"NO MORE BUT SO?"

No more but so? Only with uncold looks, And with a hand not laggard to clasp mine, Think'st thou to pay what debt of love is thine?

No more but so? Like gushing water-brooks, Freshening and making green the dimmest nooks Of thy friend's soul thy kindliness should flow; But, if 'tis bounded by not saying "no,"

I can find more of friendship in my books, All lifeless though they be, and more, far more In every simplest moss, or flower, or tree; Open to me thy heart of hearts' deep core, Or never say that I am dear to thee; Call me not Friend, if thou keep close the door That leads into thine inmost sympathy.

XX.

TO A VOICE HEARD IN MOUNT AUBURN.

Like the low warblings of a leaf-hid bird, Thy voice came to me through the screening trees, Singing the simplest, long-known melodies; I had no glimpse of thee, and yet I heard And blest thee for each clearly-carolled word; I longed to thank thee, and my heart would frame Mary or Ruth, some sisterly, sweet name For thee, yet could I not my lips have stirred; I knew that thou wert lovely, that thine eyes Were blue and downcast, and methought large tears, Unknown to thee, up to their lids must rise With half-sad memories of other years, As to thyself alone thou sangest o'er Words that to childhood seemed to say "No More!"

XXI.

ON READING SPENSER AGAIN.

Dear, gentle Spenser! thou my soul dost lead, A little child again, through Fairy land, By many a bower and stream of golden sand, And many a sunny plain whose light doth breed A sunshine in my happy heart, and feed My fancy with sweet visions; I become A knight, and with my charmed arms would roam To seek for fame in many a wondrous deed Of high emprize--for I have seen the light Of Una's angel's face, the golden hair And backward eyes of startled Florimel; And, for their holy sake, I would outdare A host of cruel Paynims in the fight, Or Archimage and all the powers of h.e.l.l.

XXII.

Light of mine eyes! with thy so trusting look, And thy sweet smile of charity and love, That from a treasure well uplaid above, And from a hope in Christ its blessing took; Light of my heart! which, when it could not brook The coldness of another's sympathy, Finds ever a deep peace and stay in thee, Warm as the sunshine of a mossy nook; Light of my soul! who, by thy saintliness And faith that acts itself in daily life, Canst raise me above weakness, and canst bless The hardest thraldom of my earthly strife-- I dare not say how much thou art to me Even to myself--and O, far less to thee!

XXIII.

Silent as one who treads on new-fallen snow, Love came upon me ere I was aware; Not light of heart, for there was troublous care Upon his eyelids, drooping them full low, As with sad memory of a healed woe; The cold rain shivered in his golden hair, As if an outcast lot had been his share, And he seemed doubtful whither he should go: Then he fell on my neck, and, in my breast Hiding his face, awhile sobbed bitterly, As half in grief to be so long distrest, And half in joy at his security-- At last, uplooking from his place of rest, His eyes shone blessedness and hope on me.

XXIV.

A gentleness that grows of steady faith; A joy that sheds its sunshine everywhere; A humble strength and readiness to bear Those burthens which strict duty ever lay'th Upon our souls;--which unto sorrow saith, "Here is no soil for thee to strike thy roots, Here only grow those sweet and precious fruits; Which ripen for the soul that well obey'th; A patience which the world can neither give Nor take away; a courage strong and high, That dares in simple usefulness to live, And without one sad look behind to die When that day comes;--these tell me that our love Is building for itself a home above."

XXV.

When the glad soul is full to overflow, Unto the tongue all power it denies, And only trusts its secret to the eyes; For, by an inborn wisdom, it doth know There is no other eloquence but so; And, when the tongue's weak utterance doth suffice, Prisoned within the body's cell it lies, Remembering in tears its exiled woe: That word which all mankind so long to hear, Which bears the spirit back to whence it came, Maketh this sullen clay as crystal clear, And will not be enclouded in a name; It is a truth which we can feel and see, But is as boundless as Eternity.

XXVI.

TO THE EVENING-STAR.

When we have once said lowly "Evening-Star!"

Words give no more--for, in thy silver pride, Thou shinest as naught else can shine beside: The thick smoke, coiling round the sooty bar Forever, and the customed lamp-light mar The stillness of my thought--seeing things glide So samely:--then I ope my windows wide, And gaze in peace to where thou shin'st afar.

The wind that comes across the faint-white snow So freshly, and the river dimly seen, Seem like new things that never had been so Before; and thou art bright as thou hast been Since thy white rays put sweetness in the eyes Of the first souls that loved in Paradise.

XXVII.

READING.

As one who on some well-known landscape looks, Be it alone, or with some dear friend nigh, Each day beholdeth fresh variety, New harmonies of hills, and trees, and brooks-- So is it with the worthiest choice of books, And oftenest read: if thou no meaning spy, Deem there is meaning wanting in thine eyes; We are so lured from judgment by the crooks And winding ways of covert fantasy, Or turned unwittingly down beaten tracks Of our foregone conclusions, that we see, In our own want, the writer's misdeemed lacks: It is with true books as with Nature, each New day of living doth new insight teach.

XXVIII.

TO ----, AFTER A SNOW-STORM.

Blue as thine eyes the river gently flows Between his banks, which, far as eye can see, Are whiter than aught else on earth may be, Save inmost thoughts that in thy soul repose; The trees all crystalled by the melted snows, Sparkle with gems and silver, such as we In childhood saw 'mong groves of Faerie, And the dear skies are sunny-blue as those; Still as thy heart, when next mine own it lies In love's full safety, is the bracing air; The earth is all enwrapt with draperies Snow-white as that pure love might choose to wear-- O for one moment's look into thine eyes, To share the joy such scene would kindle there!

SONNETS ON NAMES.

EDITH.

A Lily with its frail cup filled with dew, Down-bending modestly, snow-white and pale, Shedding faint fragrance round its native vale, Minds me of thee, Sweet Edith, mild and true, And of thy eyes so innocent and blue, Thy heart is fearful as a startled hare, Yet hath in it a fort.i.tude to bear For Love's sake, and a gentle faith which grew Of Love: need of a stay whereon to lean, Felt in thyself, hath taught thee to uphold And comfort others, and to give, unseen, The kindness thy still love cannot withhold: Maiden, I would my sister thou hadst been, That round thee I my guarding arms might fold.

ROSE.

My ever-lightsome, ever-laughing Rose, Who always speakest first and thinkest last, Thy full voice is as clear as bugle-blast; Right from the ear down to the heart it goes And says, "I'm beautiful! as who but knows?"

Thy name reminds me of old romping days, Of kisses stolen in dark pa.s.sage-ways, Or in the parlor, if the mother-nose Gave sign of drowsy watch. I wonder where Are gone thy tokens, given with a glance So full of everlasting love till morrow, Or a day's endless grieving for the dance Last night denied, backed with a lock of hair, That spake of broken hearts and deadly sorrow.

MARY.

Dark hair, dark eyes--not too dark to be deep And full of feeling, yet enough to glow With fire when angered; feelings never slow, But which seem rather watching to forthleap From her full breast; a gently-flowing sweep Of words in common talk, a torrent-rush, Whenever through her soul swift feelings gush, A heart less ready to be gay than weep, Yet cheerful ever; a calm matron-smile, That bids G.o.d bless you; a chaste simpleness, With somewhat, too, of "proper pride," in dress;-- This portrait to my mind's eye came, the while I thought of thee, the well-grown woman Mary, Whilome a gold-haired, laughing little fairy.

CAROLINE.

A staidness sobers o'er her pretty face, Which something but ill-hidden in her eyes, And a quaint look about her lips denies; A lingering love of girlhood you can trace In her checked laugh and half-restrained pace; And, when she bears herself most womanly, It seems as if a watchful mother's eye Kept down with sobering glance her childish grace: Yet oftentimes her nature gushes free As water long held back by little hands, Within a pump, and let forth suddenly, Until, her task remembering, she stands A moment silent, smiling doubtfully, Then laughs aloud and scorns her hated bands.

ANNE.

There is a pensiveness in quiet Anne, A mournful drooping of the full gray eye, As if she had shook hands with misery, And known some care since her short life began; Her cheek is seriously pale, nigh wan, And, though of cheerfulness there is no lack, You feel as if she must be dressed in black; Yet is she not of those who, all they can, Strive to be gay, and striving, seem most sad-- Hers is not grief, but silent soberness; You would be startled if you saw her glad, And startled if you saw her weep, no less; She walks through life, as, on the Sabbath day, She decorously glides to church to pray.

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.