Family

I find an old deserted nest,
    Half-hidden in the underbrush:
A withered leaf, in phantom jest,
    Has nestled in it like a thrush
With weary, palpitating breast.

I muse as one in sad surprise
    Who seeks his childhood's home once more,
And finds it in a strange disguise
    Of vacant rooms and naked floor,
With sudden tear-drops in his eyes.

An empty nest!    It used to bear
    A happy burden, when the breeze
Of summer rocked it, and a pair
    Of merry tattlers told the trees
What treasures they had hidden there.

But Fancy, flitting through the gleams
    Of youth's sunshiny atmosphere,
Has fallen in the past, and seems,
    Like this poor leaflet nestled here, -
A phantom guest of empty dreams.

    "Friendship! mysterious cement of the soul!
    Sweet'ner of life and solder of society!
    I owe thee much!"

Blair.


    Dear Smith, the sleest, paukie thief,
    That e'er attempted stealth or rief,
    Ye surely hae some warlock-breef
    Owre human hearts;
    For ne'er a bosom yet was prief
    Against your arts.

    For me, I swear by sun an' moon,
    And ev'ry star that blinks aboon,
    Ye've cost me twenty pair o' shoon
    Just gaun to see you;
    And ev'ry ither pair that's done,
    Mair ta'en I'm wi' you.

    That auld capricious carlin, Nature,
    To mak amends for scrimpit stature,
    She's turn'd you aff, a human creature
    On her first plan;
    And in her freaks, on every feature

On yonder lofty mountain

A thousand times I stand,
And on my staff reclining,

Look down on the smiling land.

My grazing flocks then I follow,

My dog protecting them well;
I find myself in the valley,

But how, I scarcely can tell.

The whole of the meadow is cover'd

With flowers of beauty rare;
I pluck them, but pluck them unknowing

To whom the offering to bear.

In rain and storm and tempest,

I tarry beneath the tree,
But closed remaineth yon portal;

'Tis all but a vision to me.

High over yonder dwelling,

There rises a rainbow gay;
But she from home hath departed

And wander'd far, far away.

Yes, far away bath she wander'd,

Perchance e'en over ...

O Bitter wind toward the sunset blowing,
    What of the dales to-night?
In yonder gray old hall what fires are glowing,
    What ring of festal light?

        "In the great window as the day was dwindling
            I saw an old man stand;
        His head was proudly held and his eyes kindling,
            But the list shook in his hand."

O wind of twilight, was there no word uttered,
    No sound of joy or wail?
"'A great fight and a good death,' he muttered;
    'Trust him, he would not fail.'"

What of the chamber dark where she was lying;
    For whom all life is done?
"Within her heart she rocks a dead child, crying
    'My son, my ltttle son.'"

Glide gently, thus for ever glide,
O Thames! that other bards may see
As lovely visions by thy side
As now, fair river! come to me.
O glide, fair stream! for ever so,
Thy quiet soul on all bestowing,
Till all our minds for ever flow
As thy deep waters now are flowing.

Vain thought! Yet be as now thou art,
That in thy waters may be seen
The image of a poet's heart,
How bright, how solemn, how serene!
Such as did once the Poet bless,
Who murmuring here a later ditty,
Could find no refuge from distress
But in the milder grief of pity.

Now let us, as we float along,
For 'him' suspend the dashing oar;
And pray that never child of song
May know that Poet's sorrows more.
How calm! how still! the only sound,
The dripping of the oar...

I can't understand why you pass up the toys
That Santa considered just right for small boys;
I can't understand why you turn up your nose
At dogs, hobby-horses, and treasures like those,
And play a whole hour, sometimes longer than that,
With a thing as prosaic as daddy's old hat.

The tables and shelves have been loaded for you
With volumes of pictures - they're pretty ones, too -
Of birds, beasts, and fishes, and old Mother Goose
Repines in a corner and feels like the deuce,
While you, on the floor, quite contentedly look
At page after page of the telephone book.

    Sad thy tale, thou idle page,
        And rueful thy alarms:
    Death tears the brother of her love
        From Isabella's arms.

    Sweetly deck'd with pearly dew
        The morning rose may blow;
    But cold successive noontide blasts
        May lay its beauties low.

    Fair on Isabella's morn
        The sun propitious smil'd;
    But, long ere noon, succeeding clouds
        Succeeding hopes beguil'd.

    Fate oft tears the bosom chords
        That nature finest strung:
    So Isabella's heart was form'd,
        And so that heart was wrung.

    Were it in the poet's power,
        Strong as he shares the grief
    That pierces Isabella's heart,
        To give that heart relief!

    Dread Omnipo...

"There!" said a Stripling, pointing with meet pride
Towards a low roof with green trees half concealed,
"Is Mosgiel Farm; and that's the very field
Where Burns ploughed up the Daisy." Far and wide
A plain below stretched seaward, while, descried
Above sea-clouds, the Peaks of Arran rose;
And, by that simple notice, the repose
Of earth, sky, sea, and air, was vivified.
Beneath "the random 'bield' of clod or stone"
Myriads of daisies have shone forth in flower
Near the lark's nest, and in their natural hour
Have passed away; less happy than the One
That, by the unwilling ploughshare, died to prove
The tender charm of poetry and love.

The night lamp is faintly gleaming
    Within my chamber still,
And the heavy shades of midnight
    Each gloomy angle fill,
And my worn and weary watchers
    Scarce dare to move or weep,
For they think that I am buried
    In deep and quiet sleep.

But, hush! what are those voices
    Heard on the midnight air,
Of strange celestial sweetness,
    Breathing of love and prayer?
Nearer they grow and clearer,
    I hear now what they say -
To the Kingdom of God's glory,
    They're calling me away!

See my gentle mother softly
    To me approaches now,
What is the change she readeth
    Upon my pale damp brow?
She clasps her hands in anguish
    Whose depth no words might say?
Has she, too, heard the voices
    That a...

As some dusk mother shields from all alarms
    The tired child she gathers to her breast,
The brunette Night doth fold me in her arms,
    And hushes me to perfect peace and rest.
Her eyes of stars shine on me, and I hear
Her voice of winds low crooning on my ear.
O Night, O Night, how beautiful thou art!
Come, fold me closer to thy pulsing heart.

The day is full of gladness, and the light
    So beautifies the common outer things,
I only see with my external sight,
    And only hear the great world's voice which rings
But silently from daylight and from din
The sweet Night draws me - whispers, "Look within!"
And looking, as one wakened from a dream,
I see what is - no longer what doth seem.

The Night says, "Listen!" and upon my ear
  ...

Lo! steadfast and serene,
In patient pause between
The seen and the unseen,
    What gentle zephyrs fan
Your silken silver hair, -
And what diviner air
Breathes round you like a prayer,
    Old Man?

Can you, in nearer view
Of Glory, pierce the blue
Of happy Heaven through;
    And, listening mutely, can
Your senses, dull to us,
Hear Angel-voices thus,
In chorus glorious -
    Old Man?

In your reposeful gaze
The dusk of Autumn days
Is blent with April haze,
    As when of old began
The bursting of the bud
Of rosy babyhood -
When all the world was good,
    Old Man.

And yet I find a sly
Little twinkle in your eye;
And your whisperingly shy
    Little laugh is simply an
Internal shout o...

I.

This is the sweetness of an April day;
    The softness of the spring is on the face
    Of the old year. She has no natural grace,
But something comes to her from far away

Out of the Past, and on her old decay
    The beauty of her childhood you can trace.--
    And yet she moveth with a stormy pace,
And goeth quickly.--Stay, old year, oh, stay!

We do not like new friends, we love the old;
    With young, fierce, hopeful hearts we ill agree;
But thou art patient, stagnant, calm, and cold,
    And not like that new year that is to be;--
        Life, promise, love, her eyes may fill, fair child!
        We know the past, and will not be beguiled.

II.

Yet the free heart will not be captive long;
    And if she changes often...

At Quincey's moat the squandering village ends,
And there in the almshouse dwell the dearest friends
Of all the village, two old dames that cling
As close as any trueloves in the spring.
Long, long ago they passed threescore-and-ten,
And in this doll's house lived together then;
All things they have in common, being so poor,
And their one fear, Death's shadow at the door.
Each sundown makes them mournful, each sunrise
Brings back the brightness in their failing eyes.

How happy go the rich fair-weather days
When on the roadside folk stare in amaze
At such a honeycomb of fruit and flowers
As mellows round their threshold; what long hours
They gloat upon their steepling hollyhocks,
Bee's balsams, feathery southernwood, and stocks,
Fiery dragon's-mouths, gre...

I knew it the first of the Summer -
    I knew it the same at the end -
That you and your love were plighted,
    But couldn't you be my friend?
Couldn't we sit in the twilight,
    Couldn't we walk on the shore,
With only a pleasant friendship
    To bind us, and nothing more?

There was never a word of nonsense
    Spoken between us two,
Though we lingered oft in the garden
    Till the roses were wet with dew.
We touched on a thousand subjects -
    The moon and the stars above;
But our talk was tinctured with science,
    With never a hint of love.

"A wholly platonic friendship,"
    You said I had proved to you,
"Could bind a man and a woman
    The whole long season through,
With never a thought of folly,
    Though bo...

    As there is music uninform'd by art
    In those wild notes, which, with a merry heart,
    The birds in unfrequented shades express,
    Who, better taught at home, yet please us less:
    So in your verse a native sweetness dwells,
    Which shames composure, and its art excels.
    Singing no more can your soft numbers grace,
    Than paint adds charms unto a beauteous face.
    Yet as, when mighty rivers gently creep,
    Their even calmness does suppose them deep;
    Such is your muse: no metaphor swell'd high
    With dangerous boldness lifts her to the sky:
    Those mounting fancies, when they fall again,
    Show sand and dirt at bottom do remain.
    So firm a strength, and yet withal so sweet,
    Did never but in Samson's riddle meet.
    'Tis...

‘Tis not that I design to rob
Thee of thy birthright, gentle Bob,
For thou art born sole heir, and single,
Of dear Mat Prior’s easy jingle;
Not that I mean, while thus I knit
My threadbare sentiments together,
To show my genius or my wit,
When God and you know I have neither;
Or such as might be better shown
By letting poetry alone.
‘Tis not with either of these views
That I presumed to address the muse:
But to divert a fierce banditti
(Sworn foes to every thing that’s witty!)
That, with a black, infernal train,
Make cruel inroads in my brain,
And daily threaten to drive thence
My little garrison of sense;
The fierce banditti which I mean
Are gloomy thoughts led on by spleen.
Then there’s another reason yet,
Which is, that I may fairly...

TIRED.

I.

O, I would tell you more, but I am tired;
For I have longed, and I have had my will;
I pleaded in my spirit, I desired:
"Ah! let me only see him, and be still
All my days after."
    Rock, and rock, and rock,
Over the falling, rising watery world,
Sail, beautiful ship, along the leaping main;
The chirping land-birds follow flock on flock
To light on a warmer plain.
White as weaned lambs the little wavelets curled,
    Fall over in harmless play,
    As these do far away;
Sail, bird of doom, along the shimmering sea,
All under thy broad wings that overshadow thee.

II.

    I am so tired,
If I would comfort me, I know not how,
For I have seen thee, lad, as I desired,
And I have nothing left to long for no...

I was in Greece. It was the hour of noon,
And the Ægean wind had dropped asleep
Upon Hymettus, and the thymy isles
Of Salamis and Ægina lay hung
Like clouds upon the bright and breathless sea.
I had climbed up th’ Acropolis at morn,
And hours had fled as time will in a dream
Amid its deathless ruins, for the air
Is full of spirits in these mighty fanes,
And they walk with you! As it sultrier grew,
I laid me down within a shadow deep
Of a tall column of the Parthenon,
And in an absent idleness of thought
I scrawled upon the smooth and marble base.
Tell me, O memory, what wrote I there?
The name of a sweet child I knew at Rome!

I was in Asia. ’Twas a peerless night
Upon the plains of Sardis, and the moon,
Touching my eyelids through the wind-stir...