Happiness

Live all thy sweet life thro',
    Sweet Rose, dew-sprent,
Drop down thine evening dew
To gather it anew
When day is bright:
    I fancy thou wast meant
Chiefly to give delight.

Sing in the silent sky,
    Glad soaring bird;
Sing out thy notes on high
To sunbeam straying by
Or passing cloud;
    Heedless if thou art heard
Sing thy full song aloud.

Oh that it were with me
    As with the flower;
Blooming on its own tree
For butterfly and bee
Its summer morns:
    That I might bloom mine hour
A rose in spite of thorns.

Oh that my work were done
    As birds' that soar
Rejoicing in the sun:
That when my time is run
And daylight too,
    I so might rest once more
Cool with refreshing dew.

I

Serene and beautiful and very wise,
Most erudite in curious Grecian lore,
You lay and read your learned books, and bore
A weight of unshed tears and silent sighs.
The song within your heart could never rise
Until love bade it spread its wings and soar.
Nor could you look on Beauty's face before
A poet's burning mouth had touched your eyes.

Love is made out of ecstasy and wonder;
Love is a poignant and accustomed pain.
It is a burst of Heaven-shaking thunder;
It is a linnet's fluting after rain.
Love's voice is through your song; above and under
And in each note to echo and remain.


II

Because Mankind is glad and brave and young,
Full of gay flames that white and scarlet glow,
All joys and passions that Mankind may know<...

One Autumn night, in Sudbury town,
Across the meadows bare and brown,
The windows of the wayside inn
Gleamed red with fire-light through the leaves
Of woodbine, hanging from the eaves
Their crimson curtains rent and thin.

As ancient is this hostelry
As any in the land may be,
Built in the old Colonial day,
When men lived in a grander way,
With ampler hospitality;
A kind of old Hobgoblin Hall,
Now somewhat fallen to decay,
With weather-stains upon the wall,
And stairways worn, and crazy doors,
And creaking and uneven floors,
And chimneys huge, and tiled and tall.

A region of repose it seems,
A place of slumber and of dreams,
Remote among the wooded hills!
For there no noisy railway speeds,
Its torch-race scattering smoke and...

Of old sat Freedom on the heights,
The thunders breaking at her feet:
Above her shook the starry lights:
She heard the torrents meet.

There in her place she did rejoice,
Self-gather'd in her prophet-mind,
But fragments of her mighty voice
Came rolling on the wind.

Then stept she down thro' town and field
To mingle with the human race,
And part by part to men reveal'd
The fullness of her face --

Grave mother of majestic works,
From her isle-alter gazing down,
Who, God-like, grasps the triple forks,
And, King-like, wears the crown:

Her open eyes desire the truth.
The wisdom of a thousand years
Is in them. May perpetual youth
Keep dry their light from tears;

That her fair form may stand and shine
Make bright ...

I. 1.

Hence, to the realms of Night, dire Demon, hence!
    Thy chain of adamant can bind
    That little world, the human mind,
And sink its noblest powers to impotence.
    Wake the lion's loudest roar,
    Clot his shaggy mane with gore,
    With flashing fury bid his eye-balls shine;
    Meek is his savage, sullen soul, to thine!
    Thy touch, thy deadening touch has steel'd the breast, [Footnote 2]
    Whence, thro' her April-shower, soft Pity smil'd;
    Has clos'd the heart each godlike virtue bless'd,
    To all the silent pleadings of his child.
    At thy command he plants the dagger deep,
At thy command exults, tho' Nature bids him weep!

I. 2.

When, with a frown that froze the peopled earth, [Footnote 3]
    Thou dartedst thy...

Breakfast at the Century Club, New York, May, 1879.

Such kindness! the scowl of a cynic would soften,
His pulse beat its way to some eloquent words,
Alas! my poor accents have echoed too often,
Like that Pinafore music you've some of you heard.

Do you know me, dear strangers - the hundredth time comer
At banquets and feasts since the days of my Spring?
Ah! would I could borrow one rose of my Summer,
But this is a leaf of my Autumn I bring.


I look at your faces, - I'm sure there are some from
The three-breasted mother I count as my own;
You think you remember the place you have come from,
But how it has changed in the years that have flown!

Unaltered, 't is true, is the hall we call "Funnel,"
Still fights the "Old South" in the battle for li...

    On -
    Thro' the gleaming gray
    I ran to the storm and clang -
    To the red, red hill where the great tree swayed -
    And scattered bells like autumn leaves.
    How the red bells rang!
    My breath within my breast
    Was held like a diver's breath -
    The leaves were tangled locks of gray -
    The boughs of the tree were white and gray,
    Shaped like scythes of Death.
    The boughs of the tree would sweep and sway -
    Sway like scythes of Death.
    But it was beautiful!
    I knew that all was well.
    A thousand bells from a thousand boughs
    Each moment bloomed and fell.
    On the hill of the wind-swept tree
    There were no bells asleep;
    They sang beneath my trailing wings
    Like rivers sweet and stee...

Sigh on, sad heart, for Love's eclipse
And Beauty's fairest queen,
Though 'tis not for my peasant lips
To soil her name between:
A king might lay his sceptre down,
But I am poor and nought,
The brow should wear a golden crown
That wears her in its thought.

The diamonds glancing in her hair,
Whose sudden beams surprise,
Might bid such humble hopes beware
The glancing of her eyes;
Yet looking once, I look'd too long,
And if my love is sin,
Death follows on the heels of wrong,
And kills the crime within.

Her dress seem'd wove of lily leaves,
It was so pure and fine,
O lofty wears, and lowly weaves, -
But hodden-gray is mine;
And homely hose must step apart,
Where garter'd princes stand,
But may he wear my love at heart

I.

Beneath an old beech-tree
They sat together,
Fair as a flower was she
Of summer weather.
They spoke of life and love,
While, through the boughs above,
The sunlight, like a dove,
Dropped many a feather.

II.

And there the violet,
The bluet near it,
Made blurs of azure wet
As if some spirit,
Or woodland dream, had gone
Sprinkling the earth with dawn,
When only Fay and Faun
Could see or hear it.

III.

She with her young, sweet face
And eyes gray-beaming,
Made of that forest place
A spot for dreaming:
A spot for Oreads
To smooth their nut-brown braids,
For Dryads of the glades
To dance in, gleaming.

IV.

So dim the place, so blest,
One had not wondered
H...

    A song of Long Ago:
    Sing it lightly - sing it low -
    Sing it softly - like the lisping of the lips we used to know
    When our baby-laughter spilled
    From the glad hearts ever filled
    With music blithe as robin ever trilled!

    Let the fragrant summer-breeze,
    And the leaves of locust-trees,
    And the apple-buds and blossoms, and the wings of honey-bees,
    All palpitate with glee,
    Till the happy harmony
    Brings back each childish joy to you and me.

    Let the eyes of fancy turn
    Where the tumbled pippins burn
    Like embers in the orchard's lap of tangled grass and fern, -
    There let the old path wind
    In and out and on behind
    The cider-press that chuckles as we grind.

    Blend in the...

When Jill complains to Jack for want of meat,
Jack kisses Jill and bids her freely eat:
Jill says, Of what? says Jack, On that sweet kiss,
Which full of nectar and ambrosia is,
The food of poets. So I thought, says Jill,
That makes them look so lank, so ghost-like still.
Let poets feed on air, or what they will;
Let me feed full, till that I fart, says Jill.

On grass, on gravel, in the sun,
Or now beneath the shade,
They went, in pleasant Kensington,
A prentice and a maid.

That Sunday morning’s April glow,
How should it not impart
A stir about the veins that flow
To feed the youthful heart.

Ah! years may come, and years may bring
The truth that is not bliss,
But will they bring another thing
That can compare with this?

I read it in that arm she lays
So soft on his; her mien,
Her step, her very gown betrays
(What in her eyes were seen)
That not in vain the young buds round,
The cawing birds above,
The air, the incense of the ground,
Are whispering, breathing love.

Ah I years may come, &c.

To inclination, young and blind,
So perfect, as they lent,
...

My halting Muse, that dragg'st by choice along
Thy slow, slow step, in melancholy song!
And lik'st that pace expressive of thy cares
Not less than Diopeia's[2] sprightlier airs
When in the dance she beats with measur'd tread
Heav'n's floor in front of Juno's golden bed,
Salute Salsillus, who to verse divine
Prefers, with partial love, such lays as mine.
Thus writes that Milton then, who wafted o'er
From his own nest on Albion's stormy shore
Where Eurus, fiercest of th'Aeolian band,
Sweeps with ungovern'd rage the blasted land,
Of late to more serene Ausonia came
To view her cities of illustrious name,
To prove, himself a witness of the truth,
How wise her elders, and how learn'd her Youth.
Much good, Salsillus! and a body free
From all disease,...

Beyond the orchard, in the lane,
The crested red-bird sings again -
O bird, whose song says, Have no care.
Should I not care when CONSTANCE there, -
My CONSTANCE, with the bashful gaze,
Pink-gowned like some sweet hollyhock, -
If I declare my love, just says
Some careless thing as if in mock?
Like - Past the orchard, in the lane,
How sweet the red-bird sings again!

There, while the red-bird sings his best,
His listening mate sits on the nest -
O bird, whose patience says, All's well,
How can it be with me, now tell?
When CONSTANCE, with averted eyes, -
Soft-bonneted as some sweet-pea, -
If I speak marriage, just replies
With some such quaint irrelevancy,
As, While the red-bird sings his best,
His loving mate sits on...