Henry Timrod

P ART I I In a far country, and a distant age, Ere sprites and fays had bade farewell to earth, A boy was born of humble parentage; The stars that shone upon his lonely birth Did seem to promise sovereignty and fame— Yet no tradition hath preserved his name. II ’T is said that on the night when he was born, A beauteous shape swept slowly through the room; Its eyes broke on the infant like a morn, And his cheek brightened like a rose in bloom; But as it passed away there followed after A sigh of pain, and sounds of elvish laughter. III And so his parents deemed him to be blest Beyond the lot of mortals; they were poor As the most timid bird that stored its nest With the stray gleanings at their cottage-door: Yet they contrived to rear their little dove, And he repaid them with the tenderest love. IV The child was very beautiful in sooth, And as he waxed in years grew lovelier still; On his fair brow the aureole of truth Beamed, and the purest maidens, with a thrill, Looked in his eyes, and from their heaven of blue Saw thoughts like sinless Angels peering through. V Need there was none of censure or of praise To mould him to the kind parental hand; Yet there was ever something in his ways, Which those about him could not understand; A self-withdrawn and independent bliss, Beside the father’s love, the mother’s kiss. VI For oft, when he believed himself alone, They caught brief snatches of mysterious rhymes, Which he would murmur in an undertone, Like a pleased bee’s in summer; and at times A strange far look would come into his eyes, As if he saw a vision in the skies. VII And he upon a simple leaf would pore As if its very texture unto him Had some deep meaning; sometimes by the door, From noon until a summer-day grew dim, He lay and watched the clouds; and to his thought Night with her stars but fitful slumbers brought. VIII In the long hours of twilight, when the breeze Talked in low tones along the woodland rills, Or the loud North its stormy minstrelsies Blent with wild noises from the distant hills, The boy—his rosy hand against his ear Curved like a sea-shell—hushed as some rapt seer, IX Followed the sounds, and ever and again, As the wind came, and went, in storm or play, He seemed to hearken as to some far strain Of mingled voices calling him away; And they who watched him held their breath to trace The still and fixed attention in his face. X Once, on a cold and loud-voiced winter night, The three were seated by their cottage-fire— The mother watching by its flickering light The wakeful urchin, and the dozing sire; There was a brief, quick motion like a bird’s, And the boy’s thought thus rippled into words: XI “O mother! thou hast taught me many things, But none I think more beautiful than speech— A nobler power than even those broad wings I used to pray for, when I longed to reach That distant peak which on our vale looks down, And wears the star of evening for a crown. XII “But, mother, while our human words are rife To us with meaning, other sounds there be Which seem, and are, the language of a life Around, yet unlike ours: winds talk; the sea Murmurs articulately, and the sky Listens, and answers, though inaudibly. XIII “By stream and spring, in glades and woodlands lone, Beside our very cot, I’ve gathered flowers Inscribed with signs and characters unknown; But the frail scrolls still baffle all my powers: What is this language and where is the key That opes its weird and wondrous mystery? XIV “The forests know it, and the mountains know, And it is written in the sunset’s dyes; A revelation to the world below Is daily going on before our eyes; And, but for sinful thoughts, I do not doubt That we could spell the thrilling secret out. XV “O mother! somewhere on this lovely earth I lived, and understood that mystic tongue, But, for some reason, to my second birth Only the dullest memories have clung, Like that fair tree that even while blossoming Keeps the dead berries of a former spring. XVI “Who shall put life in these?—my nightly dreams Some teacher of supernal powers foretell; A fair and stately shape appears, which seems Bright with all truth; and once, in a dark dell Within the forest, unto me there came A voice that must be hers, which called my name.” XVII Puzzled and frightened, wondering more and more, The mother heard, but did not comprehend; “So early dallying with forbidden lore! Oh, what will chance, and wherein will it end? My child! my child!” she caught him to her breast, “Oh, let me kiss these wildering thoughts to rest! XVIII “They cannot come from God, who freely gives All that we need to have, or ought to know; Beware, my son! some evil influence strives To grieve thy parents, and to work thee woe; Alas! the vision I misunderstood! It could not be an angel fair and good.” XIX And then, in low and tremulous tones, she told The story of his birth-night; the boy’s eyes, As the wild tale went on, were bright and bold, With a weird look that did not seem surprise: “Perhaps,” he said, “this lady and her elves Will one day come, and take me to themselves.” XX “And would’st thou leave us?” “Dearest mother, no! Hush! I will check these thoughts that give thee pain; Or, if they flow, as they perchance must flow, At least I will not utter them again; Hark! didst thou hear a voice like many streams? Mother! it is the spirit of my dreams!” XXI Thenceforth, whatever impulse stirred below, In the deep heart beneath that childish breast, Those lips were sealed, and though the eye would glow, Yet the brow wore an air of perfect rest; Cheerful, content, with calm though strong control, He shut the temple-portals of his soul. XXII And when too restlessly the mighty throng Of fancies woke within his teeming mind, All silently they formed in glorious song, And floated off unheard, and undivined, Perchance not lost—with many a voiceless prayer They reached the sky, and found some record there. XXIII Softly and swiftly sped the quiet days; The thoughtful boy has blossomed into youth, And still no maiden would have feared his gaze, And still his brow was noble with the truth: Yet though he masks the pain with pious art There burns a restless fever in his heart. XXIV A childish dream is now a deathless need Which drives him to far hills and distant wilds; The solemn faith and fervor of his creed Bold as a martyr’s, simple as a child’s; The eagle knew him as she knew the blast, And the deer did not flee him as he passed. XXV But gentle even in his wildest mood, Always, and most, he loved the bluest weather, And in some soft and sunny solitude Couched like a milder sunshine on the heather, He communed with the winds, and with the birds, As if they might have answered him in words. XXVI Deep buried in the forest was a nook, Remote and quiet as its quiet skies; He knew it, sought it, loved it as a book Full of his own sweet thoughts and memories; Dark oaks and fluted chestnuts gathering round, Pillared and greenly domed a sloping mound, XXVII Whereof—white, purple, azure, golden, red, Confused like hues of sunset—the wild flowers Wove a rich dais; through crosslights overhead Glanced the clear sunshine, fell the fruitful showers, And here the shyest bird would fold her wings; Here fled the fairest and the gentlest things. XXVIII Thither, one night of mist and moonlight, came The youth, with nothing deeper in his thoughts Than to behold beneath the silver flame New aspects of his fair and favorite spot; A single ray attained the ground, and shed Just light enough to guide the wanderer’s tread. XXIX And high and hushed arose the stately trees, Yet shut within themselves, like dungeons, where Lay fettered all the secrets of the breeze; Silent, but not as slumbering, all things there Wore to the youth’s aroused imagination An air of deep and solemn expectation. XXX “Hath Heaven,” the youth exclaimed, “a sweeter spot, Or Earth another like it?—yet even here The old mystery dwells! and though I read it not, Here most I hope—it is, or seems so near; So many hints come to me, but, alas! I cannot grasp the shadows as they pass. XXXI “Here, from the very turf beneath me, I Catch, but just catch, I know not what faint sound, And darkly guess that from yon silent sky Float starry emanations to the ground; These ears are deaf, these human eyes are blind, I want a purer heart, a subtler mind. XXXII “Sometimes—could it be fancy?—I have felt The presence of a spirit who might speak; As down in lowly reverence I knelt, Its very breath has kissed my burning cheek; But I in vain have hushed my own to hear A wing or whisper stir the silent air!” XXXIII Is not the breeze articulate? Hark! Oh, hark! A distant murmur, like a voice of floods; And onward sweeping slowly through the dark, Bursts like a call the night-wind from the woods! Low bow the flowers, the trees fling loose their dreams, And through the waving roof a fresher moonlight streams. XXXIV “Mortal!”—the word crept slowly round the place As if that wind had breathed it! From no star Streams that soft lustre on the dreamer’s face. Again a hushing calm! while faint and far The breeze goes calling onward through the night. Dear God! what vision chains that wide-strained sight? XXXV Over the grass and flowers, and up the slope Glides a white cloud of mist, self-moved and slow, That, pausing at the hillock’s moonlit cope, Swayed like a flame of silver; from below The breathless youth with beating heart beholds A mystic motion in its argent folds. XXXVI Yet his young soul is bold, and hope grows warm, As flashing through that cloud of shadowy crape, With sweep of robes, and then a gleaming arm, Slowly developing, at last took shape A face and form unutterably bright, That cast a golden glamour on the night. XXXVII But for the glory round it it would seem Almost a mortal maiden; and the boy, Unto whom love was yet an innocent dream, Shivered and crimsoned with an unknown joy; As to the young Spring bounds the passionate South, He could have clasped and kissed her mouth to mouth. XXXVIII Yet something checked, that was and was not dread, Till in a low sweet voice the maiden spake; She was the Fairy of his dreams, she said, And loved him simply for his human sake; And that in heaven, wherefrom she took her birth, They called her Poesy, the angel of the earth. XXXIX “And ever since that immemorial hour, When the glad morning-stars together sung, My task hath been, beneath a mightier Power, To keep the world forever fresh and young; I give it not its fruitage and its green, But clothe it with a glory all unseen. XL “I sow the germ which buds in human art, And, with my sister, Science, I explore With light the dark recesses of the heart, And nerve the will, and teach the wish to soar; I touch with grace the body’s meanest clay, While noble souls are nobler for my sway. XLI “Before my power the kings of earth have bowed; I am the voice of Freedom, and the sword Leaps from its scabbard when I call aloud; Wherever life in sacrifice is poured, Wherever martyrs die or patriots bleed, I weave the chaplet and award the meed. XLII “Where Passion stoops, or strays, is cold, or dead, I lift from error, or to action thrill! Or if it rage too madly in its bed, The tempest hushes at my ‘peace! be still!’ I know how far its tides should sink or swell, And they obey my sceptre and my spell. XLIII “All lovely things, and gentle—the sweet laugh Of children, Girlhood’s kiss, and Friendship’s clasp, The boy that sporteth with the old man’s staff, The baby, and the breast its fingers grasp— All that exalts the grounds of happiness, All griefs that hallow, and all joys that bless, XLIV “To me are sacred; at my holy shrine Love breathes its latest dreams, its earliest hints; I turn life’s tasteless waters into wine, And flush them through and through with purple tints. Wherever Earth is fair, and Heaven looks down, I rear my altars, and I wear my crown. XLV “I am the unseen spirit thou hast sought, I woke those shadowy questionings that vex Thy young mind, lost in its own cloud of thought, And rouse the soul they trouble and perplex; I filled thy days with visions, and thy nights Blessed with all sweetest sounds and fairy sights. XLVI “Not here, not in this world, may I disclose The mysteries in which this life is hearsed; Some doubts there be that, with some earthly woes, By Death alone shall wholly be dispersed; Yet on those very doubts from this low sod Thy soul shall pass beyond the stars to God. XLVII “And so to knowledge, climbing grade by grade, Thou shalt attain whatever mortals can, And what thou may’st discover by my aid Thou shalt translate unto thy brother man; And men shall bless the power that flings a ray Into their night from thy diviner day. XLVIII “For from thy lofty height, thy words shall fall Upon their spirits, like bright cataracts That front a sunrise; thou shalt hear them call Amid their endless waste of arid facts, As wearily they plod their way along, Upon the rhythmic zephyrs of thy song. XLIX “All this is in thy reach, but much depends Upon thyself—thy future I await; I give the genius, point the proper ends, But the true bard is his own only Fate; Into thy soul my soul have I infused; Take care thy lofty powers be wisely used. L “The Poet owes a high and holy debt, Which, if he feel, he craves not to be heard For the poor boon of praise, or place, nor yet Does the mere joy of song, as with the bird Of many voices, prompt the choral lay That cheers that gentle pilgrim on his way. LI “Nor may he always sweep the passionate lyre, Which is his heart, only for such relief As an impatient spirit may desire, Lest, from the grave which hides a private grief, The spells of song call up some pallid wraith To blast or ban a mortal hope or faith. LII “Yet over his deep soul, with all its crowd Of varying hopes and fears, he still must brood; As from its azure height a tranquil cloud Watches its own bright changes in the flood; Self-reading, not self-loving—they are twain— And sounding, while he mourns, the depths of pain. LIII “Thus shall his songs attain the common breast, Dyed in his own life’s blood, the sign and seal, Even as the thorns which are the martyr’s crest, That do attest his office, and appeal Unto the universal human heart In sanction of his mission and his art. LIV “Much yet remains unsaid—pure must he be; Oh, blessed are the pure! for they shall hear Where others hear not, see where others see With a dazed vision: who have drawn most near My shrine, have ever brought a spirit cased And mailed in a body clean and chaste. LV “The Poet to the whole wide world belongs, Even as the teacher is the child’s—I said No selfish aim should ever mar his songs, But self wears many guises; men may wed Self in another, and the soul may be Self to its centre, all unconsciously. LVI “And therefore must the Poet watch, lest he, In the dark struggle of this life, should take Stains which he might not notice; he must flee Falsehood, however winsome, and forsake All for the Truth, assured that Truth alone Is Beauty, and can make him all my own. LVII “And he must be as armed warrior strong, And he must be as gentle as a girl, And he must front, and sometimes suffer wrong, With brow unbent, and lip untaught to curl; For wrath, and scorn, and pride, however just, Fill the clear spirit’s eyes with earthly dust.” * The story came to me—it recks not whence— In fragments. Oh! if I could tell it all, If human speech indeed could tell it all, ’T were not a whit less wondrous, than if I Should find, untouched in leaf and stem, and bright As when it bloomed three thousand years ago On some Idalian slope, a perfect rose. Alas! a leaf or two, and they perchance Scarce worth the hiving, one or two dead leaves Are the sole harvest of a summer’s toil. There was a moment, ne’er to be recalled, When to the Poet’s hope within my heart, They wore a tint like life’s, but in my hand, I know not why, they withered. I have heard Somewhere, of some dead monarch, from the tomb Where he had slept a century and more, Brought forth, that when the coffin was laid bare, Albeit the body in its mouldering robes Was fleshless, yet one feature still remained Perfect, or perfect seemed at least; the eyes Gleamed for a second on the startled crowd, And then went out in ashes. Even thus The story, when I drew it from the grave Where it had lain so long, did seem, I thought, Not wholly lifeless; but even while I gazed To fix its features on my heart, and called The world to wonder with me, lo! it proved I looked upon a corpse! What further fell In that lone forest nook, how much was taught, How much was only hinted, what the youth Promised, if promise were required, to do Or strive for, what the gifts he bore away— Or added powers or blessings—how at last, The vision ended and he sought his home, How lived there, and how long, and when he passed Into the busy world to seek his fate, I know not, and if any ever knew, The tale hath perished from the earth; for here The slender thread on which my song is strung Breaks off, and many after-years of life Are lost to sight, the life to reappear Only toward its close—as of a dream We catch the end, and opening, but forget That which had joined them in the dreaming brain; Or as a mountain with a belt of mist That shows his base, and far above, a peak With a blue plume of pines. But turn the page And read the only hints that yet remain. P ART II I It is not winter yet, but that sweet time In autumn when the first cool days are past; A week ago, the leaves were hoar with rime, And some have dropped before the North wind’s blast; But the mild hours are back, and at mid-noon, The day hath all the genial warmth of June. II What slender form lies stretched along the mound? Can it be his, the Wanderer’s, with that brow Gray in its prime, those eyes that wander round Listlessly, with a jaded glance that now Seems to see nothing where it rests, and then Pores on each trivial object in its ken? III See how a gentle maid’s wan fingers clasp The last fond love-notes of some faithless hand; Thus with a transient interest, his weak grasp Holds a few leaves as when of old he scanned The meaning in their gold and crimson streaks, But the sweet dream has vanished! hush! he speaks! IV “Once more, once more, after long pain and toil, And yet not long, if I should count by years, I breathe my native air, and tread the soil I trod in childhood; if I shed no tears, No happy tears, ’t is that their fount is dry, And joy that cannot weep must sigh, must sigh. V “These leaves, my boyish books in days of yore, When, as the weeks sped by, I seemed to stand Ever upon the brink of some wild lore, These leaves shall make my bed, and—for the hand Of God is on me, chilling brain and breath— I shall not ask a softer couch in death. VI “Here was it that I saw, or dreamed I saw, I know not which, that shape of love and light. Spirit of Song! have I not owned thy law? Have I not taught, or striven to teach the right, And kept my heart as clean, my life as sweet, As mortals may, when mortals mortals meet? VII “Thou know’st how I went forth, my youthful breast On fire with thee, amid the paths of men; Once in my wanderings, my lone footsteps pressed A mountain forest; in a sombre glen, Down which its thunderous boom a cataract flung, A little bird, unheeded, built and sung. VIII “So fell my voice amid the whirl and rush Of human passions; if unto my art Sorrow hath sometimes owed a gentler gush, I know it not; if any Poet-heart Hath kindled at my songs its light divine, I know it not; no ray came back to mine. IX “Alone in crowds, once more I sought to make Of senseless things my friends; the clouds that burn Above the sunset, and the flowers that shake Their odors in the wind—these would not turn Their faces from me; far from cities, I Forgot the scornful world that passed me by. X “Yet even the world’s cold slights I might have borne, Nor fled, though sorrowing; but I shrank at last When one sweet face, too sweet, I thought, for scorn, Looked scornfully upon me; then I passed From all that youth had dreamed or manhood planned, Into the self that none would understand. XI “She was—I never wronged her womanhood By crowning it with praises not her own— She was all earth’s, and earth’s, too, in that mood When she brings forth her fairest; I atone Now, in this fading brow and failing frame, That such a soul such soul as mine could tame. XII “Clay to its kindred clay! I loved in sooth Too deeply and too purely to be blest; With something more of lust and less of truth She would have sunk all blushes on my breast, And—but I must not blame her—in my ear Death whispers! and the end, thank God! draws near!” XIII Hist! on the perfect silence of the place Comes and dies off a sound like far-off rain With voices mingled; on the Poet’s face A shadow, where no shadow should have lain, Falls the next moment: nothing meets his sight, Yet something moves betwixt him and the light. XIV And a voice murmurs, “Wonder not, but hear! Me to behold again thou need’st not seek; Yet by the dim-felt influence on the air, And by the mystic shadow on thy cheek, Know, though thou may’st not touch with fleshly hands, The genius of thy life beside thee stands! XV “Unto no fault, O weary-hearted one! Unto no fault of man’s thou ow’st thy fate; All human hearts that beat this earth upon, All human thoughts and human passions wait Upon the genuine bard, to him belong, And help in their own way the Poet’s song. XVI “How blame the world? for the world hast thou wrought? Or wast thou but as one who aims to fling The weight of some unutterable thought Down like a burden? what from questioning Too subtly thy own spirit, and to speech But half subduing themes beyond the reach XVII “Of mortal reason; what from living much In that dark world of shadows, where the soul Wanders bewildered, striving still to clutch, Yet never clutching once, a shadowy goal, Which always flies, and while it flies seems near, Thy songs were riddles hard to mortal ear. XVIII “This was the hidden selfishness that marred Thy teachings ever; this the false key-note That on such souls as might have loved thee jarred Like an unearthly language; thou did’st float On a strange water; those who stood on land Gazed, but they could not leave their beaten strand. XIX “Your elements were different, and apart— The world’s and thine—and even in those intense And watchful broodings o’er thy inmost heart, It was thy own peculiar difference That thou did’st seek; nor did’st thou care to find Aught that would bring thee nearer to thy kind. XX “Not thus the Poet, who in blood and brain Would represent his race and speak for all, Weaves the bright woof of that impassioned strain Which drapes, as if for some high festival Of pure delights—whence few of human birth May rightly be shut out—the common earth. XXI “As the same law that moulds a planet, rounds A drop of dew, so the great Poet spheres Worlds in himself; no selfish limit bounds A sympathy that folds all characters, All ranks, all passions, and all life almost In its wide circle. Like some noble host, XXII “He spreads the riches of his soul, and bids Partake who will. Age has its saws of truth, And love is for the maiden’s drooping lids, And words of passion for the earnest youth; Wisdom for all; and when it seeks relief, Tears, and their solace for the heart of grief. XXIII “Nor less on him than thee, the mysteries Within him and about him ever weigh— The meanings in the stars, and in the breeze, All the weird wonders of the common day, Truths that the merest point removes from reach, And thoughts that pause upon the brink of speech; XXIV “But on the surface of his song, these lie As shadows, not as darkness; and alway, Even though it breathe the secrets of the sky, There is a human purpose in the lay; As some tall fir that whispers to the stars Shields at its base a cotter’s lattice-bars. XXV “Even such my Poet! for thou still art mine! Thou might’st have been, and now have calmly died, A priest, and not a victim at the shrine; Alas! yet was it all thy fault? I chide, Perchance, myself within thee, and the fate To which thy power was solely consecrate. XXVI “Thy life hath not been wholly without use, Albeit that use is partly hidden now; In thy unmingled scorn of any truce With this world’s specious falsehoods, often thou Hast uttered, through some all unworldly song, Truths that for man might else have slumbered long. XXVII “And these not always vainly on the crowd Have fallen; some are cherished now, and some, In mystic phrases wrapped as in a shroud, Wait the diviner, who as yet is dumb Upon the breast of God—the gate of birth Closed on a dreamless ignorance of earth. XXVIII “And therefore, though thy name shall pass away, Even as a cloud that hath wept all its showers, Yet as that cloud shall live again one day In the glad grass, and in the happy flowers, So in thy thoughts, though clothed in sweeter rhymes, Thy life shall bear its flowers in future times.”

The rain is plashing on my sill, But all the winds of Heaven are still; And so it falls with that dull sound Which thrills us in the church-yard ground, When the first spadeful drops like lead Upon the coffin of the dead. Beyond my streaming window-pane, I cannot see the neighboring vane, Yet from its old familiar tower The bell comes, muffled, through the shower. What strange and unsuspected link Of feeling touched, has made me think— While with a vacant soul and eye I watch that gray and stony sky— Of nameless graves on battle-plains Washed by a single winter’s rains, Where, some beneath Virginian hills, And some by green Atlantic rills, Some by the waters of the West, A myriad unknown heroes rest. Ah! not the chiefs who, dying, see Their flags in front of victory, Or, at their life-blood’s noble cost Pay for a battle nobly lost, Claim from their monumental beds The bitterest tears a nation sheds. Beneath yon lonely mound—the spot By all save some fond few forgot— Lie the true martyrs of the fight, Which strikes for freedom and for right. Of them, their patriot zeal and pride, The lofty faith that with them died, No grateful page shall farther tell Than that so many bravely fell; And we can only dimly guess What worlds of all this world’s distress, What utter woe, despair, and dearth, Their fate has brought to many a hearth. Just such a sky as this should weep Above them, always, where they sleep; Yet, haply, at this very hour, Their graves are like a lover’s bower; And Nature’s self, with eyes unwet, Oblivious of the crimson debt To which she owes her April grace, Laughs gaily o’er their burial place.

I You say, as one who shapes a life, That you will never be a wife, And, laughing lightly, ask my aid To paint your future as a maid. This is the portrait; and I take The softest colors for your sake: The springtime of your soul is dead, And forty years have bent your head; The lines are firmer round your mouth, But still its smile is like the South. Your eyes, grown deeper, are not sad, Yet never more than gravely glad; And the old charm still lurks within The cloven dimple of your chin. Some share, perhaps, of youthful gloss Your cheek hath shed; but still across The delicate ear are folded down Those silken locks of chestnut brown; Though here and there a thread of gray Steals through them like a lunar ray. One might suppose your life had passed Unvexed by any troubling blast. And such—for all that I foreknow— May be the truth! The deeper woe! A loveless heart is seldom stirred; And sorrow shuns the mateless bird; But ah! through cares alone we reach The happiness which mocketh speech; In the white courts beyond the stars The noblest brow is seamed with scars; And they on earth who’ve wept the most Sit highest of the heavenly host. Grant that your maiden life hath sped In music o’er a golden bed, With rocks, and winds, and storms at truce, And not without a noble use; Yet are you happy? In your air I see a nameless want appear, And a faint shadow on your cheek Tells what the lips refuse to speak. You have had all a maid could hope In the most cloudless horoscope: The strength that cometh from above; A Christian mother’s holy love; And always at thy soul’s demand A brother’s, sister’s heart and hand. Small need your heart hath had to roam Beyond the circle of your home; And yet upon your wish attends A loving throng of genial friends. What, in a lot so sweet as this, Is wanting to complete your bliss? And to what secret shall I trace The clouds that sometimes cross your face, And that sad look which now and then Comes, disappears, and comes again, And dies reluctantly away In those clear eyes of azure gray? At best, and after all, the place You fill with such a serious grace, Hath much to try a woman’s heart, And you but play a painful part. The world around, with little ruth, Still laughs at maids who have not youth, And, right or wrong, the old maid rests The victim of its paltry jests, And still is doomed to meet and bear Its pitying smile or furtive sneer. These are indeed but petty things, And yet they touch some hearts like stings. But I acquit you of the shame Of being unresisting game; For you are of such tempered clay As turns far stronger shafts away, And all that foes or fools could guide Would only curl that lip of pride. How then, O weary one! explain The sources of that hidden pain? Alas! you have divined at length How little you have used your strength, Which, with who knows what human good, Lies buried in that maidenhood, Where, as amid a field of flowers, You have but played with April showers. Ah! we would wish the world less fair, If spring alone adorned the year, And autumn came not with its fruit, And autumn hymns were ever mute. So I remark with small surprise That, as the unvarying season flies, From day to night and night to day, You sicken of your endless May. In this poor life we may not cross One virtuous instinct without loss, And the soul grows not to its height Till love calls forth its utmost might. Not blind to all you might have been, And with some consciousness of sin— Because with love you sometimes played, And choice, not fate, hath kept you maid— You feel that you must pass from earth But half-acquainted with its worth, And that within your heart are deeps In which a nobler woman sleeps; That not the maiden, but the wife Grasps the whole lesson of a life, While such as you but sit and dream Along the surface of its stream. And doubtless sometimes, all unsought, There comes upon your hour of thought, Despite the struggles of your will, A sense of something absent still; And then you cannot help but yearn To love and be beloved in turn, As they are loved, and love, who live As love were all that life could give; And in a transient clasp or kiss Crowd an eternity of bliss; They who of every mortal joy Taste always twice, nor feel them cloy, Or, if woes come, in Sorrow’s hour Are strengthened by a double power. * Here ends my feeble sketch of what Might, but will never be your lot; And I foresee how oft these rhymes Shall make you smile in after-times. If I have read your nature right, It only waits a spark of light; And when that comes, as come it must, It will not fall on arid dust, Nor yet on that which breaks to flame In the first blush of maiden shame; But on a heart which, even at rest, Is warmer than an April nest, Where, settling soft, that spark shall creep About as gently as a sleep; Still stealing on with pace so slow Yourself will scarcely feel the glow, Till after many and many a day, Although no gleam its course betray, It shall attain the inmost shrine, And wrap it in a fire divine! I know not when or whence indeed Shall fall and burst the burning seed, But oh! once kindled, it will blaze, I know, forever! By its rays You will perceive, with subtler eyes, The meaning in the earth and skies, Which, with their animated chain Of grass and flowers, and sun and rain, Of green below, and blue above, Are but a type of married love. You will perceive that in the breast The germs of many virtues rest, Which, ere they feel a lover’s breath, Lie in a temporary death; And till the heart is wooed and won It is an earth without a sun. II But now, stand forth as sweet as life! And let me paint you as a wife. I note some changes in your face, And in your mien a graver grace; Yet the calm forehead lightly bears Its weight of twice a score of years; And that one love which on this earth Can wake the heart to all its worth, And to their height can lift and bind The powers of soul, and sense, and mind, Hath not allowed a charm to fade— And the wife’s lovelier than the maid. An air of still, though bright repose Tells that a tender hand bestows All that a generous manhood may To make your life one bridal day, While the kind eyes betray no less, In their blue depths of tenderness, That you have learned the truths which lie Behind that holy mystery, Which, with its blisses and its woes, Nor man nor maiden ever knows. If now, as to the eyes of one Whose glance not even thought can shun, Your soul lay open to my view, I, looking all its nature through, Could see no incompleted part, For the whole woman warms your heart. I cannot tell how many dead You number in the cycles fled, And you but look the more serene For all the griefs you may have seen, As you had gathered from the dust The flowers of Peace, and Hope, and Trust. Your smile is even sweeter now Than when it lit your maiden brow, And that which wakes this gentler charm Coos at this moment on your arm. Your voice was always soft in youth, And had the very sound of truth, But never were its tones so mild Until you blessed your earliest child; And when to soothe some little wrong It melts into a mother’s song, The same strange sweetness which in years Long vanished filled the eyes with tears, And (even when mirthful) gave always A pathos to your girlish lays, Falls, with perchance a deeper thrill, Upon the breathless listener still. I cannot guess in what fair spot The chance of Time hath fixed your lot, Nor can I name what manly breast Gives to that head a welcome rest; I cannot tell if partial Fate Hath made you poor, or rich, or great; But oh! whatever be your place, I never saw a form or face To which more plainly hath been lent The blessing of a full content!

Two armies stand enrolled beneath The banner with the starry wreath; One, facing battle, blight and blast, Through twice a hundred fields has passed; Its deeds against a ruffian foe, Steam, valley, hill, and mountain know, Till every wind that sweeps the land Goes, glory laden, from the strand. The other, with a narrower scope, Yet led by not less grand a hope, Hath won, perhaps, as proud a place, And wears its fame with meeker grace. Wives march beneath its glittering sign, Fond mothers swell the lovely line, And many a sweetheart hides her blush In the young patriot’s generous flush. No breeze of battle ever fanned The colors of that tender band; Its office is beside the bed, Where throbs some sick or wounded head. It does not court the soldier’s tomb, But plies the needle and the loom; And, by a thousand peaceful deeds, Supplies a struggling nation’s needs. Nor is that army’s gentle might Unfelt amid the deadly fight; It nerves the son’s, the husband's hand, It points the lover’s fearless brand; It thrills the languid, warms the cold, Gives even new courage to the bold; And sometimes lifts the veriest clod To its own lofty trust in God. When Heaven shall blow the trump of peace, And bid this weary warfare cease, Their several missions nobly done, The triumph grasped, and freedom won, Both armies, from their toils at rest, Alike may claim the victor’s crest, But each shall see its dearest prize Gleam softly from the other’s eyes.

I should be dumb before thee, feathered sage! And gaze upon thy phiz with solemn awe, But for a most audacious wish to gauge The hoarded wisdom of thy learned craw. Art thou, grave bird! so wondrous wise indeed? Speak freely, without fear of jest or gibe— What is thy moral and religious creed? And what the metaphysics of thy tribe? A Poet, curious in birds and brutes, I do not question thee in idle play; What is thy station? What are thy pursuits? Doubtless thou hast thy pleasures—what are they? Or is’t thy wont to muse and mouse at once, Entice thy prey with airs of meditation, And with the unvarying habits of a dunce, To dine in solemn depths of contemplation? There may be much—the world at least says so— Behind that ponderous brow and thoughtful gaze; Yet such a great philosopher should know, It is by no means wise to think always. And, Bird, despite thy meditative air, I hold thy stock of wit but paltry pelf— Thou show’st that same grave aspect everywhere, And wouldst look thoughtful, stuffed, upon a shelf. I grieve to be so plain, renowned Bird— Thy fame’s a flam, and thou an empty fowl; And what is more, upon a Poet’s word I’d say as much, wert thou Minerva’s owl. So doff th’ imposture of those heavy brows; They do not serve to hide thy instincts base— And if thou must be sometimes munching mouse, Munch it, O Owl! with less profound a face.

Welcome, rain or tempest From yon airy powers, We have languished for them Many sultry hours, And earth is sick and wan, and pines with all her flowers. What have they been doing In the burning June? Riding with the genii? Visiting the moon? Or sleeping on the ice amid an arctic noon? Bring they with them jewels From the sunset lands? What are these they scatter With such lavish hands? There are no brighter gems in Raolconda’s sands. Pattering on the gravel, Dropping from the eaves, Glancing in the grass, and Tinkling on the leaves, They flash the liquid pearls as flung from fairy sieves. Meanwhile, unreluctant, Earth like Danae lies; Listen! is it fancy That beneath us sighs, As that warm lap receives the largesse of the skies? Jove, it is, descendeth In those crystal rills; And this world-wide tremor Is a pulse that thrills To a god’s life infused through veins of velvet hills. Wait, thou jealous sunshine, Break not on their bliss; Earth will blush in roses Many a day for this, And bend a brighter brow beneath thy burning kiss.

It is a place whither I’ve often gone For peace, and found it, secret, hushed, and cool, A beautiful recess in neighboring woods. Trees of the soberest hues, thick-leaved and tall, Arch it o’erhead and column it around, Framing a covert, natural and wild, Domelike and dim; though nowhere so enclosed But that the gentlest breezes reach the spot Unwearied and unweakened. Sound is here A transient and unfrequent visitor; Yet if the day be calm, not often then, Whilst the high pines in one another’s arms Sleep, you may sometimes with unstartled ear Catch the far fall of voices, how remote You know not, and you do not care to know. The turf is soft and green, but not a flower Lights the recess, save one, star-shaped and bright— I do not know its name—which here and there Gleams like a sapphire set in emerald. A narrow opening in the branched roof, A single one, is large enough to show, With that half-glimpse a dreamer loves so much, The blue air and the blessing of the sky. Thither I always bent my idle steps, When griefs depressed, or joys disturbed my heart, And found the calm I looked for, or returned Strong with the quite rapture in my soul. But one day, One of those July days when winds have fled One knows not whither, I, most sick in mind With thoughts that shall be nameless, yet, no doubt, Wrong, or at least unhealthful, since though dark With gloom, and touched with discontent, they had No adequate excuse, nor cause, nor end, I, with these thoughts, and on this summer day, Entered the accustomed haunt, and found for once No medicinal virtue. Not a leaf Stirred with the whispering welcome which I sought, But in a close and humid atmosphere, Every fair plant and implicated bough Hung lax and lifeless. Something in the place, Its utter stillness, the unusual heat, And some more secret influence, I thought, Weighed on the sense like sin. Above I saw, Though not a cloud was visible in heaven, The palid sky look through a glazed mist Like a blue eye in death. The change, perhaps, Was natural enough; my jaundiced sight, The weather, and the time explain it all: Yet have I drawn a lesson from the spot, And shrined it in these verses for my heart. Thenceforth those tranquil precincts I have sought Not less, and in all shades of various moods; But always shun to desecrate the spot By weak repinings, sickly sentiments, Or inconclusive sorrows. Nature, though Pure as she was in Eden when her breath Kissed the white brow of Eve, doth not refuse, In her own way and with a just reserve, To sympathize with human suffering; But for the pains, the fever, and the fret Engendered of a weak, unquiet heart, She hath no solace; and who seeks her when These be the troubles over which he moans, Reads in her unreplying lineaments Rebukes, that, to the guilty consciousness, Strike like contempt.

They dub thee idler, smiling sneeringly, And why? because, forsooth, so many moons, Here dwelling voiceless by the voiceful sea, Thou hast not set thy thoughts to paltry tunes In song or sonnet. Them these golden noons Oppress not with their beauty; they could prate, Even while a prophet read the solemn runes On which is hanging some imperial fate. How know they, these good gossips, what to thee The ocean and its wanderers may have brought? How know they, in their busy vacancy, With what far aim thy spirit may be fraught? Or that thou dost not bow thee silently Before some great unutterable thought?

I thank you, kind and best beloved friend, With the same thanks one murmurs to a sister, When, for some gentle favor, he hath kissed her, Less for the gifts than for the love you send, Less for the flowers, than what the flowers convey; If I, indeed, divine their meaning truly, And not unto myself ascribe, unduly, Things which you neither meant nor wished to say, Oh! tell me, is the hope then all misplaced? And am I flattered by my own affection? But in your beauteous gift, methought I traced Something above a short-lived predilection, And which, for that I know no dearer name, I designate as love, without love’s flame.

I scarcely grieve, O Nature! at the lot That pent my life within a city’s bounds, And shut me from thy sweetest sights and sounds. Perhaps I had not learned, if some lone cot Had nursed a dreamy childhood, what the mart Taught me amid its turmoil; so my youth Had missed full many a stern but wholesome truth. Here, too, O Nature! in this haunt of Art, Thy power is on me, and I own thy thrall. There is no unimpressive spot on earth! The beauty of the stars is over all, And Day and Darkness visit every hearth. Clouds do not scorn us: yonder factory’s smoke Looked like a golden mist when morning broke.