Death

        I care not what his name for God may be,
            Nor what his wisdom holds of heaven and hell,
            The alphabet whereby he strives to spell
        His lines of life, nor where he bends his knee,
        Since, with his grave before him, he can see
            White Peace above it, while the churchyard bell
            Poised in its tower, poised now, to boom his knell,
        Seems but the waiting tongue of liberty.

        For names and knowledge, idle breed of breath,
            And cant and creed, the progeny of strife,
            Thronging the safe, companioned streets of life,
        Shrink trembling from the cold, clear eye of death,
            And learn too late why dying lips can smile:
            That goodness is the only creed worth...

        Summer is over, and the leaves are falling,
            Gold, fire-enamelled in the glowing sun;
        The sobbing pinetop, the cicada calling
            Chime men to vesper-musing, day is done.

        The fresh, green sod, in dead, dry leaves is hidden;
            They rustle very sadly in the breeze;
        Some breathing from the past comes, all unbidden,
            And in my heart stir withered memories.

        Day fades away; the stars show in the azure,
            Bright with the glow of eyes that know not tears,
        Unchanged, unchangeable, like God's good pleasure,
            They smile and reck not of the weary years.

        Men tell us that the stars it knows are leaving
            Our onward rolling globe, and in their pla...

Lord, I'm an auld man,
    An' I'm deein!
An' do what I can
    I canna help bein
Some feart at the thoucht!
I'm no what I oucht!
An' thou art sae gran',
Me but an auld man!

I haena gotten muckle
    Guid o' the warld;
Though siller a puckle
    Thegither I hae harlt,
Noo I maun be rid o' 't,
The ill an' the guid o' 't!
An' I wud--I s' no back frae 't--
Rather put til 't nor tak frae 't!

It's a pity a body
    Coudna haud on here,
Puttin cloddy to cloddy
    Till he had a bit lan' here!--
But eh I'm forgettin
Whaur the tide's settin!
It'll pusion my prayer
Till it's no worth a hair!

It's awfu, it's awfu
    To think 'at I'm gaein
Whaur a' 's ower wi' the lawfu,
    Whaur's an en' til a' h...

1

Hush, hush! tread softly! hush, hush my dear!
All the house is asleep, but we know very well
That the jealous, the jealous old bald-pate may hear.
Tho' you've padded his night-cap O sweet Isabel!
Tho' your feet are more light than a Fairy's feet,
Who dances on bubbles where brooklets meet,
Hush, hush! soft tiptoe! hush, hush my dear!
For less than a nothing the jealous can hear.

2

No leaf doth tremble, no ripple is there
On the river, all's still, and the night's sleepy eye
Closes up, and forgets all its Lethean care,
Charm'd to death by the drone of the humming May-fly;
And the Moon, whether prudish or complaisant,
Hath fled to her bower, well knowing I want
No light in the dusk, no torch in the gloom,
But my Isabel's eyes, and her li...

'Tis eventide; the noisy brook is hushed
Or murmurs only as a tired child,
Worn out with play; the tangled weeds lie still
Within the marshy hollow.    Quaint and dark
The willows bend above the brooklet's tide,
Reflecting shadowy images therein.
The dark-browed trees, with faces to the sky,
Shut out the light that fades in crimson lines
Along the western sky.    And yonder shade
Of purple marks the cloud, the storm-god rides
In moods of angry fire.

            The woods are filled
With wild-wood blossoms drinking in the dew.
Their scented breath is sweeter than the maid's
Who stands at eve and drinks in love and hope
From every budding flower.

                All day the sun
With fiery breath has held his hot, long reign;
The leaves have...

'T was night. The tranquil moonlight smile
With which Heaven dreams of Earth, shed down
Its beauty on the Indian isle,
On broad green field and white-walled town;
And inland waste of rock and wood,
In searching sunshine, wild and rude,
Rose, mellowed through the silver gleam,
Soft as the landscape of a dream.
All motionless and dewy wet,
Tree, vine, and flower in shadow met:
The myrtle with its snowy bloom,
Crossing the nightshade's solemn gloom,
The white cecropia's silver rind
Relieved by deeper green behind,
The orange with its fruit of gold,
The lithe paullinia's verdant fold,
The passion-flower, with symbol holy,
Twining its tendrils long and lowly,
The rhexias dark, and cassia tall,
And proudly rising over all,
The kingly palm's imper...

"Adieu, my love, adieu!
Be constant and be true
As the daisies gemmed with dew,
Bonny maid."
The cows their thirst were slaking,
Trees the playful winds were shaking;
Sweet songs the birds were making
In the shade.

The moss upon the tree
Was as green as green could be,
The clover on the lea
Ruddy glowed;
Leaves were silver with the dew,
Where the tall sowthistles grew,
And I bade the maid adieu
On the road.

Then I took myself to sea,
While the little chiming bee
Sung his ballad on the lea,
Humming sweet;
And the red-winged butterfly
Was sailing through the sky,
Skimming up and bouncing by
Near my feet.

I left the little birds,
And sweet lowing of the herds,
And couldn't find out words,
Do...

THE BELL OF ATRI

At Atri in Abruzzo, a small town
Of ancient Roman date, but scant renown,
One of those little places that have run
Half up the hill, beneath a blazing sun,
And then sat down to rest, as if to say,
"I climb no farther upward, come what may,"--
The Re Giovanni, now unknown to fame,
So many monarchs since have borne the name,
Had a great bell hung in the market-place
Beneath a roof, projecting some small space,
By way of shelter from the sun and rain.
Then rode he through the streets with all his train,
And, with the blast of trumpets loud and long,
Made proclamation, that whenever wrong
Was done to any man, he should but ring
The great bell in the square, and he, the King,
Would cause the Syndic to decide thereon.
Such was the pr...

I.

Long vollies of wind and of rain
And the rain on the drizzled pane,
And the eve falls chill and murk;
But on yesterday's eve I know
How a horned moon's thorn-like bow
Stabbed rosy thro' gold and thro' glow,
Like a rich barbaric dirk.


II.

Now thick throats of the snapdragons, -
Who hold in their hues cool dawns,
Which a healthy yellow paints, -
Are filled with a sweet rain fine
Of a jaunty, jubilant shine,
A faery vat of rare wine,
Which the honey thinly taints.


III.

Now dabble the poppies shrink,
And the coxcomb and the pink;
While the candytuft's damp crown
Droops dribbled, low bowed i' the wet;
And long spikes o' the mignonette
Little musk-sacks open set,
Which the dripping o' de...

Quando 'l sol bagna in mur l' aurato carro.

HIS NIGHTS ARE, LIKE HIS DAYS, PASSED IN TORMENT.


    When in the sea sinks the sun's golden light,
And on my mind and nature darkness lies,
With the pale moon, faint stars and clouded skies
I pass a weary and a painful night:
To her who hears me not I then rehearse
My sad life's fruitless toils, early and late;
And with the world and with my gloomy fate,
With Love, with Laura and myself, converse.
Sleep is forbid me: I have no repose,
But sighs and groans instead, till morn returns,
And tears, with which mine eyes a sad heart feeds;
Then comes the dawn, the thick air clearer grows,
But not my soul; the sun which in it burns
Alone can cure the grief his fierce warmth breeds.

NOTT.
...

Sent to a friend who had complained that I was glad enough to see
him when he came, but didn't seem to miss him if he stayed away.

And cannot pleasures, while they last,
Be actual unless, when past,
They leave us shuddering and aghast,
With anguish smarting?
And cannot friends be firm and fast,
And yet bear parting?

And must I then, at Friendship's call,
Calmly resign the little all
(Trifling, I grant, it is and small)
I have of gladness,
And lend my being to the thrall
Of gloom and sadness?

And think you that I should be dumb,
And full Dolorum Omnium,
Excepting when you choose to come
And share my dinner?
At other times be sour and glum
And daily thinner?

Must he then only live to weep,
Who'd prove his friendsh...

There's a place called Far-away Meadow
We never shall mow in again,
Or such is the talk at the farmhouse:
The meadow is finished with men.
Then now is the chance for the flowers
That can't stand mowers and plowers.
It must be now, through, in season
Before the not mowing brings trees on,
Before trees, seeing the opening,
March into a shadowy claim.
The trees are all I'm afraid of,
That flowers can't bloom in the shade of;
It's no more men I'm afraid of;
The meadow is done with the tame.
The place for the moment is ours
For you, oh tumultuous flowers,
To go to waste and go wild in,
All shapes and colors of flowers,
I needn't call you by name.

Gone! and they return no more,
But they leave a light in the heart;
The murmur of waves that kiss a shore
Will never, I know, depart.

Gone! yet with us still they stay,
And their memories throb through life;
The music that hushes or stirs to-day,
Is toned by their calm or strife.

Gone! and yet they never go!
We kneel at the shrine of time:
'Tis a mystery no man may know,
Nor tell in a poet's rhyme.

Evening is coming, the sun waxes red,
Radiant colors from heaven are beaming
Life's lustrous longings in infinite streaming; -
Glory in death o'er the mountains is spread.
Cupolas burn, but the fog in far masses
Over the bluish-black fields softly passes,
Rolling as whilom oblivion pale;
Hid is yon valley 'neath thousand years' veil.
    Evening so red and warm
    Glows as the people swarm,
    Notes of the cornet flare,
    Flowers and brown eyes fair.
Great men of old stand in marble erected,
Waiting, scarce known and neglected.

Vespers are ringing, through roseate air
Nebulous floating of tone-sacrifices,
Twilight in churches now broadens and rises,
Incense and word fill the evening with prayer.
Over the Sabines the flame-belt is knotted,

I have eaten your bread and salt,
I have drunk your water and wine,
The deaths ye died I have watched be-side,
And the lives that ye led were mine.

Was there aught that I did not share
In vigil or toil or ease,
One joy or woe that I did not know,
Dear hearts across the seas?

I have written the tale of our life
For a sheltered people’s mirth,
In jesting guise, but ye are wise,
And ye know what the jest is worth.

    Throb, throb, throb,
Far away in the blue transparent Night,
On the outer horizon of a dreaming consciousness,
She hears the sound of her lover's nearing boat
    Afar, afloat
On the river's loneliness, where the Stars are the only light;
    Hear the sound of the straining wood
    Like a broken sob
    Of a heart's distress,
    Loving misunderstood.

She lies, with her loose hair spent in soft disorder,
On a silken sheet with a purple woven border,
Every cell of her brain is latent fire,
Every fibre tense with restrained desire.
    And the straining oars sound clearer, clearer,
    The boat is approaching nearer, nearer;
    "How to wait through the moments' space
    Till I see the light of my lover's face?"

    Throb, throb, thro...

Widow of the late CALEB POND, Esq., died at Hartford, February 19th 1861, aged 73.


Would any think who marked the smile
    On yon untroubled face,
That threescore years and ten had fled
    Without a wrinkling trace?

Yet age doth sometimes skill to guard
    The beauty of its prime,
And hold a quenchless lamp above
    The water-floods of time.

And she, for whom we mourn, maintained
    Through every change and care,
Those hallowed virtues of the soul
    That keep the features fair.

They raised a little child to look
    Into the coffin deep,
Who dream'd the lovely lady lay
    But in a transient sleep,

And gazed upon the face of death
    With eye of tranquil ray,
Well pleased, as with the snowy flowers,

Sighing above,
    Rustling below,
Thorough the woods
    The winds go.
Beneath, dead crowds;
    Above, life bare;
And the besom tempest
    Sweeps the air:
Heart, leave thy woe:
Let the dead things go.

Through the brown
    Gold doth push;
Misty green
    Veils the bush.
Here a twitter,
    There a croak!
They are coming--
    The spring-folk!
Heart, be not numb;
Let the live things come.

Through the beech
    The winds go,
With gentle speech,
    Long and slow.
The grass is fine,
    And soft to lie in:
The sun doth shine
    The blue sky in:
Heart, be alive;
Let the new things thrive.

Round again!
    Here art thou,
A rimy fruit
    O...