THRENODIA.

Gone, gone from us! and shall we see These sibyl-leaves of destiny, Those calm eyes, nevermore?

Those deep, dark eyes so warm and bright, Wherein the fortunes of the man Lay slumbering in prophetic light, In characters a child might scan?

So bright, and gone forth utterly!

O stern word--Nevermore!

The stars of those two gentle eyes Will shine no more on earth; Quenched are the hopes that had their birth, As we watched them slowly rise, Stars of a mother's fate; And she would read them o'er and o'er, Pondering as she sate, Over their dear astrology, Which she had conned and conned before, Deeming she needs must read aright What was writ so pa.s.sing bright.

And yet, alas! she knew not why, Her voice would falter in its song, And tears would slide from out her eye, Silent, as they were doing wrong.

O stern word--Nevermore!

The tongue that scarce had learned to claim An entrance to a mother's heart By that dear talisman, a mother's name, Sleeps all forgetful of its art!

I loved to see the infant soul (How mighty in the weakness Of its untutored meekness!) Peep timidly from out its nest, His lips, the while, Fluttering with half-fledged words, Or hushing to a smile That more than words expressed, When his glad mother on him stole And s.n.a.t.c.hed him to her breast!

O, thoughts were brooding in those eyes, That would have soared like strong-winged birds Far, far, into the skies, Gladding the earth with song, And gushing harmonies, Had he but tarried with us long!

O stern word--Nevermore!

How peacefully they rest, Crossfolded there Upon his little breast, Those small, white hands that ne'er were still before, But ever sported with his mother's hair, Or the plain cross that on her breast she wore!

Her heart no more will beat To feel the touch of that soft palm, That ever seemed a new surprise Sending glad thoughts up to her eyes To bless him with their holy calm,-- Sweet thoughts! they made her eyes as sweet.

How quiet are the hands That wove those pleasant bands!

But that they do not rise and sink With his calm breathing, I should think That he were dropped asleep.

Alas! too deep, too deep Is this his slumber!

Time scarce can number The years ere he will wake again.

O, may we see his eyelids open then!

O stern word--Nevermore!

As the airy gossamere, Floating in the sunlight clear, Where'er it toucheth clingeth tightly, Round glossy leaf or stump unsightly, So from his spirit wandered out Tendrils spreading all about, Knitting all things to its thrall With a perfect love of all: O stern word--Nevermore!

He did but float a little way Adown the stream of time, With dreamy eyes watching the ripples play, Or listening their fairy chime; His slender sail Ne'er felt the gale; He did but float a little way, And, putting to the sh.o.r.e While yet 'twas early day, Went calmly on his way, To dwell with us no more!

No jarring did he feel, No grating on his vessel's keel, A strip of silver sand Mingled the waters with the land Where he was seen no more: O stern word--Nevermore!

Full short his journey was; no dust Of earth unto his sandals clave; The weary weight that old men must, He bore not to the grave.

He seemed a cherub who had lost his way And wandered hither, so his stay With us was short, and 'twas most meet That he should be no delver in earth's clod Nor need to pause and cleanse his feet To stand before his G.o.d: O blest word--Evermore!

1839.

THE SIRENS.

The sea is lonely, the sea is dreary, The sea is restless and uneasy; Thou seekest quiet, thou art weary, Wandering thou knowest not whither;-- Our little isle is green and breezy, Come and rest thee! O come hither; Come to this peaceful home of ours, Where evermore The low west-wind creeps panting up the sh.o.r.e To be at rest among the flowers; Full of rest, the green moss lifts, As the dark waves of the sea Draw in and out of rocky rifts, Calling solemnly to thee With voices deep and hollow,-- "To the sh.o.r.e Follow! O, follow!

To be at rest forevermore!

Forevermore!"

Look how the gray old Ocean From the depth of his heart rejoices, Heaving with a gentle motion, When he hears our restful voices; List how he sings in an under-tone, Chiming with our melody; And all sweet sounds of earth and air Melt into one low voice alone, That murmurs over the weary sea, And seems to sing from everywhere,-- "Here mayst thou harbor peacefully, Here mayst thou rest from the aching oar; Turn thy curved prow ash.o.r.e, And in our green isle rest for evermore!

Forevermore!"

And Echo half wakes in the wooded hill, And, to her heart so calm and deep, Murmurs over in her sleep, Doubtfully pausing and murmuring still, "Evermore!"

Thus, on Life's weary sea, Heareth the marinere Voices sweet, from far and near, Ever singing low and clear, Ever singing longingly.

Is it not better here to be, Than to be toiling late and soon?

In the dreary night to see Nothing but the blood-red moon Go up and down into the sea; Or, in the loneliness of day, To see the still seals only Solemnly lift their faces gray, Making it yet more lonely?

Is it not better, than to hear Only the sliding of the wave Beneath the plank, and feel so near A cold and lonely grave, A restless grave, where thou shalt lie Even in death unquietly?

Look down beneath thy wave-worn bark, Lean over the side and see The leaden eye of the sidelong shark Upturned patiently, Ever waiting there for thee: Look down and see those shapeless forms, Which ever keep their dreamless sleep Far down within the gloomy deep, And only stir themselves in storms, Rising like islands from beneath, And snorting through the angry spray, As the frail vessel perisheth In the whirls of their unwieldy play; Look down! Look down!

Upon the seaweed, slimy and dark, That waves its arms so lank and brown, Beckoning for thee!

Look down beneath thy wave-worn bark Into the cold depth of the sea!

Look down! Look down!

Thus on Life's lonely sea, Heareth the marinere Voices sad, from far and near, Ever singing full of fear, Ever singing drearfully.

Here all is pleasant as a dream; The wind scarce shaketh down the dew, The green gra.s.s floweth like a stream Into the ocean's blue; Listen! O, listen!

Here is a gush of many streams, A song of many birds, And every wish and longing seems Lulled to a numbered flow of words,-- Listen! O, listen!

Here ever hum the golden bees Underneath full-blossomed trees, At once with glowing fruit and flowers crowned;-- The sand is so smooth, the yellow sand, That thy keel will not grate as it touches the land All around with a slumberous sound, The singing waves slide up the strand, And there, where the smooth, wet pebbles be, The waters gurgle longingly, As if they fain would seek the sh.o.r.e, To be at rest from the ceaseless roar, To be at rest forevermore,-- Forevermore.

Thus, on Life's gloomy sea, Heareth the marinere Voices sweet, from far and near, Ever singing in his ear, "Here is rest and peace for thee."

Nantasket

, _July, 1840._

IRENe.

Hers is a spirit deep, and crystal-clear, Calmly beneath her earnest face it lies, Free without boldness, meek without a fear, Quicker to look than speak its sympathies; Far down into her large and patient eyes I gaze, deep-drinking of the infinite, As, in the mid-watch of a clear, still night, I look into the fathomless blue skies.

So circled lives she with Love's holy light, That from the shade of self she walketh free; The garden of her soul still keepeth she An Eden where the snake did never enter; She hath a natural, wise sincerity, A simple truthfulness, and these have lent her A dignity as moveless as the centre; So that no influence of earth can stir Her steadfast courage, nor can take away The holy peacefulness, which, night and day, Unto her queenly soul doth minister.

Most gentle is she; her large charity (An all unwitting, child-like gift in her) Not freer is to give than meek to bear; And, though herself not unacquaint with care, Hath in her heart wide room for all that be,-- Her heart that hath no secrets of its own, But open is as eglantine full blown.

Cloudless forever is her brow serene, Speaking calm hope and trust within her, whence Welleth a noiseless spring of patience, That keepeth all her life so fresh, so green And full of holiness, that every look, The greatness of her woman's soul revealing, Unto me bringeth blessing, and a feeling As when I read in G.o.d's own holy book.

A graciousness in giving that doth make The small'st gift greatest, and a sense most meek Of worthiness, that doth not fear to take From others, but which always fears to speak Its thanks in utterance, for the giver's sake;-- The deep religion of a thankful heart, Which rests instinctively in Heaven's law With a full peace, that never can depart From its own steadfastness;--a holy awe For holy things,--not those which men call holy, But such as are revealed to the eyes Of a true woman's soul bent down and lowly Before the face of daily mysteries;-- A love that blossoms soon, but ripens slowly To the full goldenness of fruitful prime, Enduring with a firmness that defies All shallow tricks of circ.u.mstance and time, By a sure insight knowing where to cling, And where it clingeth never withering;-- These are Irene's dowry, which no fate Can shake from their serene, deep-builded state.

In-seeing sympathy is hers, which chasteneth No less than loveth, scorning to be bound With fear of blame, and yet which ever hasteneth To pour the balm of kind looks on the wound, If they be wounds which such sweet teaching makes, Giving itself a pang for others' sakes; No want of faith, that chills with sidelong eye, Hath she; no jealousy, no Levite pride That pa.s.seth by upon the other side; For in her soul there never dwelt a lie.

Right from the hand of G.o.d her spirit came Unstained, and she hath ne'er forgotten whence It came, nor wandered far from thence, But laboreth to keep her still the same, Near to her place of birth, that she may not Soil her white raiment with an earthly spot.

Yet sets she not her soul so steadily Above, that she forgets her ties to earth, But her whole thought would almost seem to be How to make glad one lowly human hearth; For with a gentle courage she doth strive In thought and word and feeling so to live As to make earth next heaven; and her heart Herein doth show its most exceeding worth, That, bearing in our frailty her just part, She hath not shrunk from evils of this life, But hath gone calmly forth into the strife, And all its sins and sorrows hath withstood With lofty strength of patient womanhood: For this I love her great soul more than all, That, being bound, like us, with earthly thrall, She walks so bright and heaven-like therein,-- Too wise, too meek, too womanly, to sin.

Like a lone star through riven storm-clouds seen By sailors, tempest-toss'd upon the sea, Telling of rest and peaceful heavens nigh, Unto my soul her star-like soul hath been, Her sight as full of hope and calm to me;-- For she unto herself hath builded high A home serene, wherein to lay her head, Earth's n.o.blest thing, a Woman perfected.

1840.

SERENADE.