Through still, bare streets, and cold moonshine
    His homeward way he bent;
The clocks gave out the midnight sign
    As lost in thought he went
Along the rampart's ocean-line,
Where, high above the tossing brine,
    Seaward his lattice leant.

He knew not why he left the throng,
    Why there he could not rest,
What something pained him in the song
    And mocked him in the jest,
Or why, the flitting crowd among,
A moveless moonbeam lay so long
    Athwart one lady's breast!

He watched, but saw her speak to none,
    Saw no one speak to her;
Like one decried, she stood alone,
    From the window did not stir;
Her hair by a haunting gust was blown,
Her eyes in the shadow strangely shown,
    She looked a wanderer.

H...

We had finished our pitiful morsel,
    And both sat in silence a while;
At length we looked up at each other.
    And I said, with the ghost of a smile, -
"Only two little potatoes
    And a very small crust of bread -
And then?" - "God will care for us, Lucy!"
    John, quietly answering, said.

"Yes, God will provide for us, Lucy!"
    He said, after musing a while -
I'd been quietly watching his features
    With a feeble attempt at a smile -
"For, 'trust in the Lord, and do good,'
    Our Father in Heaven has said,
'So shalt thou dwell in the land,
    And verily thou shalt be fed!'"

Scarcely the words had he spoken,
    When a faint, little tap at the door
Surprised us, - for all the long morning
    The rain had continue...

On this high altar, fringed with ferns
    That darken against the sky,
The dawn in lonely beauty burns
    And all our evils die.

The struggling sea that roared below
    Is quieter than the dew,
Quieter than the clouds that flow
    Across the stainless blue.

On this bare crest, the angels kneel
    And breathe the sweets that rise
From flowers too little to reveal
    Their beauty to our eyes.

I have seen Edens on the earth
    With queenly blooms arrayed;
But here the fairest come to birth,
    The smallest flowers He made.

O, high above the sounding pine,
    And richer, sweeter far,
The wild thyme wakes. The celandine
    Looks at the morning star.

They may not see the heavens unfold.
    They breath...

The last and greatest Herald of Heaven’s King,
Girt with rough skins, hies to the deserts wild,
Among that savage brood the woods forth bring,
Which he than man more harmless found and mild.
His food was locusts, and what young doth spring
With honey that from virgin hives distill’d;
Parch’d body, hollow eyes, some uncouth thing
Made him appear, long since from earth exiled.
There burst he forth: ‘All ye, whose hopes rely
On God, with me amidst these deserts mourn;
Repent, repent, and from old errors turn!’
Who listen’d to his voice, obey’d his cry?
Only the echoes, which he made relent,
Rung from their marble caves ‘Repent! Repent!’

    The gleaming head of one fine friend
    Is bent above my little song,
    So through the treasure-pits of Heaven
    In fancy's shoes, I march along.

    I wander, seek and peer and ponder
    In Splendor's last ensnaring lair -
    'Mid burnished harps and burnished crowns
    Where noble chariots gleam and flare:

    Amid the spirit-coins and gems,
    The plates and cups and helms of fire -
    The gorgeous-treasure-pits of Heaven -
    Where angel-misers slake desire!

    O endless treasure-pits of gold
    Where silly angel-men make mirth -
    I think that I am there this hour,
    Though walking in the ways of earth!

(Written for THE PORTFOLIO SOCIETY, October 1861.)


The yellow poplar-leaves came down
And like a carpet lay,
No waftings were in the sunny air
To flutter them away;
And he stepped on blithe and debonair
That warm October day.

"The boy," saith he, "hath got his own,
But sore has been the fight,
For ere his life began the strife
That ceased but yesternight;
For the will," he said, "the kinsfolk read,
And read it not aright.

"His cause was argued in the court
Before his christening day,
And counsel was heard, and judge demurred,
And bitter waxed the fray;
Brother with brother spake no word
When they met in the way.

"Against each one did each contend,
And all against the heir.
I would not bend, for I knew the ...

Now the busy screw is churning,
Now the horrid sirens blow;
Now are India's guests returning
Home from India's Greatest Show;
Now the gleeful Asiatic
Speeds them on their wild career,
And, though normally phlegmatic,
Gives a half-unconscious cheer.

India's years were years of leanness,
Till the Late Performance drew
These, whose confidential greenness
She has run for all she knew.
Gladly rose the land to bid them
Welcome for a fleeting spell -
Nobly took them in and did them -
And has done extremely well.

Peace be theirs, important Packet,
Genial skies and happy calms -
No derogatory racket,
No humiliating qualms!
Gales, I charge you, shun to rouse and
Lash the seas to angry foam,
While Britannia's Great Ten Thousand

I asked to see the dead man's face,
As I gave the servant my well-filled basket;
And she deigned to lead me, a wondrous grace,
Where he lay asleep in his rosewood casket.
I was only the sewing-girl, and he the heir to this princely palace.
Flowers, white flowers, everywhere,
In odorous cross, and anchor, and chalice.
The smallest leaf might touch his hair;
But I - my God! I must stand apart,
With my hands pressed silently on my heart,
I must not touch the least brown curl;
For I was only the sewing-girl.

If his stately mother knew what I know,
As she weeping stood by his side this morning,
Would she clasp me in motherly love and woe -
Or drive me out in the cold with scorning?
If she knew that I loved him better than life,
Better than death; since f...

    Your presence is a psalm of praise,
    And as its measure grandly rings
    God's finger finds my heart and plays
    A te deum upon its strings.
    I never see you but I feel
    That I in gratitude must kneel.

    Your head down-bent, the brow of snow
    Crowned with the shining braids of hair,
    To me, because I love you so,
    Is in itself a tender prayer,
    All faith, all meekness, and all trust -
    "Amen!" I cry, because I must.

    Your clear eyes hold the text apart,
    And shame my love of place and pelf
    With, "Love the Lord with all thine heart,
    And love thy neighbor as thyself!"
    Dear eyes and true, - I sorely need
    More knowledge of your gracious creed.

    About your lips the summer l...

I came upon a fountain on my way
When it was hot, and sat me down to drink
Its sparkling stream, when all around the brink
I spied full many vessels made of clay,
Whereon were written, not without display,
In deep engraving or with merely ink,
The blessings which each owner seemed to think
Would light on him who drank with each alway.
I looked so hard my eyes were looking double
Into them all, but when I came to see
That they were filthy, each in his degree,
I bent my head, though not without some trouble,
To where the little waves did leap and bubble,
And so I journeyed on most pleasantly.

Delayed till she had ceased to know,
Delayed till in its vest of snow
    Her loving bosom lay.
An hour behind the fleeting breath,
Later by just an hour than death, --
    Oh, lagging yesterday!

Could she have guessed that it would be;
Could but a crier of the glee
    Have climbed the distant hill;
Had not the bliss so slow a pace, --
Who knows but this surrendered face
    Were undefeated still?

Oh, if there may departing be
Any forgot by victory
    In her imperial round,
Show them this meek apparelled thing,
That could not stop to be a king,
    Doubtful if it be crowned!

O, Colleens, kneeling by your altar rails long hence,
When songs I wove for my beloved hide the prayer,
And smoke from this dead heart drifts through the violet air
And covers away the smoke of myrrh and frankincense;
Bend down and pray for the great sin I wove in song,
Till Maurya of the wounded heart cry a sweet cry,
And call to my beloved and me: ‘No longer fly
‘Amid the hovering, piteous, penitential throng.’

If Heaven would hear my prayer,
    My dearest wish would be,
Thy sorrows not to share,
    But take them all on me;
If Heaven would hear my prayer.

I'd beg with prayers and sighs
    That never a tear might flow
From out thy lovely eyes,
    If Heaven might grant it so;
Mine be the tears and sighs.

No cloud thy brow should cover,
    But smiles each other chase
From lips to eyes all over
    Thy sweet and sunny face;
The clouds my heart should cover.

That all thy path be light
    Let darkness fall on me;
If all thy days be bright,
    Mine black as night could be.
My love would light my night.

For thou art more than life,
    And if our fate should set
Life and my love at strife,
    How could I then...

It is a superb land, a country of Cockaigne, as they say, that I dream of visiting with an old friend. A strange land, drowned in our northern fogs, that one might call the East of the West, the China of Europe; a land patiently and luxuriously decorated with the wise, delicate vegetations of a warm and capricious phantasy.
A true land of Cockaigne, where all is beautiful, rich, tranquil, and honest; where luxury is pleased to mirror itself in order; where life is opulent, and sweet to breathe; from whence disorder, turbulence, and the unforeseen are excluded; where happiness is married to silence; where even the food is poetic, rich and exciting at the same time; where all things, my beloved, are like you.
Do you know that feverish malady that seizes hold of us in our cold miseries; that nostalgia of a land unknown; that anguis...

The rosy day was sweet and young,
The clod-brown lark that hail'd the morn
Had just her summer anthem sung,
And trembling dropped in the corn;
The dew-rais'd flower was perk and proud,
The butterfly around it play'd;
The sky's blue clear, save woolly cloud
That pass'd the sun without a shade.

On the pismire's castle hill,
While the burnet-buttons quak'd,
While beside the stone-pav'd rill
Cowslip bunches nodding shak'd,
Bees in every peep did try,
Great had been the honey shower,
Soon their load was on their thigh,
Yellow dust as fine as flour.

Brazen magpies, fond of clack,
Full of insolence and pride,
Chattering on the donkey's back
Perch'd, and pull'd his shaggy hide;
Odd crows settled on the path,
Dames from milking trot...

Not with an outcry to Allah nor any complaining
He answered his name at the muster and stood to the chaining.
When the twin anklets were nipped on the leg-bars that held them,
He brotherly greeted the armourers stooping to weld them.
Ere the sad dust of the marshalled feet of the chain-gang swallowed him,
Observing him nobly at ease, I alighted and followed him.
Thus we had speech by the way, but not touching his sorrow,
Rather his red Yesterday and his regal To-morrow,
Wherein he statelily moved to the clink of his chains unregarded,
Nowise abashed but contented to drink of the potion awarded.
Saluting aloofly his Fate, he made swift with his story;
And the words of his mouth were as slaves spreading carpets of glory
Embroidered with names of the Djinns, a miraculous weaving,

I've watched too late; the morn is near;
One look at God's broad silent sky!
Oh, hopes and wishes vainly dear,
How in your very strength ye die!

Even while your glow is on the cheek,
And scarce the high pursuit begun,
The heart grows faint, the hand grows weak,
The task of life is left undone.

See where upon the horizon's brim,
Lies the still cloud in gloomy bars;
The waning moon, all pale and dim,
Goes up amid the eternal stars.

Late, in a flood of tender light,
She floated through the ethereal blue,
A softer sun, that shone all night
Upon the gathering beads of dew.

And still thou wanest, pallid moon!
The encroaching shadow grows apace;
Heaven's everlasting watchers soon
Shall see thee blotted from thy place.

(ORSON GROUT),

One of the victims of the Southern Prisons.


Sit by me comrade, thou and I have stood
    Shoulder to shoulder on the battle-field,
And bore us there like men of British blood,
    But comrade this is death, and I must yield.

You have been leal, my friend, and true and tried
    In battle, in captivity of me;
Since we went up to worship side by side
    O'er the green hills I never more shall see.

From this dread prison pen, thou shalt go forth;
    But I, I know it, never more shall rise,
Nor see my home in the cool pleasant North,
    Nor see again my wife's dark mournful eyes.

Nor see my children, every shining head
    And merry eye, for what know they of grief;
'Twill still their play to know that I...