Friendship

Hers was a lonely, shadowed lot;
Or so the unperceiving thought,
Who looked no deeper than her face,
Devoid of chiselled lines of grace -
No farther than her humble grate,
And wondered how she bore her fate.

Yet she was neither lone nor sad;
So much of love her spirit had,
She found an ever-flowing spring
Of happiness in everything.

So near to her was Nature's heart
It seemed a very living part
Of her own self; and bud and blade,
And heat and cold, and sun and shade,
And dawn and sunset, Spring and Fall,
Held raptures for her, one and all.

The year's four changing seasons brought
To her own door what thousands sought
In wandering ways and did not find -
Diversion and content of mind.

She loved the tasks that filled e...

Round Cleon's brow the Delphic laurels twine,
    And lo! the laurel decks Amanda's breast!
    Charm'd shall he mark its glossy branches shine
    On that contrasting snow; shall see express'd
Love's better omens, in the green hues dress'd
    Of this selected foliage. - Nymph, 't is thine
    The warning story on its leaves to find,
    Proud Daphne's fate, imprison'd in its rind,
And with its umbrage veil'd, great Phoebus' power
    Scorning, and bent, with feet of wind, to foil
    His swift pursuit, till on Thessalian shore
Shot into boughs, and rooted to the soil. -
    Thus warn'd, fair Maid, Apollo's ire to shun,
    Soon may his Spray's and VOTARY's lot be one.

I.

Nature, so far as in her lies,
Imitates God, and turns her face
To every land beneath the skies,
Counts nothing that she meets with base,
But lives and loves in every place;



II.

Fills out the homely quickset-screens,
And makes the purple lilac ripe,
Steps from her airy hill, and greens
The swamp, where humm’d the dropping snipe,
With moss and braided marish-pipe;



III.

And on thy heart a finger lays,
Saying, ‘Beat quicker, for the time
Is pleasant, and the woods and ways
Are pleasant, and the beech and lime
Put forth and feel a gladder clime.’



IV.

And murmurs of a deeper voice,
Going before to some far shrine,
Teach that sick heart the stronger choice,

A TALE OF TRANSFORMATIONS.


A little Brook, that babbled under grass,
Once saw a Poet pass--
A Poet with long hair and saddened eyes,
Who went his weary way with woeful sighs.
And on another time,
This Brook did hear that Poet read his rueful rhyme.
Now in the poem that he read,
This Poet said--
"Oh! little Brook that babblest under grass!
(Ah me! Alack! Ah, well-a-day! Alas!)
Say, are you what you seem?
Or is your life, like other lives, a dream?
What time your babbling mocks my mortal moods,
Fair Naïad of the stream!
And are you, in good sooth,
Could purblind poesy perceive the truth,
A water-sprite,
Who sometimes, for man's dangerous delight,
Puts on a human form and face,
To wear them with a superhuman grace?

    Across the mountains and the hills,
Across the valleys and the swelling seas,
    By lakes and rivers whose deep murmur fills
Earth's dreams with sweet prophetic melodies,
    Together have we come unto this place,
    And here we say farewell a little space:

    You, backward turning through the land,
To tarry 'mid its beauty yet awhile--
    I, o'er the River, to another strand
With cheerful heart, so part we with a smile.
    Shall space have any power o'er god-like souls?
    Love shall bridge o'er the stream that 'twixt us rolls!

    Together wend we to the tide,
And as the first wave wets my foot, we part;--
    E'en now methinks I see the other side;
And, though the stream be swift, a steady heart
    And stalwart arm shall quell its col...

ART.


One is so fair, I turn to go,
As others go, its beckoning length;
Such paths can never lead to woe,
I say in eager, early strength.
What is the goal?
Visions of heaven, wake;
But the wind's whispers round me roll:
"For you, mistake!"


LOVE.


One leads beneath high oaks, and birds
Choose there their joyous revelry;
The sunbeams glint in golden herds,
The river mirrors silently.
Under these trees
My heart would bound or break;
Tell me what goal, resonant breeze?
"For you, mistake!"


CHARITY.


What is there left? The arid way,
The chilling height, whence all the world
Looks little, and each radiant day,
Like the soul's banner, flies unfurled.
May I stand here;
In ...

Alone by the Schuylkill a wanderer roved,
    And bright were its flowery banks to his eye;
But far, very far were the friends that he loved,
    And he gazed on its flowery banks with a sigh.

Oh Nature, though blessed and bright are thy rays,
    O'er the brow of creation enchantingly thrown,
Yet faint are they all to the lustre that plays
    In a smile from the heart that is fondly our own.

Nor long did the soul of the stranger remain
Unblest by the smile he had languished to meet;
Though scarce did he hope it would soothe him again,
    Till the threshold of home had been pressed by his feet.

But the lays of his boyhood had stolen to their ear,
And they loved what they knew of so humble a name;
And they told him, with flattery welcome and dear,

The world had chafed his spirit proud
    By its wearing, crushing strife,
The censure of the thoughtless crowd
    Had touched a blameless life;
Like the dove of old, from the water's foam,
He wearily turned to the ark of home.

Hopes he had cherished with joyous heart,
    Had toiled for many a day,
With body and spirit, and patient art,
    Like mists had melted away;
And o'er day-dreams vanished, o'er fond hopes flown,
He sat him down to mourn alone.

No, not alone, for soft fingers rest
    On his hot and aching brow,
Back the damp hair is tenderly pressed
    While a sweet voice whispers low:
"Thy joys have I shared, O my husband true,
And shall I not share thy sorrows too?"

Vain task to resist the loving gaze
    That so f...

Oh for the nights when we used to sit
    In the firelight's glow or flicker,
With the gas turned low and our pipes all lit,
    And the air fast growing thicker;

When you, enthroned in the big arm-chair,
    Would spin for us yarns unending,
Your voice and accent and pensive air
    With the narrative subtly blending!

Oh for the bleak and wintry days
    When we set our blood in motion,
Leaping the rocks below the braes
    And wetting our feet in the ocean,

Or shying at marks for moderate sums
    (A penny a hit, you remember),
With aching fingers and purple thumbs,
    In the merry month of December!

There is little doubt we were very daft,
    And our sports, like the stakes, were trifling;
While the air of the room where ...

I.

What words of mine can tell the spell
Of garden ways I know so well?
The path that takes me in the spring
Past quince-trees where the bluebirds sing,
And peonies are blossoming,
Unto a porch, wistaria-hung,
Around whose steps May-lilies blow,
A fair girl reaches down among,
Her arm more white than their sweet snow.

II.

What words of mine can tell the spell
Of garden ways I know so well?
Another path that leads me, when
The summer time is here again,
Past hollyhocks that shame the west
When the red sun has sunk to rest;
To roses bowering a nest,
A lattice, 'neath which mignonette
And deep geraniums surge and sough,
Where, in the twilight, starless yet,
A fair girl's eyes are stars enough.

III.

...

The Grey Brethren





Some of the happiest remembrances of my childhood are of days spent in a little Quaker colony on a high hill.

The walk was in itself a preparation, for the hill was long and steep and at the mercy of the north-east wind; but at the top, sheltered by a copse and a few tall trees, stood a small house, reached by a flagged pathway skirting one side of a bright trim garden.

I, with my seven summers of lonely, delicate childhood, felt, when I gently closed the gate behind me, that I shut myself into Peace. The house was always somewhat dark, and there were no domestic sounds. The two old ladies, sisters, both born in the last century, sat in the cool, dim parlour, netting or sewing. Rebecca was small, with a nut-cracker nose and chin; Mary, tall and dignified, needed no...

Behold, within the leafy shade,
Those bright blue eggs together laid!
On me the chance-discovered sight
Gleamed like a vision of delight.
I started, seeming to espy
The home and sheltered bed,
The Sparrow's dwelling, which, hard by
My Father' house, in wet or dry
My sister Emmeline and I
Together visited.

She looked at it and seemed to fear it;
Dreading, tho' wishing, to be near it:
Such heart was in her, being then
A little Prattler among men.
The Blessing of my later year
Was with me when a boy:
She gave me eyes, she gave me ears;
And humble care, and delicate fears;
A heart, the fountain of sweet tears;
And love, and thought, and joy.

If a pleasant lawn there grow
    By the showers caressed,
Where in all the seasons blow
    Flowers gaily dressed,
Where by handfuls one may win
Lilies, woodbine, jessamine,
I will make a path therein
    For thy feet to rest.

If there live in honour's sway
    An all-loving breast
Whose devotion cannot stray,
    Never gloom-oppressed--
If this noble breast still wake
For a worthy motive's sake,
There a pillow I will make
    For thy head to rest.

If there be a dream of love,
    Dream that God has blest,
Yielding daily treasure-trove
    Of delightful zest,
With the scent of roses filled,
With the soul's communion thrilled,
There, oh! there a nest I'll build
    For thy heart to rest.

..."Una selva oscura." - Dante.


Awake or sleeping (for I know not which)
I was or was not mazed within a wood
Where every mother-bird brought up her brood
Safe in some leafy niche
Of oak or ash, of cypress or of beech,

Of silvery aspen trembling delicately,
Of plane or warmer-tinted sycamore,
Of elm that dies in secret from the core,
Of ivy weak and free,
Of pines, of all green lofty things that be.

Such birds they seemed as challenged each desire;
Like spots of azure heaven upon the wing,
Like downy emeralds that alight and sing,
Like actual coals on fire,
Like anything they seemed, and everything.

Such mirth they made, such warblings and such chat
With tongue of music in a well-tuned beak,
They seemed to speak more wis...

Given By Lieutenant-Colonel D ----    To His Friends In The Ruins Of Berry Castle, Devonshire.[A]


By your permission, Ladies! I address ye,
And for the boon you grant, my Muse shall bless ye.
I do not mean in solemn verse to tell
What fate the race of Pomeroy befell;
To trace the castle-story of each year,
To learn how many owls have hooted here;
What was the weight of stone, which form'd this pile,
Will on your lovely cheeks awake no smile:
Such antiquarian sermons suit not me,
Nor any soul who loves festivity.
Past times I heed not; be the present hour
In life, while yet it blooms, my chosen flow'r,
For well I know, what Time cannot disown,
Amidst this mossy pile of mould'ring stone,
That Hospitality was never seen
To spread more socia...

I.

Mæcenas, from Etrurian Princes sprung,
    For whom my golden lyre I strung,
Friend, Patron, Guardian of its rising song,
    O mark the Youth, that towers along,
    With triumph in his air;
    Proud of Olympic dust, that soils
    His burning cheek and tangled hair!
Mark how he spreads the palm, that crown'd his toils!
    Each look the throbbing hope reveals
    That his fleet steeds and kindling wheels,
Swept round the skilfully-avoided goal,
Shall with illustrious Chiefs his echo'd name enrol.


II.

    Who the civic crown obtains,
    Or bears into his granaries large
The plenteous tribute of the Libyan Plains;
Or he, who watches still a rural charge,
    O'er his own fields directs the plough,
    Sees his own fr...

The Frost performs its secret ministry,
Unhelped by any wind. The owlet's cry
Came loud, and hark, again! loud as before.
The inmates of my cottage, all at rest,
Have left me to that solitude, which suits
Abstruser musings: save that at my side
My cradled infant slumbers peacefully.
'Tis calm indeed! so calm, that it disturbs
And vexes meditation with its strange
And extreme silentness. Sea, hill, and wood,
This populous village! Sea, and hill, and wood,
With all the numberless goings-on of life,
Inaudible as dreams! the thin blue flame
Lies on my low-burnt fire, and quivers not;
Only that film, which fluttered on the grate,
Still flutters there, the sole unquiet thing.
Methinks, its motion in this hush of nature
Gives it dim sympathies with me who live,<...

I

Between extremities
Man runs his course;
A brand, or flaming breath.
Comes to destroy
All those antinomies
Of day and night;
The body calls it death,
The heart remorse.
But if these be right
What is joy?


II

A tree there is that from its topmost bough
Is half all glittering flame and half all green
Abounding foliage moistened with the dew;
And half is half and yet is all the scene;
And half and half consume what they renew,
And he that Attis' image hangs between
That staring fury and the blind lush leaf
May know not what he knows, but knows not grief


III

Get all the gold and silver that you can,
Satisfy ambition, animate
The trivial days and ram them with the sun,
And yet upon t...