Sweet trine! Oh! whisper to my love, Such wildest pleasures thou hast known, Of lake or strand, Or flow'ry land, In happy regions all thine own; Of dreamy zone, Where all day long, Hast sung her song, As wild and free, As the Dryads be, That circle there around, above her, To tell her that I love her.

ODE TO A RURAL SCENE

Oh! Soul of balsam calm, sweet rural scene!

Thy spirit hand hath led me back again, By pebbly paths, to mossy couches green, And where the glowworm and the moth have lain, To lie and dream!

Or on some warm and soothing rock, Supine, to watch the white clouds flee and flock, On everchanging wings, Of childhood's sweet imaginings.

Or seeking out some shadowy stream, Where playful fishes flash and gleam, and vanish, A wild thing too, dull leaden footed care to banish, How I would seem!

Along the smoky autumn afternoon, Where fall the brown leaves, wandring aimlessly, What song of forest pine, what wild bird's tune, Hath waked me not to life, but still to be A spirit wild!

To cut me from the hickory bough, A whistle piping music sweet enow, And on the swinging vine, As free as Bacchus, munch the wine, From purple festoons undefiled; Or with the wild winds sport from hill to hill, As happy as the dewy balm they drink and spill,-- Their nameless child.

Or where the rain falls, patt'ring in the dust, Of winding lanes, to seek no shelt'ring place, But bare the soul to greet the coolly gust, And laugh to feel the cold rain in the face.

What joys are mine, Of haunted nook, and hidden dingle, Where life and dimpling mirth, may meet and mingle, And clear melodious plot, To pipe sweet ditties of their lot, Till the sad soul that did repine, Shall wake to consciousness as sweet and wild, As some lone promise-mother's dreaming of her child, And as divine!

Along these paths what amorous G.o.ds have pa.s.s'd!

What wood nymphs vanished down these shadowy lanes!

What happy olden memories here may last Of shepherd la.s.sies and great amorous swains, In jocund dance; Or fairy Mab, the merry queen, Hath led her pageantry upon the green, In delicate rigadoon, Along the midnight's charmed noon!

But not of these my soul's entrance, If now the mock bird, warbling wildwood notes, In rich liquidity of myriad tuneful throats, Tells his romance.

Or if the red bird preen his richest plume Upon the dogwood bough; or crested jay, Hid in some leafy oak's sequestered gloom, Shall fret and chatter all the live long day.

Perchance to hear Some music, fainter than a dream, Range on its pinions till the soul must deem That it is there and know It hath been ever singing so.

And thus to grow as fine and clear-- Like wild-wood sound to come, to dream, to die,-- And only pray nought else to charm the spirit's eye, The spirit's ear.

ODE TO A BEE

Thou busy bee! Thou happy murm'ring bee!

How would I follow on thy viewless course, To clover dell, or lusher linden tree, And lose within thy honey's charmed source All that I am, of hope or fondest dream-- To be as thou a honeyed spirit wild, No more, no more from golden worth astray For what may fairer seem, But drinking still, with spirit undefiled, The heavy secrets of the summer day.

No fruitless season mocks thee with its frown, No dross within thy waxen treasure dome, No dark remorse may ever weigh thee down, But laughing Nature bids thee lightly roam From scene to scene wherever joy may be.

Not aimless wand'ring on from gloom to gloom, But with a purpose greater than thy days-- Yet art thou wholly free To go, to come, to sleep in folded bloom: No custom bids thee name thy wondrous ways.

Within thy far and olden Orient vales, Sweet houris nursed and watched thee long ago.

And thou hast heard the soft and lowly couched tales, Of lovers luting all the heart's sweet woe Without the harem's amorous oriels; And guarded sighs of maidens veiled and pining; And demon lovers wailing sad nights long Within the wildest dells; Or, Sprite of Roses! couched in velvet lining, Sad thorn struck nightingales' low dying song.

Old caravans have plundered all thy treasure, To feed the dark-eyed beauty of the Nile-- Thou hast not pined, nor lost thy queenly pleasure, But out of ruins wrought new domes the while.

But lo! they robbed thy rosy land of thee; Ah then! how blushed the spirit of the west!

That welcomed thee his wild-wood spirit bride, To flee, to flee, to flee!

What spread of burning wings! What golden quest For panting bliss in flow'ry fields untried!

Sweet critic of the fairest and the sweetest, Thou hast not paused to mar the honey less-- And who knows where thy winged soul is fleetest?

What holidays thou hast of happiness To drink the viewless honey of the air?

I saw thee on the golden rod at noon, At evening by the frail anemone-- Which beauty charmed thee there?

Didst ease thy heart, or golden weighted shoon, Within thy far and murm'rous hearted tree?

Away! away! farewell thou winged sprite!

From dale to dale, from hill to farthest hill.

The radiant blue hath melted round thy flight, But, like an Ariel dream, I see thee still, Where thou hast vanished, yet not wholly gone.

And I must sing thee of a treasure dome Of drossless gold, which thou hast filled unwitting.

Then too to wander on, Like thee as fain to pause, as fain to roam, Forever pausing and forever flitting.

TO DEATH

Ah Death! Thou art a strange and delicate thing, Pale hooded sister of sweet sleep!

That like a patient holy nun, Upon a battle steep, Hath watched from sun to sun Each laboring breath, That welcomes thee, sweet Death.

Whilst thou with cooling balm Do quiet lips, where lonely anguish cries, And draw cool shades for wearied eyes, And layeth speechless calm Upon each fevered brow, With strokings of thy coolly palm.

And thou, and only thou Hath Alms More sweet than psalms, To famished souls On barren goals.

What draughts of long forgetfulness Hath held to moaning thirst!

To drink, to drink, and drinking, wildly bless, That thou, the last, shall be the first.

What depths of great eternal night, Hast held to failing eyes!

Till, pregnant with the awful sight, A spirit in them lies That is not life.

I see thee calming strife, And age old bitterness.

The young man's mockery of the old Hath seen thy face and trembles all acold.

I see thee in the bride's deep fathomless eyes, That flash with sudden consciousness, While all her pulses rise To greet sweet motherhood.

I see thee in the lonely wood, With hardy woodsmen clearing future cities, And hardy daughters chanting ditties That are the songs of queens to be.

I see thee in the golden halls of gaity Where trips the lure of beauty ankle deep, And where the faded kings and queens in kindly shadows creep.

I see thee in the busy marts of blood and brain, And in the crowded thoroughfares, Of ceaseless noise, and sightless glares, That lead to woods again.

I see thee by the nervous ocean, That trembles still, with wild emotion, And brings sad pennance for its night of wrath.

I see thee on the lonely mountain path, That leadeth ever up and down.

I see thee in the golden brown That burns gay summer's bonny cheeks.

I see thee in the light that seeks A soberer gown along the afternoon.

I see thee by the harvest's moon, And hear thee in the reaper's distant song.

And whither this may rise and that be planting soon, I see thine hooded shadow glide along.

I see thee with the poet on the hills Of soul's expression.

I see thee with the raptured alchemist's in session, While each his magic mirror fills With drossless gold of music, art, and poesy, Whence o'er the world such beauty spills, That sorrow cannot be.

I hear thee in the lovers' lilt, Of careless brightness.

I see thee in the lightness, Of amorous lips atilt.

I hear thee in the dreamy serenade, That wakes the charmed ear of night, And loosens in some farthest glade, A mocking bird to lyric flight.

I see thee where the silence falls On haunted sleep men lie within,-- And ah! thy dreamless solace calls, Far, faint and thin.

And ever calls, Till perfect silence falls.

I see, thee, hear thee, feel thee every where, O! pa.s.sing breath!

And life is glorified for thou art there, O! Death!

A DIRGE