorn the warning mouth,—
In the lap of hoary Europe lie her children ill at rest,
Reaching hands of supplication to their brethren of the West;
Pale about the lifeless fountain of their ancient freedom, wait
Till the angel move its waters and avenge their stricken state.
Let me then, a new crusader, to the eastward set my face,
Wake the fires of old tradition on each sacred altar-place,
Till a trodden people rouse them, with a clamor as divine
As the winds of autumn roaring through the clumps of forest-pine.
I myself would seize their banner; they should follow where it led,
To the triumph of the victors or the pallor of the dead.
It were better than to conquer—from the light of life to go
With such words as once were uttered, off the isle of Floreo:
_Here die I, Sir Richard Grenvile, of a free and joyful mood:_
_Ending earth for God and honor, as a valiant soldier should!_
But my present life—what is it? mated, housed, like other men;
Thoughtful of the cost of feeding, valiant only with the pen;
Lying, walled about with custom, on an iron bed of creeds;
Peering out through grated windows at the joy my spirit needs.
And I hear the sound of chanting,—mailed men are passing by;
Crumble, walls, and loosen, fetters! I will join them, ere I die!”

So the sleeping thoughts of boyhood oped their eyes and newly stirred,
And my muscles cried for usage, till the man their plainings heard:
While the star that lit me ever in the dark and thorny ways,
Mine by natal consecration, by the choice of after days,—
Seen through all the sorrow thickening round the hopes of younger years,—
Rayless grew, and left me groping in the valley of my tears.

Seaward now the steamer hovered; seaward far her pennons trailed,
Where the blueness of the heavens at the clear horizon paled;
Where the mingled sky and water faded into fairy-land,
Smaller than her tiny model, deftly launched from childhood’s hand.
With a statelier swell and longer, up the glacis of the shore,
Came the waves that leapt so freshly in their youth, an hour before.
So I made an end and, turning, reached a scallop-crested rock,
In the stormy spring-tides hurling back the tumult of their shock.
There reclining, gazed a moment at the pebbles by my feet,
Left behind the billowy armies on their oceanward retreat;
Thousands lying close together, where the hosts a passage wore,
Many-hued, and tesselated in a quaint mosaic floor.

Thinking then upon their fitness,—each adjusted to its place,
Fairly strewn, and smoothed by Nature with her own exceeding grace,—
All at once some unseen warder drew the curtains wide apart,
That awhile had cast their shadow on the picture of my heart;
Told me—“Thou thyself hast said it; in thy calling be of cheer:
Broader continents of action open up in every sphere!
Hold thy lot as great as any: each shall magnify his own,
Each shall find his time to enter, though unheralded and lone,
On the inner life’s arena—there to sound his battle-cry,
Self with self in secret tourney, underneath the silent sky.
Strong of faith in that mute umpire, some have conquered, and withstood
All the pangs of long endurance, the dear pains of fortitude;
Felt a harsh misapprehension gall the wounds of martyrdom;
In the present rancor measured even the scorn of days to come;
Known that never should the whiteness of their virtue shine revealed,
Never should the truer Future rub the tarnish from the shield.
That diviner abnegation hath not yet been asked of thee:
Art thou able to attain it, if perchance it were to be?
O, our feeble tests of greatness! Look for one so calm of soul
As to take the even chalice of his life and drink the whole.
Noble deeds are held in honor, but the wide world sorely needs
Hearts of patience to unravel this,—the worth of common deeds.”

As the darkened earth forever to the morning turns again;
As the dreaming soldier, after all the perilous campaign,
Struggling long with horse and rider, in his sleep smites fiercely out,
And, with sudden pang awaking, through the darkness peers about,—
Hearing but the crickets chirrup loud, beneath his chimney-stone,
Feeling but the warm heart throbbing, in the form beside his own,—
Then to knowledge of his hamlet, dearer for the toil he knows,
Comes at last, content to nestle in the sweets of his repose,
So fell I, from those high fancies, to the quiet of a heart
Knowing well how Duty maketh each one’s share the better part.
As again I looked about me—North and South, and East and West—
Now of all the wide world over still my haven seemed the best.

Calm, and slowly lifting upward, rose the eastern glory higher,
Gilding sea, and shore, and vessel, and the city-crowning spire.
Then the sailors shook their canvas to the dryness of the sun,
And along the harbor-channel glided schooners, one by one.
At the last I sought my cottage; there, before the garden gate,
By the lilac, stood my darling, looking for her truant mate.
Stooping at the porch, we entered;—where the morning meal was laid,
Turning over holy pages, one as pure and holy played,—
Little Paul, who links more firmly our two hearts than clasp of gold;
And I caught a blessed sentence, while I took him to my hold:
“Peace,” it said, “O restless spirit, eager as the climbing wave!
With my peace there flows a largesse such as monarchs never gave.”

1857.

APOLLO.

Vainly, O burning Poets!
Ye wait for his inspiration,
Even as kings of old
Stood by the oracle-gates.
_Hasten back, he will say, hasten back_
_To your provinces far away!_
_There, at my own good time,_
_Will I send my answer to you._
Are ye not kings of song?
At last the god cometh!
The air runs over with splendor;
The fire leaps high on the altar;
Melodious thunders shake the ground.
Hark to the Delphic responses!
Hark! it is the god!

THE ORDEAL BY FIRE.

To many a one there comes a day
So black with maledictions, they
Hide every earthly hope away.

In earlier woes the sufferer bore,
Consolement entered at his door,
And raised him gently from the floor.

To this great anguish, newly come,
All former sorrows, in their sum,
Were but a faint exordium.

His days and nights are full of groans;
Sorely, and with a thousand moans,
For many wanderings he atones.

Old errors, vanquished for a space,
Rise up to smite him in the face
And threaten him with new disgrace.

And others, shadows of the first,
From slanderous charnel-houses burst,
Pursuing, cry, _Thou art accurst!_

Dear, feeble voices ask for bread;
The dross, for which he bowed his head
So long, has taken wings and fled.

The strong resources of his health
Have softly slipt away by stealth:
No future toil may bring him wealth.

Dreading the shadow of his shame,
False friends, who with the sunshine came,
Forego the mention of his name.

Thus on a fiery altar tost,
The harvests of his life are lost
In one consuming holocaust.

What can he, but to beat the air,
And, from the depth of his despair,
Cry “Is there respite anywhere?

“Is Life but Death? Is God unjust?
Shall all the castle of my trust
Dissolve, and crumble into dust?”

There are, who, with a wild desire
For slumber, blinded by the fire,
Sink in its ashes and expire.

God pity them! too harsh a test
Has made them falter; sore distrest,
They barter everything for rest.

But many, of a sterner mould,
Themselves within themselves infold,
Even make Death unloose his hold,

Although it were a grateful thing
To drain the cup his heralds bring,
And yield them to his ransoming;

To quaff the calm, Lethean wave,—
In passionless tenure of the grave
Forgetting all they could not save.

What angels hold them up, among
The ruins of their lives, so long?
What visions make their spirits strong?

In sackcloth, at the outer gate,
They chant the burden of their fate,
Yet are not wholly desolate.

A blessed ray from darkness won
It may be, even, to know the sun
Hath distant lands he shines upon;

It may be that they deem it vile
For one to mount his funeral pile,
Because the heavens cease to smile;

That scorn of cowardice holds fast,
Lighting the forehead to the last,
Though all of bravery’s hopes are past.

Perchance the sequence of an art
Leads to a refuge for the heart,—
A sanctuary far apart.

It may be that, in dearest eyes,
They see the light of azure skies,
And keep their faith in Paradise.

Thou, who dost feel Life’s vessel strand
Full-length upon the shifting sand,
And hearest breakers close at hand,

Be strong and wait! nor let the strife,
With which the winds and waves are rife,
Disturb that sacred inner life.

Anon thou shalt regain the shore,
And walk—though naked, maimed, and sore—
A nobler being than before!

No lesser griefs shall work thee ill;
No malice shall have power to kill:
Of woe thy soul has drunk its fill.

Tempests, that beat us to the clay,
Drive many a lowering cloud away,
And bring a clearer, holier day.

The fire, that every hope consumes,
Either the inmost soul entombs
Or evermore the face illumes!

Robes of asbestos do we wear;
Before the memories we bear,
The flames leap backward everywhere.

THE PROTEST OF FAITH.

TO REV. ⸺ ⸺

Dear Friend and Teacher,—not by word alone,
But by the plenteous virtues shining out
Along the zodiac of a good man’s life;
Dear gentle friend! from one so loved as you,—
Because so loving, and so finely apt
In tender ministry to a little flock,
With whom you joy and suffer ... and, withal,
So constant to the spirit of our time
That I must hold you of a different sort
From those dry lichens on the altar steps,
Those mutes in surplices, school-trained to sink
The ashes of their own experience
So low, in doctrinal catacombs, that none
Find token they can love and mourn like us,—
From such an one as you, I cannot brook
What from these mummies were a pleasant draught
Of bitter hyssop—pleasant unto me,
Drunk from a chalice worthier men have held
And emptied to the lees.

I cannot brook
The shake o’ the head and earnest, sorrowing glance,
Which often seem to say:—“Be wise in time!
Give up the iron key that locks your heart.
I grant you charity, and patient zeal,
And something of a young, romantic love
For what is good, as children love the fields
And birds and babbling brooks, they know not why.
You have your moral virtues, but you err:
To err is fatal. O, my heart is faint
Lest that sweet prize I win should not be yours!”

In some such wise I read your half-dropped thoughts;
Yet wondrous compensation falls to all,
And every soul has strongholds of its own,
Invisible, yet answering to its needs.
And even I may have a secret tower
Up storm-cleft Pisgah, whence I see beyond
Jordan, and far across the happy plains,
Where gleams the Holy City, like a queen,
The crown of all our hopes and perfect faith.
I may have gone somewhat within the veil,
Though few repose serenely in the light
Of that divinest splendor, till they shine,
With countenance aglow, like him of old,—
Prophet and priest and warrior, all in one.
But every human path leads on to God;
He holds a myriad finer threads than gold,
And strong as holy wishes, drawing us
With delicate tension upward to Himself.
You see the strand that reaches down to you;
Haply I see mine own, and make essay
To trace its glimmerings—up the shadowy hills
Forever narrowing to that unknown sky.

There grows a hedge about you pulpit-folk:
You reason _ex cathedra_. Little gain
Have we to clash in tourney on the least
Of points, wherewith you trammel down the Faith,
It being, at outset, understood right well
By lay knights-errant, that their Reverend foes,
Fore-pledged to hold their own, will sound their trumps,
Though spearless and unhorsed! Why take the field,
When, at the best, both sides go bowing off
With mutual courtesy, and fair white flags
Afloat at camp, and every fight is drawn?
As soon encounter statues, balanced well
Upon their granite, fashioned not to move,
And drawing all mankind to hold in awe
Their grim persistence.

If, indeed, I sin
In counting somewhat freely on that Love
From which, through rolling ages, worlds have sprung,
And—last and best of all—the lords of worlds,
Through type on type uplifted from the clay;
If I have been exultant in the thought
That such humanity came so near to God,
He held us as His children, and would find
Imperial progress through the halls of Time
For every soul,—why, then, my crescent faith
Clings round the promise; if it spread beyond,
You think, too far, I say that Peter sprang
Upon the waves of surging Galilee,
While all the eleven hugged the ship in fear:
The waters were as stone unto his feet
Until he doubted, even then the Christ
Put forth a blesséd hand, and drew him on
To closer knowledge!

So, if it be mine
First of us twain to pass the sable gates,
That guard so well their mysteries, and thou,
With some dear friend, may’st stand beside my grave,
Speak no such words as these:—“Not long ago
His voice rang out as cheerly as mine own;
And we were friends, and, far into the nights,
Would analyze the wisdom of old days
By all the tests of Science in her prime;
Anon would tramp afield, to fruits and flowers,
And the long prototypes of trees and beasts
Graven in sandstone; so, at last, would come,
Through lanes of talk, to that perennial tree,—
The Tree of Life, on which redemption hangs.
But there fell out of tune; we parted there,
He bolstering up a creed too broad for me!
I held him kindly for an ardent soul,
Who lacked not skill to make his argument
Seem fair and specious. But he groped in doubt:
His head and heart were young; he wandered off,
And fell afoul of all those theorists
Who soften down our dear New England faith
With German talk of ‘Nature,’ ‘inner lights
And harmonies’: so, taken with the wind
Of those high-sounding terms, he spoke at large,
And held discussion bravely till he died.
Here sleep his ashes; where his soul may be,
Myself, who loved him, do not care to think.”