Identity

At midnight, in the month of June,
I stand beneath the mystic moon.
An opiate vapor, dewy, dim,
Exhales from out her golden rim,
And, softly dripping, drop by drop,
Upon the quiet mountain top,
Steals drowsily and musically
Into the universal valley.
The rosemary nods upon the grave;
The lily lolls upon the wave;
Wrapping the fog about its breast,
The ruin molders into rest;
Looking like Lethe, see! the lake
A conscious slumber seems to take,
And would not, for the world, awake.
All Beauty sleeps!, and lo! where lies
Irene, with her Destinies!

O, lady bright! can it be right,
This window open to the night?
The wanton airs, from the tree-top,
Laughingly through the lattice drop,
The bodiless airs, a wizard rout,
Flit through ...

I

There is a house with ivied walls,
And mullioned windows worn and old,
And the long dwellers in those halls
Have souls that know but sordid calls,
And daily dote on gold.

II

In blazing brick and plated show
Not far away a "villa" gleams,
And here a family few may know,
With book and pencil, viol and bow,
Lead inner lives of dreams.

III

The philosophic passers say,
"See that old mansion mossed and fair,
Poetic souls therein are they:
And O that gaudy box! Away,
You vulgar people there."

I.

    When round the earth the Father's hands
        Have gently drawn the dark;
    Sent off the sun to fresher lands,
        And curtained in the lark;
    'Tis sweet, all tired with glowing day,
        To fade with fading light,
    And lie once more, the old weary way,
        Upfolded in the night.

    If mothers o'er our slumbers bend,
        And unripe kisses reap,
    In soothing dreams with sleep they blend,
        Till even in dreams we sleep.
    And if we wake while night is dumb,
        'Tis sweet to turn and say,
    It is an hour ere dawning come,
        And I will sleep till day.


II.

    There is a dearer, warmer bed,
        Where one all day may lie,
    Earth's bosom pillowing the hea...

My heart is sick with longing, tho' I feed
On hope; Time goes with such a heavy pace
That neither brings nor takes from thy embrace,
As if he slept - forgetting his old speed:
For, as in sunshine only we can read
The march of minutes on the dial's face,
So in the shadows of this lonely place
There is no love, and Time is dead indeed.
But when, dear lady, I am near thy heart,
Thy smile is time, and then so swift it flies,
It seems we only meet to tear apart,
With aching hands and lingering of eyes.
Alas, alas! that we must learn hours' flight
By the same light of love that makes them bright!

    Fair the face of orient day,
    Fair the tints of op'ning rose,
    But fairer still my Delia dawns,
    More lovely far her beauty blows.

    Sweet the lark's wild-warbled lay,
    Sweet the tinkling rill to hear;
    But, Delia, more delightful still
    Steal thine accents on mine ear.

    The flow'r-enamoured busy bee
    The rosy banquet loves to sip;
    Sweet the streamlet's limpid lapse
    To the sun-brown'd Arab's lip;

    But, Delia, on thy balmy lips
    Let me, no vagrant insect, rove!
    O, let me steal one liquid kiss!
    For, oh! my soul is parch'd with love.

Farewell, thou child of my right hand, and joy;
My sin was too much hope of thee, loved boy.
Seven years thou wert lent to me, and I thee pay,
Exacted by thy fate, on the just day.

Oh, could I lose all father now! For why
Will man lament the state he should envy?
To have so soon ’scaped world’s and flesh’s rage,
And if no other misery, yet age!

Rest in soft peace, and asked, say, Here doth lie
Ben Jonson his best piece of poetry.
For whose sake henceforth all his vows be such
As what he loves may never like too much.

I passed an inland-cliff precipitate;
From tiny caves peeped many a soot-black poll;
In each a mother-martin sat elate,
And of the news delivered her small soul.

Fantastic chatter! hasty, glad, and gay,
Whereof the meaning was not ill to tell:
"Gossip, how wags the world with you to-day?"
"Gossip, the world wags well, the world wags well."

And heark'ning, I was sure their little ones
Were in the bird-talk, and discourse was made
Concerning hot sea-bights and tropic suns,
For a clear sultriness the tune conveyed; -

And visions of the sky as of a cup
Hailing down light on pagan Pharaoh's sand,
And quivering air-waves trembling up and up,
And blank stone faces marvellously bland.

"When should the young be fledged and with them hie
Whe...

A Long-Vacation Pastoral


VIII

Jam veniet virgo, jam dicetur hymenæus.

But a revulsion again came over the spirit of Elspie,
When she thought of his wealth, his birth and education:
Wealth indeed but small, though to her a difference truly;
Father nor mother had Philip, a thousand pounds his portion,
Somewhat impaired in a world where nothing is had for nothing;
Fortune indeed but small, and prospects plain and simple.
But the many things that he knew, and the ease of a practised
Intellect’s motion, and all those indefinable graces
(Were they not hers, too, Philip?) to speech, and manner, and movement,
Lent by the knowledge of self, and wisely instructed feeling,
When she thought of these, and these contemplated daily,
Daily appreciating mo...

Listen, my children, and you shall hear
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,
On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five;
Hardly a man is now alive
Who remembers that famous day and year.

He said to his friend, "If the British march
By land or sea from the town to-night,
Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch
Of the North Church tower as a signal light,--
One, if by land, and two, if by sea;
And I on the opposite shore will be,
Ready to ride and spread the alarm
Through every Middlesex village and farm
For the country folk to be up and to arm,"

Then he said, "Good night!" and with muffled oar
Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore,
Just as the moon rose over the bay,
Where swinging wide at her moorings lay
The Somerset, British man-of-w...

        Wherefore in dreams are sorrows borne anew,
    A healed wound opened, or the past revived?
        Last night in my deep sleep I dreamed of you;
    Again the old love woke in me, and thrived
        On looks of fire, and kisses, and sweet words
    Like silver waters purling in a stream,
        Or like the amorous melodies of birds:
    A dream - a dream!

        Again upon the glory of the scene
    There settled that dread shadow of the cross
        That, when hearts love too well, falls in between;
    That warns them of impending woe and loss.
        Again I saw you drifting from my life,
    As barques are rudely parted in a stream;
        Again my heart was torn with awful strife:
    A dream - a dream!

        Again the deep ni...

I.

Along Crane River's sunny slopes
Blew warm the winds of May,
And over Naumkeag's ancient oaks
The green outgrew the gray.

The grass was green on Rial-side,
The early birds at will
Waked up the violet in its dell,
The wind-flower on its hill.

"Where go you, in your Sunday coat,
Son Andrew, tell me, pray."
For striped perch in Wenham Lake
I go to fish to-day."

"Unharmed of thee in Wenham Lake
The mottled perch shall be
A blue-eyed witch sits on the bank
And weaves her net for thee.

"She weaves her golden hair; she sings
Her spell-song low and faint;
The wickedest witch in Salem jail
Is to that girl a saint."

"Nay, mother, hold thy cruel tongue;
God knows," the young man cried,
"He never ma...

    So prodigal was I of youth,
    Forgetting I was young;
    I worshipped dead men for their strength,
    Forgetting I was strong.

    I cherished old, jejune advice;
    I thought I groped for truth;
    Those dead old languages I learned
    When I was prodigal of youth!

    Then in the sunlight stood a boy,
    Outstretching either hand,
    Palm upwards, cup-like, and between
    The fingers trickled sand.

    "Oh, why so grave" he cried to me,
    "Laugh, stern lips, laugh at last!
    Let wisdom come when wisdom may.
    The sand is running fast."

    I followed him into the sun,
    And laughed as he desired,
    And every day upon the grass
    We play till we are tired.

    I will sing no more songs: the pride of my country I sang
        Through forty long years of good rhyme, without any avail;
    And no one cared even as much as the half of a hang
        For the song or the singer, so here is an end to the tale.

    If a person should think I complain and have not got the cause,
        Let him bring his eyes here and take a good look at my hand,
    Let him say if a goose-quill has calloused this poor pair of paws
        Or the spade that I grip on and dig with out there in the land?

    When the great ones were safe and renowned and were rooted and tough,
        Though my mind went to them and took joy in the fortune of those,
    And pride in their pride and their fame, they gave little enough,
        Not as much as two boots f...

A hunter once in that grove reclined,
    To shun the noon's bright eye,
And oft he wooed the wandering wind,
    To cool his brow with its sigh,
While mute lay even the wild bee's hum,
    Nor breath could stir the aspen's hair,
His song was still "Sweet air, oh come?"
    While Echo answered, "Come, sweet Air!"

But, hark, what sounds from the thicket rise!
    What meaneth that rustling spray?
"'Tis the white-horned doe," the Hunter cries,
    "I have sought since break of day."
Quick o'er the sunny glade he springs,
    The arrow flies from his sounding bow,
"Hilliho-hilliho!" he gayly sings,
    While Echo sighs forth "Hilliho!"

Alas, 'twas not the white-horned doe
    He saw in the rustling grove,
But the bridal veil, as pure as snow...

1.

Tis done - and shivering in the gale
The bark unfurls her snowy sail;
And whistling o'er the bending mast,
Loud sings on high the fresh'ning blast;
And I must from this land be gone,
Because I cannot love but one.


2.

But could I be what I have been,
And could I see what I have seen -
Could I repose upon the breast
Which once my warmest wishes blest -
I should not seek another zone,
Because I cannot love but one.


3.

'Tis long since I beheld that eye
Which gave me bliss or misery;
And I have striven, but in vain,
Never to think of it again:
For though I fly from Albion,
I still can only love but one.


4.

As some lone bird, without a mate,
My weary heart is desolate;<...

This is the scene of a man’s despair, and a soul’s release
From the difficult traits of the flesh; so, it seeking peace,
A shot rang out in the night; death’s doors were wide;
And you stood alone, a stranger, and saw inside.

Coward flesh, brave soul, which was it?    One feared the world,
The pity of men, or their scorn; yet carelessly hurled
All on the balance of Chance for a state unknown;
Fled the laughter of men for the anger of God-alone.

Perhaps when the hot blood streamed on the daisied sod,
Poor soul, you were likened to Cain, and you fled from God;
Men say you fought hard for your life, when the deed was done;
But your body would rise no more ’neath this world’s sun.

I’d choose-should I do the act-such a night as this,
When the sea throws up white ...

Failing sometimes to understand
Why there are folk whose flesh should seem
Like carrion puffed with noisome steam,
Fly-blown to the eye that looks on it,
Fly-blown to the touch of a hand;
Why there are men without any legs,
Whizzing along on little trollies
With long long arms like apes':
Failing to see why God the Topiarist
Should train and carve and twist
Men's bodies into such fantastic shapes:
Yes, failing to see the point of it all, I sometimes wish
That I were a fabulous thing in a fool's mind,
Or, at the ocean bottom, in a world that is deaf and blind,
Very remote and happy, a great goggling fish.

    Flying his hair and his eyes averse,
    Fleet are his feet and his heart apart.
    How could our song his charms rehearse?
    Fleet are his feet and his heart apart.

    High on a down we found him last,
    Shy as a hare, he fled as fast;
    How could we clasp him or ever he passed?
    Fleet are his feet and his heart apart.

    How could we cling to his limbs that shone,
    Ravish his cheeks' red gonfalon,
    Or the wild-skin cloak that he had on?
    Fleet are his feet and his heart apart.

    For the wind of his feet still straightly shaping,
    He loosed at our breasts from his eyes escaping
    One crooked swift glance like a javelin leaping.
    Fleet are his feet and his heart apart.

    And his feet passed over the ...